She did not want to believe that this was how the world worked. She did not want to know that there were people out there who were capable of such things. She did not want to see the suffering of the families of the victims.
But she knew she would and that she would feel totally responsible for having been too slow.
And then, like a shaft of light in the darkness, May remembered something else from that interview, the other detail that Mrs. Meakin had told her.
It was the barest snippet of conversation. And she hadn't even written it down because it had been nothing more than a description of events.
But Mrs. Meakin had said something that now came back to May. She'd said she'd called the funeral director after Hayley had gone missing.
Perhaps it was worth looking at that, May thought. A funeral director was a highly trusted person who would work with almost every local family over the course of time. He would hear all the gossip, people would talk, they would tell this man, who managed the end-of-life rituals, what was in their hearts.
"Owen, let's give this man a try. At least the Meakins mentioned him," she said. "It’s the local funeral director, Chad Burgess. They called him — I guess to find out what they needed to do, when Hayley seemed to have disappeared on that hike. But he's one of the only people on the list that I recall being specifically mentioned. Could you look him up and see if anything leads back to him, if there are any red flags? Any problems, any arrests?"
Owen's fingers were flying over the keyboard as he looked up the records database.
May dialed the number for the funeral home where Chad Burgess worked, but to her frustration, the number was busy.
While he worked on the databases, May decided to take another angle and access the local news sites. That might be a quick way to find out if there had been any loss or trauma in Chad's life.
With that thought in mind, she started her own search, and for a few moments, the two of them worked in silence interrupted only by the faint trill of the constantly ringing phone from the front office.
Then Owen gave a defeated sigh.
"Nope, nothing whatsoever on the records database. This guy is clean, May."
But at the same time, May gave an astonished gasp.
"Owen, I've got something. I don't believe it."
"What?" Nearly knocking his chair over, Owen scrambled around to her side of the desk.
"Chad lost his wife. Three-and-a-half weeks ago. ‘Carrie Burgess was killed in a freak accident near Chestnut Hill, when her car had a blowout, and plowed into a truck transporting farm equipment'," May read.
"Farm equipment? That could be the reason for the focus on the local farms?" Owen asked.
May nodded. "She was killed instantly. The truck driver was unharmed. But Owen, this has to be a strong lead. This might be what tipped him over the edge. Let’s head to the funeral home straight away. If he’s there, we can speak to him. And if not, we can find out where he is.”
They jumped to their feet. Shoving their laptops into their bags, May and Owen raced for the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
As she raced for the funeral home's offices, May felt a strong sense of conviction that they were finally on the road to the killer. There were so many parallels between this man's life, and the profile of the killer they were seeking.
Chad Burgess had lost his wife less than a month ago, and May felt shivers prickle her arms as she thought about how closely this coincided with Kerry's profile.
But they could not yet be certain. May knew only too well that so far, they had a strong match. They needed more proof. Among that long list of names, there could be another man concealed, who also had close parallels with the profile. The only way they could be sure was by finding evidence.
Until then, there was always the chance that they were pursuing an innocent man, and by doing that, allowing the killer to strike again.
The funeral home was on the outskirts of downtown Chestnut Hill, a short drive from Fairshore, but to May it felt as if the journey was endless. It was already late morning, and looking at the sun, high in the sky, gave May a new flare of panic, because it reminded her how fast time was passing.
The funeral home was a large, low building, modern and discreet, with a black rail fence around it, and carefully trimmed hedges. The name — Burgess Funeral Services — was depicted in brass lettering on the wall.
It was imposing and dignified, the kind of establishment that people would feel comfortable turning to at a time of terrible bereavement.
May's heart was thudding in her chest, her stomach was in knots, and she felt a thousand butterflies fluttering inside her.She took a deep breath as she parked in one of the visitor's bays outside the building.
They had to stay calm, she told herself. They had to stay rational and open-minded. They could not go in there with any preconceptions because there was the risk of a false arrest. But this was by far the strongest lead they had at that moment, and she was determined to pursue it with everything she had.