The Summer Children (The Collector #3)(67)

23

I’m pretty sure the only thing that keeps Sterling from slipping me sleeping pills is the very real possibility of us getting called in. She is, however, clearly out of all fucks for my fidgets, because she eventually rolls over in bed and knees me right in the ass. Once it hits two o’clock, it’s like all the tension floods out of me. None of the calls have been that late. Early?

Despite having set the alarm on my phone for six-thirty, I don’t wake up till a little after ten. Sterling, already showered and dressed and sitting at her table with the crossword puzzle, just shrugs at my glower. “You needed the sleep. Vic said not to come in until you woke up on your own.”

There’s only so much I can mutter about that. I mean, I do, because it makes me feel perversely better to grumble about it like Muttley, but I’m well aware it doesn’t accomplish anything.

It takes every trick I’ve ever learned with concealer to make the shadows under my eyes look vaguely human, and even then we’ll call it a partial success. When I come out, Sterling hands me a bowl of oatmeal, a glass of orange juice, and the front page of the paper.

A picture of Noah’s mother fills a third of the space above the fold. Constantijn Hakken (and it’s spelled differently each of the three times it’s written, which, come on, paper) is mentioned, with his Olympic history and his unexpected death from an aneurysm when Noah was three. If he’d lived, his son probably would have been in intensive training from a young age rather than trying to play catch up from a hobby gym. Maartje Hakken managed a local credit union and volunteered at her son’s school one day a week, as well as assisting with a number of PTA events. As a legacy, loving your son and working hard is pretty decent.

Below the fold, however, the article mentions the rash of similar murders. It doesn’t connect the explosion at the Jones house—the methodology was too different—but it lists the Wilkinses, the Wongs, the Anderses, and the Jefferses, and asks in bold letters if Manassas has our own serial killer.

“Comerse el mundo,” I sigh.

“I’m going to assume that whatever you said doesn’t require an answer.”

“It’s not anything new enough to need one.”

I check in with Watts, just in case she isn’t at the office when we get there, and send her pictures of the more relevant paragraphs of the article. She texts back that the kids in the hospital have been moved to a corner block of rooms with a pair of guards at all times, and an agent has been dispatched to Ronnie Wilkins’s grandmother to fill her in and make sure she isn’t besieged by the curious or prurient.

As soon as we get to the office, Cass pounces and drags me into the conference room, which is still in our setup from yesterday. “We’ve got the list from CPS, file-by-file access. They’re working on identifying the kids in similar circumstances, but it’s going to take more time than we have, I think. They’ll forward them in bunches to the Smiths.”

Eddison grunts from the other side of the table and slides me a chipotle hot chocolate.

For the most part, the list is exactly what you’d expect it to be. The social workers and nurses are logged as they follow up on different aspects of each case, and the clerks are the ones who add in paperwork from external sources as it comes to their office. And it makes sense that the clerks occasionally log in to the files to make sure that all forms are accounted for.

“Is Gloria Hess a supervisor?” I ask, spreading the pages out in front of me. “She’s the only name on every file until this week, when Nancy, Tate, and Derrick Lee went through.”

“She’s the senior clerk,” answers Cass. “It’s not technically a supervisory position, though.”

“So she might train others, but she’s not the one who should be going back through to make sure it’s done correctly?”

“Right. Every file?”

“Every one, and it goes back weeks. A lot of log ins, come to think of it, especially for someone too ill to work full-time anymore.”

Cass leans over the table to grab a folder from the stack at Eddison’s elbow. He’s too absorbed in what’s on his tablet screen to even snap at her. “Our analysts dug into Gloria.”

The picture on file, copied from the DMV, is precancer if the hair is any indication, ashy blonde and thick, bound into a long braid over one shoulder. Her face is fuller, her color better, and all in all she looks . . . happier. Less hollowed. “Her husband died a few weeks after her diagnosis,” I announce, trailing my finger under the words. “Dropped dead of a massive heart attack, absolutely no warning signs or obvious risk.”

“Who did she piss off upstairs?” Cass shakes her head, her chin digging into my shoulder so she can see rather than pull the file closer. “Advanced cancer, her husband dies, her sister and brother-in-law go to prison for abuse, she gets rejected for the care of their kids, her cancer isn’t responding to treatment . . . It’s like some wicked angel put their thumb down and started to squish.”

“But would she be healthy enough to manhandle the kids this way? Ronnie Wilkins was carried to and from the car. She had to half-carry Emilia Anders. She carried Mason. She half-carried Noah.”

“Not the others?”

“No. She used Sammy to keep Sarah and Ashley compliant, and Zoe for Caleb and Brayden. They weren’t going to fight her when she could hurt the youngest.”