Death Notice

waited for someone else to ask the obvious.
He smiled slightly, but the smile looked sad.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I hope not. All I know is that after I caught the reports on your killings, I looked for Wayne’s son. He’s nowhere to be found.”
“What do you mean?”
The two of them were talking to one another, oblivious of the others in the room. Jen was uncomfortably aware that she had softened her usually brusque tone as she addressed her question to the man.
“He escaped from the juvenile facility not quite a year into his incarceration. A warrant was issued for him. That was nearly fifteen years ago, and the warrant is still active. Wayne was dead by then, there was no other family, and as you can imagine, they didn’t have any friends. He simply dropped from sight.”
“Until now.”
He shrugged those gorgeous shoulders, the collar of his shirt gaping slightly. Jen’s eyes dropped involuntarily to his chest and then back to his face. From his expression, she guessed he had noticed.
“I don’t know. I hope not, but it would make more sense than an unrelated copycat.”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “If you’ve ever been to one of your class reunions and seen someone you haven’t seen in a long time, you know that the person can either look almost exactly like you remember or like a complete stranger. People age differently. Another thing is that he didn’t look like his father. I never saw the mother or pictures of her, but he must have gotten his looks from her.”
“Weren’t there photos?”
“He was photographed when he was booked into the juvenile facility, but that facility burned to the ground a year after he escaped. All records were destroyed, including the electronic ones—no backup system in place. I’ve got people trying to find a picture to run through age progression software but no luck so far. We’re still looking, but I’m not counting on finding anything.”
Without further comment, he sat down, again turning his attention to the files in front of him. It had obviously been a strain for him to relate the events of the Kelty case, and again Jen wondered what made the case so personal.
Buchan stood again and motioned for Mike Hardesty to join him at the head of the table. The two of them began detailing the ideas they had for the task force.
Most were routine. Detailed checks had to be run on and interviews repeated with all the persons connected with the victims. No one believed that the killer was someone well known to the victims, but it was likely he had crossed paths with them in some fashion. The focus of the checks and interviews would be finding a common link. The detectives who had been working the cases would continue to do so, and the others would be available to help them in any way needed.
Jen’s attention was divided between the discussion and the man at the other end of the table. He had withdrawn from the hubbub around him, occasionally responding when spoken to, but concentrating on the files before him.
Ten minutes into the planning session, the phone on the conference room credenza buzzed, its light flashing. Buchan swung around and plucked the cordless handset from its cradle.
“Buchan,” he barked into the phone in a tone that told the caller the interruption had better be important. He listened for a moment and hung up without saying anything else. He turned back to the assembled officers, and something in his expression stopped the hum of talk in the room.
“That was dispatch,” he said. “There’s been another killing.”

CHAPTER 3
Jen didn’t know how Special Agent Anderson had managed to finagle a ride to the crime scene with Al and her but finagle he had. She’d stopped at her desk to pick up her notebook, camera, and digital recorder. When she caught up with Al in the garage, Anderson was lounged in the back seat of the unmarked, his shirt and tie loosened another notch. She saw Lonnie grin at her from the front seat of a sedan driven by Agent Hawkins and knew he’d probably had a hand in the arrangement.
As she got into the passenger seat, she turned and accepted Anderson’s hand in an introductory shake. His hand was warm, the skin just a little rough as if he wasn’t afraid to do manual labor. She was surprised to find she wanted to hold onto his hand longer than appropriate for a shake and let go like she’d just felt something hot. I’m acting like a sex-crazed teenager, she thought with disgust, trying to hide the effect the man had on her.
“It’s nice to meet you, Detective Dillon. I understand you go by ‘Jen?’ May I call you that?”
“Of course,” she said curtly, facing forward.
Anderson didn’t lean back in his seat after their shake. Instead, he folded his arms along the back of the bench seat, his chin resting on his clasped hands. He was so close she could hear his soft breathing in her left ear.
“I expect you to call me Will.” His voice was low, as if they were alone, and he was murmuring in her ear.
“All right. Will.”
She knew if she turned her face, it would be only inches from his, so she sat rigidly staring forward, her heart doing double-time. Get a grip, Dillon, she chided herself. He’s just another pretty face.
“So, you used to be a real cop, huh?” Al needled.
She started when Will laughed, low and husky, his outrush of breath warm on her neck. Perspiration popped out above her upper lip. She squirmed a little, trying to relax, her slacks suddenly feeling tight in places they hadn’t been tight just moments before.
“I know, I know,” Will said. “I used to feel the same way about the Bureau. But we’re really not as bad as the average city cop thinks we are.”
“You really think our guy