Savich said, “What makes things hard is if we’re talking about a Serial, he could be from Pittsburgh or Boston, for all we know, but it’s a good start.”
Ty said, “True, but I have to treat this like it’s local or semi-local until we know if these people were murdered and who exactly they were.” She drew a deep breath. “You think the forensic anthropologist will find perimortem trauma, don’t you?”
Savich hated to say it, but had no choice. “Yes.”
Ty agreed. A serial killer, or a Serial, as the agents referred to the kind of monster who’d murdered people and thrown their bodies into Lake Massey, dusted off his hands and walked away smiling.
She looked again at the bones. “I wonder how many people he dumped in the lake we’ll never find? They’re simply gone, forever.” She looked at Agents Savich and Royal. “I’ve read there are hundreds of serial killers running loose around the United States, killing and getting away with it, sliding seamlessly back into their everyday lives, and no one ever seeing what they really are. Cops in Seattle, where I’m from, still talk about Gary Ridgway, the Green River Killer.”
They stepped out of Dr. Staunton’s office and nearly ran into a panting Charlie. “Chief! Congo called me. They found Bick’s missing rowboat, the Green Gaiter!”
Ty said, “Where?”
“Sunk right off the Gatewood dock. Actually, it was Buzzard.” He added to Savich and Flynn, “Buzzard is Davie Coursey’s nickname. He’s a snot-nosed little teenager, always causing trouble. He was busting around with a couple of friends up at Gatewood, probably daring each other to go inside and settle in and talk to the ghosts. Buzzard said he saw something in the water, and sure enough, it was the Green Gaiter, sunk in sixteen feet right off the dock.”
“Good,” Ty said. “We’ll go winch it out of the water. Charlie, did you tell Hanger I’d authorize the additional hours and his costs for another lake drag?”
Charlie said, “Yeah, and he said if he’s to do a bigger search, he’ll need his sons, and they’ll want time and a half.”
Ty thought of her straining budget. The city council was covering all the expenses for the additional deputies for the book festival, but only an idiot would think that as important as finding the bones of murdered people in Lake Massey. “We’ll have to do it, Charlie. If he’s got his sons, he won’t need you. You can stay with me.”
Flynn pulled out his cell, turned away. A couple of minutes later, he turned back and said, “I’ve called it in. An FBI forensic team will be here in a couple of hours. They don’t want anything touched, including the boat. They want to be the ones to bring it up.”
Ty said, “Not a problem. Octavia Ryan’s killer must have known only kids go near Gatewood, to scare themselves silly, so he wouldn’t expect anyone to find the rowboat, at least for a while.”
Savich said, “What do you mean the boys would dare each other to go inside the house and talk with ghosts?”
Ty rolled her eyes. “Gatewood is supposedly haunted, and of course a big-time draw for both kids and teenagers. They prowl around the house and yes, make their dares—spending the night inside. From what I hear, none of them have.”
Savich remembered clear as day that long-ago winter night in the Poconos when he’d searched the Bannister house, empty for nearly thirty years—only it hadn’t been. “Why is it haunted? What happened there?”
Ty nodded. “It’s quite a story. Since we’ve got lots of time until the forensics team gets to Gatewood, everyone, come to the station with me. Charlie can tell you what happened at Gatewood, then we can go out there and look around. You were a kid when it happened, right?”
Charlie gave a little shudder. “I’ll never forget.”
6
* * *
The station house door opened into a long, narrow room, a high desk sitting squarely in the middle, benches lined up against the wall. Behind the desk sat a large gray-haired woman wearing a bright red flowered muumuu, rhinestone glasses sitting on her nose. She was well north of sixty, and she had a great smile. Ty said, “Agent Royal, Agent Savich, this is Marla Able, my dispatcher, my 911 operator, and my enforcer. Any citizen of this fine town runs afoul of the law, they have to deal with her first. Marla, our murdered man wasn’t a man. He was a woman, and her name was Octavia Ryan, a federal prosecutor. It’s no longer our case, but we’ll be assisting the FBI.” She shot Savich a look that told him she wasn’t backing away from this. He understood: a murder in her town, a murder she’d witnessed. It had to burn her to her toes not to lead the investigation.
Marla shoved up her glasses and gave Savich and Flynn a thorough study. “I hate to hear it was a woman, Chief. But these two sure look tough enough to lasso the bad guys.”
“Thank you,” Flynn said and cracked his knuckles.
“And you,” she said, looking at Savich. She cocked her head at him. “You’ve got something else going on, too, don’t you? Pretty smart, aren’t you?”
Something else going on? He wasn’t about to ask. Savich said only, “Some would agree, some wouldn’t.”
She laughed, a hacking smoker’s laugh. “Ty, now I’ve got to state the obvious. Both of these boys are young and good-looking, and that could be a problem if the Cougar Club gets a whiff of them.”
Flynn stared down at this amazing woman, her plump hands loaded down with rings his mom would really like. “Cougar Club, ma’am?”
“Our town’s finest,” Marla said. “I’m a longtime member myself. Ty here is what we call a cub cougar, far too young to break loose and run wild with us, but she’ll be a fine addition someday. Our motto is ‘Cougars Forever.’?”
Ty said, “I heard the motto is ‘Feed the Cougars.’?”
“That’s the naughty submotto,” Marla said. “Now, what about all the bones Charlie found? Some yahoo using our lake as a dumping ground?”