He believed them all, in fact. Which meant that they weren't going to get any more leads here.
It was beginning to look more and more like Veronica had been chosen at random. And while it wasn't exactly a surprise for an FBI agent to be brought in on a difficult case, he found himself wishing that, just for one time, they would have had something a bit more straightforward to deal with.
Random victims were always the hardest to trace. There was no way of knowing where the killer would strike next, or why he had chosen the victims he had, until they worked out some kind of psychological profile. That could take a long time. More to the point, it could end up taking another death.
Laura looked over at him, and Nate found that he was strangely comforted to see her giving him that same look she always did when she felt that an interview was over and wanted to check that he felt the same. Over the last three years and more they had slipped into an easy pattern, a working relationship that flowed. The last case, the one where they hadn't been speaking, had been awkward and abrupt and off kilter. Coming back to normal now, it was so much better. Even if he was still worried about how he was going to help her with the delusions she was suffering from, at least they were talking now.
“Thank you very much for your time,” Nate said, nodding at all of them in turn. “We'll leave a few of our cards here so that you can give us a direct call if you think of anything relevant. Please, don't hesitate to call if you think of anything. Even if it seems small, even if you're not sure. Any little thing could help. As for us, will be in touch as soon as we have any updates to pass on to you.”
“You're going to catch him, right?” Stephen snapped, locking eyes fiercely with Nate. Nate wondered if he could kind of sense the big brother energy that Nate carried, that thing they had in common.
“That's what we're here for,” Nate said, stopping shy of making an actual promise.
He and Laura left the room, nodding their goodbyes as they filed through the hallway and then out of the house. It was only when they had reached the car again that Laura sighed, speaking to him quietly before he got into the passenger seat.
“Dead end,” she said, a statement of fact rather than a question.
“There's still one more opportunity, though,” Nate said. “We've still got to talk to the husband of Stephanie Marchall.”
“I hate to say it, but I really hope we're dealing with a homicidal, abusive asshole to make this easy for us,” Laura said.
Nate didn't even need to smile to lighten the message as he replied. “You and me both,” he said. “I'm still hoping I can get you back to your little girl in time for the weekend.” And he was gratified to see the look on her face, the gratitude, the relief.
Sometimes, knowing that someone else had your back could make all the difference. And he hoped against hope that knowing he was there for her would allow Laura to get past the delusions she was suffering from - and that they could use her newfound focus to get this case solved as quickly as possible.
CHAPTER NINE
Laura stood behind Nate as he knocked on the door to the small but neat property, set in a suburban development some way from the city center. It was a quiet street, and she found herself glancing up and down, thinking about the kind of people who lived in a neighborhood like this. Quiet people. The kind who kept themselves to themselves. They couldn’t have imagined something like this would come to their doorstep.
The door opened silently, without a word; the man behind it just stared at them for a moment. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, set into a pale face. For a terrible moment, Laura thought he was just going to shut the door again. He didn’t look quite in his right mind.
She couldn’t exactly blame him for that.
“Ross Marchall?” Nate asked, his voice soft. There was hardly any need to ask. It was clear that this man was the grieving husband of Stephanie. His demeanor, the sadness and shock that seemed written throughout every line of him. The gold wedding band on his finger that was ringed with red skin, as though he had been twisting it constantly in his distress. “We’re from the FBI. We want to talk to you, if we can. Ask a few questions about Stephanie.”
“I spoke to…” Ross said, seeming to have some trouble getting through the sentence. He was in his late thirties, perhaps his early forties. A black beard and thick black hair, albeit with a slightly receding hairline, seemed somehow out of place on him just now. Normally taken as a sign of masculinity, strength – the look didn’t fit this grieving, broken-looking man. “I spoke to them. You. The police.”
“We’re not the local police,” Laura said, hoping her own gentle voice could lend some calm to the situation. It was cold out, the breeze whipping itself up into a wind, stinging at her exposed cheeks already. “We’re following up to see if we can shed any more light on what happened. It’s very important for the investigation.”
Ross Marchall opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before stepping back, letting them in. As she passed him still holding the door, Laura noticed he was wearing a pair of furry slippers. Pajama bottoms, too, matched with a more formal-looking shirt. He wasn’t together at all.
That was one of the hardest parts of dealing with victim families: their emotional state. Not only because it was difficult to witness, but because it made them difficult interview subjects. They could be distracted, angry, too sad or shocked to listen. To remember important details. It was why Laura always left a card, asked them to call later. Sometimes, a little time passing would help them to recall something that was very important indeed.
There was almost a crime scene in the living room. It was neatly decorated, clearly well-kept, but also a scene of some devastation over the past few days. There were a couple of empty casserole dishes still with spoons poking out of them, which she guessed was how Ross had been sustaining himself since his wife died. Tissues, screwed up into used balls, littered the whole of the floor. There were some clothes discarded on the floor, blankets on the sofa all mussed up as though Ross hadn’t left there for a while, and several framed photographs lying on the coffee table.
Photographs of Stephanie and Ross, in happy times. Their wedding day. Another formal event that had required them to dress up. On vacation.
Ross had been sitting down here, Laura thought, probably unable to face going back to the marital bed. Looking at photographs of his wife, crying, and doing little else.
“Ross,” Laura said, keeping her voice gentle still as he sat down on the sofa, leaving them no room to join him. There wasn’t need to stand on ceremony, not in that way, not here. The grief-stricken could shut other people out in so many ways. Most of them were not intentional. They just needed to get on with the interview, even if it meant another stretch of uncomfortable time standing in front of a victim’s family. “We need you to tell us as much as you can about Stephanie, and what might have happened to her.”
“Her phone,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He cleared his throat slightly, shaking his head. “That’s what I keep thinking about.”
“Her cell phone?” Nate prompted. He chose to squat down behind the coffee table, facing Ross. He placed one hand on top of it to steady himself, putting himself under Ross’s level. In his line of sight, given that Ross didn’t seem willing or able to lift his head.
“Why did he leave it on?” Ross said. “He must know. Everyone knows. You can trace a cell phone.”
Nate twisted his head slightly, catching Laura’s eye. He had a slight look of alarm. A look of, is this guy making sense to you?