Shattered Read online

  Lucy Kincaid Rogan wasn’t going to be easy. It didn’t help that Max had already had a tense exchange with her husband.

  “My ex-boyfriend was a federal agent,” Max said, attempting to develop a rapport. “It can be a demanding job.”

  “Marco Lopez?”

  Surprise, surprise, she’d read her book. “Yes.” Maybe not a surprise. If Andrew had talked to Lucy last night, she would have done research on Max. It’s exactly what Max had done, as Rogan pointed out. “He’s currently the SSA of Violent Crimes in Miami, though I heard he was up for a promotion. Considering he works his ass off and plays the game well, he’ll probably get something juicy.”

  Again, silence. This was not going to be a fun conversation for Max if she couldn’t learn anything about Lucy.

  Except—perhaps—she already had. The girl was cautious, she prepared for the meeting by reading Max’s most popular true crime book—her first—and suspicious. The cool suspicion oozed from her pores; Max could almost see it.

  After the bartender brought coffee for Lucy and refilled the other cups, then placed the beer in front of Sean, who waved away the glass, Andrew said, “I have to get back to the office by five, so let’s get to it. I spoke to your producer and he explained your theory about Justin’s murder being connected to three other murders over a nearly twenty-year period. State your case.”

  Right to it. Max wanted more from Lucy first, but maybe if she sparked her curiosity, she’d get the interaction she needed to understand her.

  “I’m a visual person, and I have a full timeline in my suite upstairs,” Max said, “but I think the correlation is clear. I’m missing some pieces that I’m in the process of getting, but so far, everything has fallen into a pattern.

  “Four victims—your son, Justin, Tommy Porter, Chris Donovan, and nine months ago, Peter Caldwell. All between the ages of seven and nine. All kidnapped from their bedrooms in the middle of the night while their parents were out and left them with a babysitter. All were buried in a shallow grave, wrapped in a blanket from their bed, five miles or less from their homes. All were killed relatively quickly in the same manner—suffocation. None had any signs of sexual assault.

  “On the surface, connecting these cases seems a stretch because they are roughly five years apart—Justin nearly twenty years ago, Tommy fifteen years ago, Chris six years ago, and Peter last April. My staff is looking hard at missing boys kidnapped from their bedrooms between nine and twelve years ago to see if there is a fifth victim who fits the pattern. We’re focusing in Southern California, Nevada, and Arizona, and will expand as necessary. If in fact this is a serial killer, there could be more victims. Or there’s a specific trigger that set this person off that is unique to these victims.” Max was expecting questions, but no one spoke.

  So she continued. “We know from the Porter and Donovan homicides that the victims were drugged and likely unconscious when they were suffocated—no signs of defensive wounds, no restraints other than being wrapped in the blanket. I don’t have the autopsy report on Justin because for some reason the ME wouldn’t send it to my office upon request—it wasn’t until I talked to Andrew that I realized there were family members with the clout to prevent the media from obtaining any information on this case.”

  Andrew spoke. “I told you it would be an uphill battle.”

  “Do you know if your son was drugged?”

  Andrew nodded. “He was.”

  “The Porter case didn’t have a tox screen report attached to the autopsy report, though there was a note that a narcotic was found in the boy’s system. I’m working on finding that report—it’s still an open case. The Donovan case is closed—his father went to prison for second degree murder.”

  “So the cases aren’t identical,” Lucy said.

  “The facts are the same regarding the kidnapping and murders of each of these boys. What isn’t the same is that in the Donovan case, the father went to prison. I read the transcripts and he had a really bad attorney. The evidence was circumstantial, Donovan initially lied about his alibi, and when he realized that the police thought he had killed his son, he admitted to having an affair. The prosecution was able to discredit his mistress, though she never wavered that he was with her the night Chris was killed. My associate interviewed her and while he was initially skeptical of Donovan’s innocence, he doesn’t think she’s lying.”

  “If the case was circumstantial, why hasn’t he appealed?” Andrew asked.

  “Guilt that he was in bed with his mistress when his son was murdered,” she said bluntly.

  Andrew bristled, but didn’t comment. Max continued. “In the Porter case, the father was also having an affair. He, too, was with his mistress the night his son was killed. That’s three.”

  She was watching Lucy carefully, and the fed saw the same pattern she did. But she didn’t flinch. It was simply a subtle change in her posture, a faint leaning forward that told Max she was hanging on every word, processing the information, putting together the patterns.

  “And the last victim?” Lucy asked.

  “Unconfirmed,” Max said. “The victim’s father and I were in college together—it’s how I became interested in these cases. He denied having an affair. I know him, and in the past I would say he’d never lie about something like this. But when you don’t see someone for ten years, you don’t know how they might have changed.

  “His wife? Another story. But there’s a catch. She’s pending trial for her son’s murder. I can’t access the information I need to determine if Peter’s case matches the other three. The autopsy report is only available to law enforcement and the defense right now, and the defense doesn’t want me involved.”

  “Why?” Sean asked. “If they think you can help clear their client.” It was a valid question, but the tone was skeptical. Accusatory. Max knew she was winning Lucy over with the facts, but now she wondered if Sean had more sway. Did she have to convince both of them?

  “Because the evidence is circumstantial. My gut says that the prosecution has a witness that places Blair Caldwell someplace other than where she said she was during her son’s murder. She and her husband were at a charity golf fund-raiser in their own neighborhood, a gated community. As the crow flies, she could have crossed the golf course in four minutes if she walked briskly—I timed it—and reached her backyard, which is accessible through a gate in a wrought-iron fence. Peter’s body was found in a sand pit on the portion of the golf course farthest from their house. Assuming about five minutes to climb in through the window, grab the kid, climb out with him. It would have taken eight to ten minutes briskly walking—maybe longer carrying a body. Three minutes to suffocate him, and since he was buried in the sand, maybe another minute or two to conceal the body. He could have also been suffocated in his bed and carried already deceased to the sand pit. From the sand pit back to the party at the club would take four to five minutes. That’s roughly twenty-five minutes, thirty tops. And that’s being conservative. I think a determined person could have done it in twenty.”

  “Forensic evidence?” Lucy asked.

  “I can’t access what they have. I can’t prove that they offered her a plea deal, but my gut says they did and she declined. The defense must know what the prosecution has and they must think it’s weak. Or weak enough that they can play on the emotions of the jury—how can a mother kill her own son? What is the reason? Happy family and all that.”

  “Premeditated,” Lucy said quietly.

  “Excuse me?” Max said.

  “If Blair Caldwell killed her son, it was premeditated. She was at a party in her housing community. She would have known exactly how long it would take to get to her house, kill her son, bury his body, and return to the party. Maybe she had access to a golf cart—which would cut down your timeline quite substantially.”

  Max couldn’t speak. She prided herself on thinking of every possible scenario—it’s why she was so good at solving cold cases, because she didn’t think like a cop�
��but she hadn’t thought about the golf cart. Why was that? Because she thought someone would have seen her? Or someone would have heard her?

  Lucy continued. “Did Blair tell you about these similar cases? Maybe in an attempt to throw suspicion off herself?”

  “John uncovered them, but he didn’t know all the details. He was going off the gender, age, and circumstances of the kidnapping. Many of the details weren’t in national media reports. Many I got from archives and my own personal research. I’m good at uncovering information.”

  Lucy said, “They could be in it together.”

  “No.”

  “No?” Lucy shook her head. “As you said, ten years is a long time. People change.”

  “Full disclosure—I haven’t firmly put Peter Caldwell’s murder in with the other three. There are many similarities and the only difference at this point is I don’t have confirmation as to whether John or Blair were having an affair, though I know for certain that John wasn’t with a mistress while his son was killed. He was never a serious suspect because, according to a reporter friend of mine in Scottsdale, the police were able to account for his whereabouts during the entire window, midnight to two A.M. I also don’t have access to the autopsy report—at least until the trial.”

  Max sipped her coffee, waited.

  “Is that it?” Lucy asked.

  “I need the information from Justin’s murder—the autopsy report, the tox screen report, the investigation notes. I need to talk to the lead detective. Once I gather that information, and the few missing pieces from the Donovan and Porter homicides, I’ll put together a report showing the pattern.”

  “And if something doesn’t fit, what do you do?” Sean asked. “Ignore it? Make it disappear?”

  Max bristled. “I don’t lie, Mr. Rogan.”

  “It seems highly unlikely that a killer would be targeting these boys and waiting years between murders,” he countered.

  “When children are murdered more than eighty percent are killed by someone they know. Most often, that is a family member or a family friend. When children are murdered, they are more likely to be sexually assaulted. It’s also extremely rare that a child is kidnapped from their own home—from their bedroom. That’s why cases like Polly Klaas and Danielle van Dam make headlines. And those cases were more than fifteen years ago. Both females, both sexually assaulted, but still, these type of kidnappings are rare.

  “Once I can confirm the facts of each case, I will produce a detailed report. Prior to airing the report, I will contact the FBI media relations office and present the information to them and ask for their comments. Two of the three times I’ve done this, the FBI has reopened cases that resulted in an arrest. I have a good rapport with that particular office. I don’t withhold evidence from law enforcement. However, when a case is more than a year old, I’ve found that it disappears into cold case hell—unless someone like me shines a light. I am good at what I do. I wouldn’t be here upsetting the victim’s family if I didn’t believe that I can find answers. But it starts with Justin. If he’s the first victim—the answers are in his investigation. I have the staff and resources to take that information and compare it to the other cases I’m looking at. There will be another common factor we can’t see right now—a person, a vehicle, something that will lead to the killer. No one has looked at Justin’s murder as anything but an isolated tragedy.”

  Lucy turned to Andrew. “Is that true?”

  “Mostly. For the first few years after Justin was killed, anytime a child was found dead, SDPD looked at the evidence in Justin’s case to see if there were any similarities. There never were—and eventually those inquiries stopped. When Carina first made detective ten years ago, she looked at Justin’s case files—it went nowhere. Because no other boy in San Diego or the surrounding counties had been kidnapped and killed under the same circumstances. I tried to open it again eight years ago and also got nowhere. Partly because I didn’t want to upset your family, Lucy.”

  Lucy looked at her husband. It was like they were telepathically speaking. Though brief, the silence felt weighty.

  Then Sean nodded.

  Lucy turned to Max. “I’d like to see your timeline. You said you had a visual chart upstairs.”

  “I do. Why?”

  “You want my help.”

  “No-o-o,” Max said slowly. “Andrew said that if I convinced you that there was merit to these murders being the work of the same killer, that he would cooperate and help me get the information that the ME and the police department are holding back in Justin’s death.”

  “Yes,” Andrew said, “but I also said you needed the Kincaids’ cooperation. I can get the files, but you won’t have access to people, the lead detective—anyone—without Lucy.”

  Max froze. He could not be saying what she thought he was saying.

  “Ms. Revere,” Lucy said, “I am curious. I want to verify what you’ve told me, because on the surface it is extremely compelling. But I will not have my family relive this nightmare unless I am positive these crimes were committed by the same person and there is a chance that we can identify the killer.”

  We. She said we.

  Max was going to explode. That she didn’t was a testament to the patience she had learned from her assistant, David.

  “I’m a reporter,” Max said bluntly. “I interview cops, I don’t work with them.”

  “There’s an exception to everything,” Lucy said. “If I’m going to talk to my family, I have to tell them I’m intimately involved in the investigation.”

  “Lucy—” Andrew began.

  “That’s not going to work for me,” Max said.

  “Fine,” Lucy said. “You found this information, so can I. I’ll look at the cases on my own.”

  The conversation had gone from bad to worse. “I’m not backing down from this,” Max said. “You care about Justin’s murder, I care about all of the murders.”

  A flash of anger crossed Lucy’s expression—it was the first real, unfiltered emotion Max had seen since the fed sat down.

  “Do not presume that you know what I care about,” Lucy said coolly.

  “I have resources that you do not,” Max said. “Time and money at the top of the list.”

  “I have two things you do not. I am a Kincaid and I have experience.”

  “Your FBI training last year? Four months at Quantico and a year in the field is what you’re going with? I’ve been investigating cold cases since you were in high school.” Truth was, Lucy was only five years younger than Max … but she had just graduated from the academy. Hardly enough time to amass a huge level of experience hunting down killers and deciphering old clues, subtle nuances, and faulty memories that were the backbone of working cold cases.

  Sean pushed his chair back. “We’re done.”

  How had Max lost control of this meeting? After the initial tension with Sean, she’d had them completely engaged … then lost it because Lucy wanted to partner with her.

  “I’m not backing down,” Max said. “This is my story. It’s more than a story. This is about a killer—or two. If Blair Caldwell killed her son, I might be able to prove it if I can prove Peter wasn’t killed by the same killer as these other boys.”

  “That’s a stretch,” Andrew said.

  “No, it’s not,” Max insisted. She noticed that Sean didn’t get up—he was still ready to stand, but he was listening. “John believes in his heart that Blair is innocent, but I think a tiny part of his brain is suspicious. It’s why he didn’t want to wait until after the trial to ask for my help—I think he’s scared, based on the fact that his wife has an amazing criminal defense lawyer, that she will be exonerated. Yet, being proven not guilty is not the same as being proven innocent. And if I can’t prove that Peter was killed by the same man who killed Justin, Tommy, and Chris, John will never really believe his wife is innocent. Because this specific type of murder is extremely rare.”

  Lucy said, “Ms. Revere, I will work with yo
u on this. You should accept my help. If you don’t, I will learn everything you have and investigate it myself. That’s not my first choice. You’ve done the work, it would take me weeks to duplicate it. And while I’m willing to give up all my free time to find out who killed my nephew—my best friend—I still have a job. You’re right about one thing—time is not on my side. But if we do this together, we can find the answers faster. And if that’s the case, we can save the next victim.”

  Max stared at her. She didn’t know what to think. There was something in Lucy’s personality that she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but part of it was definitely obsession. Max was very familiar with the feeling. She’d had it when she investigated Karen’s disappearance more than ten years ago. That she had to find the truth at all cost. Max believed every word Lucy said. That Lucy would pursue the case, with or without her. Max had never found herself in this position. She was always in the driver’s seat, she always had control in any situation. When she gave up control—even a tiny bit of control—it was a strategic move.

  She hated being forced into anything.

  She didn’t like this. At all. She didn’t want to work with anyone, but she especially didn’t want to work with a federal agent. It never ended well. They had rules they had to follow, rules she didn’t have to.

  “I have one other thing over you that isn’t time,” Max said, grasping at her last straw. “I don’t have to follow the same rules you do. And sometimes, the only way to get answers is to break the law.”

  “I’m not hearing this,” Andrew said under his breath.

  Max continued. “You break the law and you can lose a conviction. A killer can walk.”

  “I don’t plan on breaking the law,” Lucy said. “I’ll leave that up to you.”

  That was the last answer Max expected.

  “Take it or leave it,” Lucy said.

  Max hated this. But what choice did she have? She could push and get what she needed, but it would take much longer … and she hadn’t lied about Blair’s trial. John needed to know, in his heart and head, that Blair was innocent. But more than that, if Blair was guilty, Max wanted her to fry.