Richie’s eyes moved from face to face in our small circle. “Is she good?”
Cassie looked to me.
“She’s the only one available,” Shooter said.
“We also reached out and booked Patsy Davitt,” Cassie added.
Davitt was a facial reconstruction expert who did contract work for the FBI. She was an artist who specialized in the Gatliff–Snow tissue depth method. She glued soft plastic markers to a skull before spreading clay atop it. From there, she could add prosthetic eyeballs and wigs or complete the same process digitally. Either way, we’d arrive at a likeness of the victim—one good enough to show to the public.
“How fast can she get our first victim clayed up?” I asked.
“A day maybe,” Cassie said. “Davitt’s gonna work on-site, and we’ve got pictures of a number of the missing women. If we’re lucky, maybe we get a couple IDs on day one.”
“And how did you identify the two women whose names you know?”
“Jewelry,” Richie said. “One had a necklace with her. The other had a pin, custom made by her mom. Detective Quinones knows these cases inside and out. He recognized both of the items immediately.”
I thought of the short time we had before our gun case got hot—and how important it was to make some connection to the man at the ATM. Some of these women might have been in the ground for years, and identifying them, while critical, was not time sensitive. But identifying the man in the sketch was. He was tied to an active investigation, even if we weren’t clear on how. And he was a killer.
“The two identified women,” I said, “did you reach out to family members yet?”
“No,” Shooter said. “We got back here ten minutes before you.”
“Well, that’s the first order of business tomorrow,” I said. “We need family members looking at our sketch. If either of them recognizes this suspect, we dig in fast.”
In the distance, a plane flew overhead, and my eyes followed it toward Gainesville. “We start early tomorrow,” I said. “I need to make a phone call.”
The team broke up, and Richie said he’d give me a ride to the hotel, where he’d secured rooms the night before. “I’ll be there in a minute,” I told him.
I looked at the time. It was late. Past 10 p.m. I took the stairs back down to the basement to examine the bodies again myself.
Cases like this spun a community out, and I could see that happening in Shilo. The knowledge that some madman had been in town for years, attacking women… every parent and husband would see their worst fears come to life. And every woman would be afraid to go out alone.
I shot a photo of the six bodies. Texted it to Craig Poulton. Thirty seconds later, the director was calling.
“Tell me that’s not what I think it is.”
“The original body from yesterday, plus five more.”
“Jesus H. Christ on a grain of rice. All in that shit little town?”
“The team has identified two bodies so far,” I replied. “The rest we’re hoping to ID soon.”
“Well, you got tomorrow and not more,” he said. “Tell me, Camden. Who’s your number one?”
“Not sure I follow.”
“You were Frank’s number one. Who’s yours?”
I considered Shooter versus Cassie. “Well,” I said. “Agent Harris is more physical, while Agent Pardo is more intellectual.”
“Okay?”
“Harris is more of a rational problem solver, while Pardo is more emotional—”
“Jesus, Camden,” Poulton interrupted. “Who do you count on the most?”
“Cassie Pardo,” I said.
