“But they did.” She straightened and zipped her jacket as a burst of laughter echoed down the hall. “You think the jury got it right?”
“Not a doubt.” He phone vibrated across his desk. He caught the number. Sheila. Again.
He didn’t pick up.
“So what do you think happened to the other sister?” Aramis asked. “The older one. Marlie.”
“That,” he said, reaching for his jacket and slipping his arms through its sleeves, “is the million-dollar question, now isn’t it?”
“She’s never been seen since?”
“Nope.”
Johnson appeared skeptical. “Not a trace?”
“Nuh-uh. And no remains ever found.”
He checked that his keys were in his pocket, then snapped off the light as they walked into the hallway, where wood paneling had aged yellow since the 1950s and decades’ worth of smells from cigarette smoke, body odor, or stale coffee couldn’t be erased by any amounts of pine-scented Lysol. Closing the door behind him, Thomas added, “Some of her blood was found at the scene. Not a lot, but she had obviously been injured.”
“Confirmed by DNA?”
“Oh, yeah.” He glanced at Johnson, her jaw set, her black hair glinting beneath the flickering fluorescent lights in the hallway. “There were ‘sightings,’ of course, way back when, in the first six months or so after the murders, but nothing panned out. Lots of calls came into the department, but, over time, they dwindled.” They clattered their way down the stairs, walking single file to allow those bustling up the steps just enough room to pass uniforms and plainclothes officers and administrative workers, as well as visitors, up the flight.
At the metal detector near the side entrance, he added, “A lot of the calls that came in were just nutcases looking for a little publicity.”
“Always.”
“A few seemed legit. You know, people who thought they recognized her. But nothing solid ever materialized.”
Shouldering open the exterior door, he felt the blast of frigid December air as it rushed through the streets, snow flurries dancing between the buildings, cars, trucks, and vans inching through the town, moving slowly beneath the streetlights. A bus idled at the corner, belching exhaust beneath a corner lamp as passengers dressed in heavy coats, hats, and boots tromped into the idling behemoth. A woman hurrying to catch the bus raced by, the edge of her umbrella brushing against Thomas’s sleeve.
“Oh, sorry, sorry, sorry,” she said without looking his way, and flagged down the driver as she closed her umbrella.
At the station’s lot, Johnson hit the remote on her key fob, then checked her messages. Her lips tightened as she read a quick text while her SUV, a Honda CR-V, chirped, its lights blinking to reflect on the snow piled along the edges of the parking area. “So now what?” she asked, her thoughts returning to the McIntyre Massacre. “You still think Jonas McIntyre killed his family?”
“Butchered,” he corrected.
“Okay, butchered, and now he’s out. Double jeopardy. He can’t be convicted again.”
“Not for any of those murders.”
She opened the SUV’s door and slid inside. “Wait.” She turned. “You think he’ll do more—kill again?”
“Didn’t say that.”
“Then . . . ?” She drew out the word.
“We wait. See if he’s really found Jesus.”
Her phone buzzed again and she muttered something under her breath, pulled it from her pocket and let out a sigh that fogged the cold night air. Snowflakes collected on her black hair.
“Everything okay?” he asked, and her chin inched up a notch.
“Fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“I said it’s fine. Now what about Jonas McIntyre? You’re obviously not buying into his newfound spirituality.”
He slid her a glance as snow collected around his collar and he heard the bus rumbling away. “The truth is, I don’t think there’s a chance in hell that Jonas McIntyre is on the road to redemption. Not one single chance.”
CHAPTER 6
He couldn’t let it go.
Wesley Tate shoveled snow from the short walk to the converted warehouse where he owned a condo, but his thoughts were on the Cold Lake Massacre and Jonas McIntyre, who was, by all accounts, a free man again. If not absolved of the brutal murders of his family, at least not behind bars. He threw his back into his work, the broad, flat blade of the shovel scraping against the cement below. He was breathing hard, his breath visible in the darkness, and his thoughts were on a twenty-year-old murder scene. He tried to take himself out of the situation, attempted to ignore the fact that his father had given his life saving that of Kara McIntyre, but, of course, that proved impossible.