Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(39)

“A killer with means.”

“My cousin was strangled with a silk tie. There was evidence of sexual intercourse, but not necessarily assault. He’d told some friends he’d recently met an older, wealthy gentleman. He was excited about the potential for the relationship.”

“You think he was seduced, then murdered?”

He nodded.

“I’m sorry,” I say at last.

“I was too young to understand the nuances of his death. Later, when I was fifteen, I happened to look it up. Imagine my surprise to find my cousin’s murder linked to a series of strangulations on various websites. But it was the true-crime sites, groups like the one I run now, that captured my attention. They’d given it serious thought and in many cases done some real work. We’re not all just armchair detectives. Some of our members are retired police, medical professionals, even a coroner.”

“And your skills?”

“I’m a computer nerd. Trust me, you want to do any kind of meaningful research these days, and you’re going to need a geek.”

“Why Jacob Ness?”

“Local case. Received a lot of coverage when you were recovered.” He pauses slightly and I can tell he’s trying to figure out if he should’ve used such clinical terms. Then he shrugs. It is what is, and we both know it.

“But Jacob’s crime is known,” I say. “Well documented. Where’s the riddle?”

Keith cocks his head to the side. “Do you really call him Jacob?”

“I just did.”

“When you were together?”

“Well, ‘Rat Bastard’ had a tendency to earn me negative consequences.”

“You still think about him.”

“You’re the expert, you tell me.”

He shakes his head. “I only know the perpetrators. I don’t know …”

“Me? Other survivors? The ones who, unlike your cousin, got away?” My words are harsh. Unnecessarily so. I can’t seem to help myself. I still can’t figure out if this guy is for real. Successful computer analyst by day, brilliant true-crime solver by night. Or something darker, more sinister. Does he study predators because he wants to stop them, or because like always calls to like?

Across from me, Keith has carefully reset his features. He taps his steepled fingertips against his chin, once, twice. Then: “I think Jacob Ness remains an unsolved riddle. I think we know about a crime—his abduction of you. But the sophistication of his operation, the box, the sensory deprivation, the brainwashing techniques—”

“I don’t need a recap.”

“You couldn’t have been his first victim. These guys, by definition, they escalate. They build to the kind of premeditated, well-planned, sustainable operation that was your abduction.”

“The FBI looked into it. I’m told they couldn’t find evidence of other crimes.”

Keith regards me intently. “That’s not correct, strictly speaking. They found other evidence. Just not enough to build additional cases.”

I can’t speak. I study my water glass again. I get the distinction he’s making. After all my years with Samuel, I know how the FBI thinks. Of course they would make a distinction, and Samuel would split those hairs in delivering that news to me. We aren’t looking at additional cases at this time. Not because there wasn’t any evidence. Just not enough.

I can’t look at Keith. “How many?” My voice is quiet.

“The group … We have been looking at six unsolved missing persons cases. All young women. None of them ever seen again. All during the time Jacob had his truck route in the South. We’ve been trying to see if we can establish a firm connection. For three of the women, we have been able to place Jacob in the same town as them at the time of their disappearance. The police, of course, want more.”

I inhale. Exhale. Six women. I’m waiting for the news to surprise me, but it doesn’t. I’ve always known I couldn’t have been Jacob’s first. He talked about at least assaulting others. But had he actually kidnapped them? Eventually killed them? I hadn’t allowed myself to consider it. That maybe there had been others in the coffin-sized box before me.

“The police would have forensic evidence,” I say at last. “From his rig. He had a special compartment. They could study it for DNA.”

“The police recovered multiple strands of hair and fibers, as well as additional DNA evidence from Jacob’s truck. Most of it, however, was connected to various prostitutes, including two that were murdered in Florida. Gutted after walking off with a beautiful young woman.”

I don’t say a word.

“With dark hair,” he adds.

I still say nothing.

“But there’s also evidence that the box where he held you in the truck was new. A recent insert, probably prepared especially for you. Meaning …”

“He could’ve had other inserts for previous girls.”

“In your statement, you talked about being held in a basement of some cabin in Georgia. Jacob told you he had to vacate it because the owner died, so he allowed you to join him in his truck.”

I shrug. I know this already.

“The police have never been able to locate the cabin. Which is stranger than you might think. While the mountains of Georgia are vast, the number of cabins whose owners died the year you were abducted isn’t that big. From there, it’s simply a matter of visiting the local community, floating pictures of Jacob and his vehicle, as well as checking Jacob’s financials for gas receipts—anything. The FBI should’ve found a connection between him and one of the towns or cabins easily enough. But they didn’t. Haven’t. Ever.”