The Pearl Drop Killer. Joshua Questin Hawk
some red wine, he says, “I instructed her to take a few Deputies and talk to the families and learn what they can about the missing women—anything of the last days of each of the women, what each was up to at the time they were reported missing or anything out of the ordinary.”
“That’s good.”
“O’Malley has set up a time tomorrow for us to meet with the Ranger at the station around eight a.m.”
Jock starts cleaning glasses behind the bar. “Should I lock up?”
Both snicker. Donovan turns around to face him. “You may go, Jock. I’ll lock up, and thank you.”
Jock shrugs his shoulder, grunts, grabs his cap from his back pocket, and exits through the front door. MacBride is smiling as Donovan turns back.
“What? What did I do now?” he asks.
“Nothing. I do feel better now that you’re on the case. I do hope you can forgive me for the termination.”
“I don’t blame you. I do blame the city council, the Mayor, and the Sheriff. I do understand their reasons and that the families wanted answers, which I did not have, but investigations take time.”
“Any help you need from me?” she asks, sipping some wine.
“Just keep the press and council off my ass till I know a bit more after all the autopsies and family interviews. For now, ‘It’s an ongoing investigation. Once we know something, we’ll let you know.’ That is the party line—no special interviews with the press or council, and inform the department for me?”
“I can do that.”
His phone rings; he pulls it from his right coat pocket. “Hello? Okay, on our way. Duke just found three more bodies. O’Malley and Stein are on their way.”
“Where?”
“Sherman Cemetery.”
They quickly clean up and run out. Jock comes out from the kitchen after using the side door. “I have been cleaning up after her since she was in diapers. Nothing new…”
MacBride slowly drives her black sedan up the path through the cemetery gates, past two Deputies, to a second area that is taped off, with vehicles and flashing lights. Deputies are searching the grounds. O’Malley is leaning against his SUV, looking over his small notebook. There are two black vans across from him. He puts his notebook back in his left coat pocket and quickly pulls out a flask, takes a quick swig, making sure no one sees him, and then puts it back.
“Duke said three more?” Donovan asks as he puts his jacket on and MacBride slips on flats.
“Sorry to interrupt your date this way. Alice has not moved anything and is waiting.” They follow O’Malley up the hillside over many flat headstones where Stein and Roberts are waiting near a large headstone that reads:
Sherman family
Horace “The Ol’ Jackal” Jackson Beauregard Sherman
1925–1990
Two twenty-something women and an eighteen-year-old lay in a row. The twenty-something women are in black dresses on either side of the one in white. The eighteen-year-old has both her hands.
All three are wearing a teardrop pearl necklace. Roberts is waiting on her knees near one of the women in black, across from them as they come up. Stein and Scott are near the headstone. Scott is holding an oversized camera with a large flashbulb unit connected to a long metal bar on its base.
Roberts points at the woman nearest her, then the one past the younger one. “These two have been dead about ten hours. Rigor is subsiding…the other one has been dead less than five hours. Rigor is still active.”
Donovan steps over near Roberts, looking over the bodies, and pulls out gloves.
“We were about to move the bodies and see if anything falls out like the first one,” Stein says, waving at two Techs who bring in two gurneys and body bags.
“Start with these two”—Donovan says, waving at the two in black dresses—“since they’re the oldest.”
Roberts and a male Tech slowly take the first woman by the shoulders and legs, pick her up, and place her on the gurney into a body bag. Nothing drops. He wheels the gurney away, and another Tech helps Roberts with the other woman. Still, nothing falls, and the Tech wheels the gurney back.
“You got photos of the woman before I got here?” Donovan asks, looking at Scott.
“Yes, and once they are moved, I will get the ground where they were lying.” Scott moves around Stein, near the remaining body, and waits.
“Get a few of the headstone also, please,” Donovan says as the first Tech returns with another gurney, and Scott nods. Roberts and the first Tech pick up the last woman, but this time, there is a surgical hacksaw in a plastic bag under her body, drenched in blood. They all look at each other and then back at Donovan. Roberts and the Tech place the young woman on the gurney. Donovan and the others move in closer.
Scott snaps a few pictures as Donovan gracefully picks up the bag by the handle and hands it to Stein.
“Get this to Mac and see if we have prints.”
Scott snaps a few more pictures of the ground and then moves over to the headstone. Donovan looks around some more, scanning the scene, taking a hard look at the headstone, and then returns to the SUV followed by O’Malley and MacBride.
“Who called it in?” MacBride asks.
“The Night Watchman.” O’Malley points over at the uniformed guard wearing black pants, a white dress shirt, and black hat and tie. He is well into his sixties and is standing near one of the patrol cars in front of O’Malley’s SUV. “Tell them again what you told my partner.”
The old man is leaning over the car and wiping his mouth after vomiting. “I was doing my rounds and saw something or someone lying over there by the tombstone. I thought it was kids screwin’. We’ve had them before and have caught many lately—boys and girls, and just girls. When I walked up, I could tell it was three girls. I called out, told them to leave, but they didn’t move. I flashed my light and saw those eyes, those dead eyes, the missing hands, and I ran. I read about the ones in the newspapers you found in the forest and called you, guys.” He wipes his mouth again and stands up straight.
Donovan moves back to the SUV. Stein has now returned. O’Malley and MacBride follow.
“Three more tonight. Isn’t that odd?” Stein asks. “Thought it was one at a time. That’s how the forest was.”
“The suspect is getting bold and desperate,” Donovan explains, looking at O’Malley. “Now that Camille has put it out there, suspects love the fanfare.” He looks around at the small group gathering behind the tapeline, scanning the faces in the crowd.
“Fanfare?” Stein asks.
“Serial killers love the show. They love being the center of attention. Some even work themselves into a case. Now that Camille has reported the bodies, the suspect will escalate and will be looking at the press for more attention by way of the women. Match these to the missing and deceased. They should be the most recent ones. Let me know exactly when there are any more current ones,” Donovan explains as MacBride and Stein nod in agreement, and O’Malley lets out a heavy sigh. Like Donovan, he does not like the press and does not wish to talk with Camille, but he knows he will have to, and soon.
“Meet you both back at the station, T?” O’Malley asks as he climbs into the SUV, and Stein moves around to the other side.
“In a bit. I’m going to meet someone first,” Donovan says as O’Malley waves and drives off.
“Who are we going to meet?” MacBride asks, climbing back into her car.
“Not meet, just look in on. I want to drive up to the old Sherman