She handed a cup to Patrick, then took her own cup and sat down.
“I was a freshman at Columbia. My friend Holly Stevens lived off campus. She was a loner, very shy and reserved. She had a few close friends. I was one of them. We met in Psych 101 and hit it off. One day, she told me she sensed she was being followed, even stalked. I urged her to go to the police. She did. They had nothing solid to work with, so they arranged for a few patrol cars to keep an eye on her apartment. It wasn’t enough.”
Casey drew a slow, unsteady breath, staring into her coffee as she spoke. “Holly’s body was found wrapped in a canvas tarp and tossed in a Dumpster a few weeks later. She’d been raped and murdered. It was a nightmare—one that could have been avoided with the proper resources.”
“You weren’t those resources, Casey. Not back then.”
“But I was the one Holly confided in. Irrational as it might seem, I always felt that maybe I missed an opportunity to prevent what happened.”
“That irrationality is what’s getting in your way now. Lose it. You may not have had the right resources to do what should’ve been done then, but you have the right tools for what you need to do now. You have Forensic Instincts.”
“Which is why I can’t let this case slip through my fingers. Not that I blame
the police for what happened to Holly. I don’t. They did all they could. But a private investigative firm with our expertise could have done more. We could have focused our manpower and our skills on her predicament, dug deeper, put enough security on her to keep her safe. But, as you said, we didn’t exist, not then. Now we do. And now I’ve been approached to help a dying man find his daughter’s body—a man whose daughter could very well have been killed by the same psycho pervert who killed Holly. The time frame fits. The location fits. The victimology fits. If I’m right, that would make this bastard a repeat offender, maybe a serial killer. Which paints an even more gruesome story. He was never caught. Jan Olson’s body was never found. How many others were there?”
“That’s a question we might or might not be able to answer.” Patrick took a deep swallow of coffee, continuing to share his thoughts with Casey in a calm, straightforward manner. “I know you want to go back and solve it all—catch the killer, assign names to all his victims and provide closure for all the families involved. Maybe we can make that happen. I don’t know. What I do know is that the best way to increase our odds is to fulfill our obligation.”
Follow the case that’s been handed to us. Find Jan Olson’s body.
“That’s how it was with me, remember? Start with the present, step back into the past. This process is going to take you down some dark alleys. You’re going to lose a lot of sleep and relive some painful memories. But you need this. Otherwise, you would have squashed the case the minute I brought it to the team. You knew it was too close to home, that you probably should refer it out. But you didn’t. You’re the president of Forensic Instincts. You made the call for us to take on the case—and you made it without missing a beat.”
“You’re right,” Casey conceded. “I couldn’t have lived with myself if I didn’t see this through. For many reasons. Daniel Olson is dying. And if his theory is correct, if his daughter really did suffer the same fate as Holly, then she was raped, killed and dumped...somewhere. No father should have to die with those kinds of unanswered questions, and without his daughter’s body being found. Plus, if the offender really was the same bastard who did that to Holly, then I have twice the motivation to solve this.”
“Agreed.” Patrick reached over and scooped up Casey’s notes. “So let’s review your interview with Daniel Olson. Then we’ll go over all the newspaper articles you compiled. I got a glimpse of them. You dug up everything, not only about Jan’s disappearance, but about the disappearances of all young women who lived in Manhattan during a five-year time span.”
“I’m going to give the whole pile of them to Ryan and have him set up a database. But I know it’s a stretch. Most of those young women probably just packed up and moved.”
“Well, it’s up to us to figure that out. So let’s go. If anything rings a bell or recalls a memory that in any way relates to Holly, we’ll zero in on it. Go with your gut. No one has better instincts than you do.”
Casey smiled. “You’d make a great life coach.”
“Not really. I’ve just been where you are. It took me thirty-two years to get my answers. Maybe we can come up with yours in half that time. Let’s figure out what happened to Jan Olson. And let’s find her.”
Chapter Two
Glen Fisher lay on his cot in the cell of Auburn State Correctional Facility, a maximum security prison in upstate New York.
He folded his hands behind his head and stared up at the concrete ceiling. First, six weeks in Downstate Correctional Facility undergoing all those ridiculous evaluations and test. And now? Seven months, two weeks and four days in here. More than half a year of his life shot to hell. Thanks to that firecrotch.
One day blended into the next. A meal. His job in the mail room. Another meal. Exercise. Mail again. Back to his cell. A gloomy little six-by-eight hole with a sink, a toilet, a cot, a shelf and bars that separated him from a dark hall equipped with a centrally controlled tear gas system.
Mundane. Boring. A waste of his life.
His lawyer had been a wimp. He should’ve driven home the coercion plea and gotten him off. Instead, the judge had thrown out the defendant’s plea, the evidence had been ruled admissible and here he was, facing a life sentence.
His lawyer was long gone. Good riddance. Representing himself was the smartest thing he could do. He continually found new loopholes. He’d filed another appeal last week. Eventually, maybe those idiots on the parole board would listen to him. All they kept reiterating over and over like some stupid litany was the list of rapes and homicides he’d been convicted of. They couldn’t see that he’d done the world a favor.
Considering law enforcement’s one-dimensional stupidity, he should have kept his fucking mouth shut when he’d been cornered. Even if that Neanderthal from Forensic Instincts had started the ball rolling by practically killing him in the alley. Uncharacteristically, Glen had been caught off guard.
Never again.
They’d found the bodies just where he said they’d be. And the jury—not one of whom had an ounce of brains—had labeled him scum. They’d focused only on the words rape and murder. Couldn’t see past them. Couldn’t know what he knew about those whores. Who they were. What they were. What they did to their victims.
The entire system was useless. It was up to him to bypass it and finish what he’d started.
He pulled out his drawing tablet and crayons and began another detailed sketch. It slowly came alive. Even the outline excited him. Especially when he made sweeping crimson strokes across the page.
A smug smile twisted his lips. Funny thing about life. It had a way of evening out.