Wild Secret

face and says that’s the guy. Other witnesses have ID’d him. And they go along with it. Eyewitness testimony is notoriously inaccurate. And explain this to me… The knife they took off me that was supposedly the murder weapon… How come the blood had traces of a preservative in it?”
That hung there for a moment. EDTA was used as a blood preservative.
“I’ll tell you how,” Felix continued. “They took that shit from the lab and put it on the knife. Plain as day. And everybody from Atwood on up had a hand in it, including that damn Judge Echols.” He shook his head in disgust.
If true, it was a concerning allegation. I was no fan of the judge, either.
"Where were you last night around 10 PM?" I asked.
"I was at Phoenix House."
"They say you weren’t there.”
He gave me an incredulous look. "Now that's bullshit. Check the logs. I signed in."
"If what you say is true, that's a hell of a reason to kill Deputy Atwood."
“What I said is true. And you ain’t gonna railroad me again. Find another patsy.” He took a last big drag from his cigarette, tossed it aside, and stormed away.
“You know, if he’s telling the truth, it means the real perpetrator got away with Darcy’s murder and two other assaults,” JD said.
“I don’t know what to think right now.”
We left the grocery store and headed back to Phoenix House. Another check of the register revealed that Felix had, in fact, signed into the facility at 9 PM. The clerk I had spoken to on the phone had made a mistake earlier.
Brenda called as we were leaving. “You ready for this?”
“What have you got?”
“With the use of a spectroscope, I was able to make out the title and edition of that textbook. World History.”
“What year?”

16
"That particular edition was used by the Coconut Key High School in 1988 and 1989," Brenda said.
My brow lifted. "Really?"
"I called the school and talked to a woman in the administration building that has been there since the ‘80s. She remembered that two girls from the school went missing during that era. Laurie Ferguson and Skyler Locke. Neither one of them ever turned up."
I frowned.
"I made a ton of phone calls and tracked down the dentists for those two girls. Both of them were out of business, but their practices were assumed by new dentists. The files for Laurie Ferguson had long since been discarded."
I frowned again.
“Fortunately, the woman who took over Dr. Rossi's practice maintained all the past records. It seems I caught her in the nick of time. She just hired a document company to shred the old records, and they're taking them next week. She sent the file over for Skyler Locke. After careful examination, I can say with confidence, Skyler Locke is our victim.”
"You are amazing," I said. “Have I told you that?”
"I know, and not often enough.”
I laughed.
Brenda continued, "Skyler was 16 years old at the time of her disappearance. A junior at the high school. I'll send over her yearbook photo."
"Does she have any family still living on the island?"
"Yes. Her mother's name is Deborah Locke. She lives at 712 Bayshore Drive. I'll text you her phone number."
"You've outdone yourself."
"I got lucky. Now go give the family some closure."
"I will."
I ended the call and gave JD the address for Deborah Locke. A text with Skyler’s image buzzed through a moment later. It was heartbreaking to see her gorgeous, smiling face. The brunette had a classic ‘80s hairdo—parted in the middle, feathered on the sides. She lacked the height to be a fashion model during the era, but she was every bit as pretty.
We zipped across the island. Deborah lived in a nice neighborhood. The two-story French colonial was painted in Heather Gray with white trim. The yard was surrounded by a white picket fence and was full of tall skinny palm trees and green ferns. It looked like a lush tropical paradise. A cobblestone walkway led up to the porch, and there was a silver Lexus SUV in the drive.
We parked at the curb, pushed through the gate, and climbed the steps to the porch. I banged on the door, and not long after a woman's voice filtered through, “Who is it?"
"Coconut County. We’d like to talk to you about Skyler."
The door unlatched and flung open. Deborah's wide eyes greeted us with curiosity. She was 39 in 1989 when her daughter went missing. She’d held her age well. Her short auburn hair was clearly dyed. She kept herself fit and trim, and she had few wrinkles for a woman in her 70s. “Tell me you found her."
I gave her a grim nod.
Her eyes misted with tears. This moment had been over 30 years in the making. “Not the girl you just found in the barrel?”
I nodded. She’d clearly seen the news reports.
Her face quivered, and her eyes misted. She took a deep breath and steadied herself. “Come on in,” she said, stepping aside as the pain rolled down her cheeks.
She offered us a seat in the living room. It was a beautiful home, and French doors opened to a patio and a pool. It was clean and cozy, everything in its place. Not cluttered.
Deborah took a seat, and I told her the full story. Sadness twisted on her face. She grabbed a tissue from the coffee table and blotted her eyes as she wept.
"Can you tell us what was going on at the time?"
"Well, let's see… My husband passed away in ‘86. Tom was a bit of a drinker, sad to say. One night, as he was coming home, he must have passed out on the drive. Swerved off the road and hit a telephone pole. Died instantly. It was a miracle he didn't kill anybody else."
"I’m very sorry."
"It was a difficult time. We went to live with my brother, Paul, until I could get on my feet. We lived there until I got remarried. Somehow, I got pregnant again. Maggie is my miracle baby."
"You live