Redemption Road(112)

He flicked the butt; looked miserable. “Ah, shit.”

*

They went through the secure door, and Randolph talked as they followed the long hall and took the stairs up. He told her about the investigation at the church. “Nine more bodies.”

“What?”

“Yeah, that’s the final count. We dug ’em up, hauled ’em out. They’re with the medical examiner, now. Listen, I know this is hard for you, more victims in such a special place.”

She stopped him with a raised hand. Everyone considered it her father’s church, her childhood home. It hadn’t been like that for a long time, but this was too big.

Nine more bodies?

Nine?

“Are you okay?”

“I will be. Tell me what else.”

He led her to a corner near the evidence room. For the moment, it was quiet. Just the two of them, his voice. “Look, this thing’s huge, right? SBI is in from Raleigh, feds down from Washington. It’s alphabet city with a million eyes looking for the smallest mistake. They’re saying it could be the biggest serial killer in the history of the state, and that puts pressure on everybody. Right or wrong, your name’s wrapped up in that, now, and I don’t mean a little bit. I mean deep, Liz, like seriously deep.”

“Because of the church?”

“Because everyone thinks you left here with Adrian Wall. Because they don’t understand the motive or relationship, and because cops get nervous when they can’t trust other cops.”

“When I left with Adrian, he was charged with misdemeanor trespass that everyone knows is bullshit.”

“Yeah well, since then he beat Officer Preston to death.”

“People know me here, James. They trust me.”

Randolph looked away and actually blushed.

Elizabeth didn’t understand at first, but then she did. It was the basement. She’d forgotten that everyone knew the story, now; knew she’d lost control and lied about it, that she’d been subdued and stripped naked and bound like an animal in the dark.

“They think you’re damaged goods. I’m sorry.”

Elizabeth stared at the floor and felt her own sudden flush. Three doors down, the room was full of FBI and state police and pretty much every cop she’d ever known. “Do you believe that?”

“No.” He didn’t hesitate. “I don’t.”

“Then, why the face?”

“Because there’s more.”

“More of what?”

“The bad stuff,” he said. “The really bad.”

*

He wanted her to see the murder board, but it was in the conference room, and that was at the end of the bull pen. “I’m sorry,” he said, because going to the conference room meant a long walk through a crowded room, a minute at least with every cop there watching.

“I came here to see Dyer.”

“You need to see this first.” He led her the rest of the way down the hall. Outside the bull pen door, Randolph kept his eyes on her face and away from her wrists. “It’s just a thing,” he said.”

But it wasn’t. He opened the door, and the stares hit as silence spread out like a cone. She worked between the desks, and through the silent men. Eyes followed. The whispers began. Halfway through the room, Randolph took her elbow, but she shrugged it off. Let them stare. Let them judge.

When they made it to the conference room, Randolph closed the door and lifted an eyebrow. “Okay?”

“Yes.”

He led her to the far wall, where a half dozen whiteboards were lined end to end. She saw dates and notes and photographs, so much information it was a blur. “Don’t look at the board, yet. Look at me.” Randolph stood between her and the board. “Thank you. Now listen. Dyer might show up any minute. He’ll be angry, so expect it. You’re not supposed to be here, and I’m sure as hell not supposed to be showing you this. You need to see it, though, because it will matter to you.”

“Okay.”

“Forget the bodies in the church. This is about the bodies under it. Nine of them. All female, all exhumed and with the medical examiner, but we’ve identified two so far. The first is Allison Wilson—”

“Wait a minute. I know Allison. I grew up with her.”

“I know you did.”

“She’s one of the nine?”

“She is, but that’s not the bad news.”

Elizabeth held up a hand because she was struggling with the information. She remembered Allison, a pretty girl a year ahead of her in school. She’d made decent grades, smoked cigarettes, and played bass in a grunge band. She’d disappeared a few years after Elizabeth became a cop, but no one made anything of it. The home life was bad; there were rumors of a boyfriend out of state. People assumed she’d run off with him. Now, here she was, dead under the church. By itself, it was a lot to handle; but there was something else, some other problem …

“Liz?”

Elizabeth closed her eyes, seeing the girl as she remembered her: strawberry hair, pretty eyes …

“Liz.” Randolph snapped his fingers. “Are you with me?”

Elizabeth blinked. “Yes. Allison Wilson. Do you know when she died?”

“Not yet.”