Alice touched a finger to her lips, deliberating.
“Well, as we already discussed, they can’t be local,” she said. “Or we would have heard about them being missing. So they’re from at least fifty miles away. And if we’re really talking serial killer, I would guess the other victims are women, too.”
“I wonder if they were also Catholics, like Shannon. I keep coming back to where they were found. And what the caller said.... By the way, Killian mentioned there would be a briefing today but didn’t say when.”
“It’s at five o’clock. At Dot’s.”
“Thanks. And thanks for everything else, Alice. I ended up roping you into a gruesome discovery and creating a big headache for you.”
“Yeah, but I got to share in the scoop, so I owe you a thank-you, too.”
We finally reached McAllister Road in Sunset Bay, and Alice pulled up behind my Jeep. There was a cluster of TV vans and a small throng of rubberneckers bunched nearby,but two state police vehicles and several officers were preventing anyone from moving closer.
“See you at the press conference,” I said.
“I’ll be there with bells on. And, Bailey, as you said earlier, this guy who called you may be watching.”
“I know, but I’m not super worried. He had a specific use for me, and I fulfilled it.”
Helicopters were buzzing overhead as I slid out of the car, probably attached to TV news teams. Word had gotten out that something big was happening in Sunset Bay. Before departing the hamlet, I parked again and hurried into the nearly empty diner, where I ordered a tuna sandwich and two coffees to go.
“Any idea what’s going on down the road?” the sixty-something counter guy asked me. “Awful lot of commotion.”
“It seems to have something to do with the old retreat center,” I said, leaving it at that.
“The Catholic place? But that’s all shut down.”
“I’m not sure what’s up.... Any idea why they stopped running retreats there?”
“What I heard was that the diocese ran low on funds—it’s gotta be over ten years ago. They maintained the property for a while, though, hoping to start up again, but since then they’ve let things go.”
“Why not sell the place?”
He shrugged a bony shoulder. “Apparently the woman who willed it to the church had a stipulation about it not changing hands.”
I thanked him for his time and paid for my food. I alsomade one additional stop on my way back south—the Lake Shore Motel, where the desk clerk from the other night was holding down the fort. I asked if a woman with long blond hair had ever shown up and registered, but he insisted no guest fit the description. Please, I thought, don’t let her be in one of those bags.
Back at the Breezy Point, I wolfed down my food while racing to write up my next post. I’d have to wait until after the press conference to send it to Dodson, though at least that would allow me to incorporate any disclosures from Killian. I thought back to my initial post in the first person, which had turned out to be a fortuitous choice. I’d become part of the story today, and I wouldn’t have to suddenly and awkwardly insert myself into the copy now.
Next, I placed a call to Bonnie Peets, a forensic expert in New York I often turned to for insight, and left her a voice mail asking for her assistance as soon as possible.
I popped open the second cardboard cup of coffee and hopped online, hoping to confirm what I’d learned about the retreat center. According to property records, it was definitely still owned by the diocese.
As I nursed my lukewarm coffee, my phone lit up with Bonnie’s number on the screen. After describing Shannon’s disappearance and my discovery this morning, I asked her what the smell might reveal about time of death, among other things.
“First, I need to hear about the whole setup,” Bonnie said. “Where exactly is the building located? What’s the temperature inside and out, and also inside the closet? And couldthe temperature in the basement have been altered for any reason? By someone leaving the windows open, for instance?”
Right, good questions.
“The building’s on the shore of a lake and hasn’t been used in years. It’s ranged between the low sixties and low seventies here this week, and so I’d guess the temperature in the basement—and the closet, too—has been in the fifties or sixties. There’s an old furnace in the basement, to the right of the closet.”
“What’s on the other side of the closet?”
“The base of a fireplace that’s on the main floor.”
“And you say this woman disappeared four days ago?”
“Yes.”
