Olivia gave a nod. “There’s more though. Chief Walcott and James Talbot were lovers.”
“What?” Jake said sharply. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. Mrs. Talbot has letters to prove it, and my father was the only other person who knew the truth. The night James was murdered, he was supposed to meet the chief in secret. Apparently, no one but my father knew James was going to be in town that night.”
“Maybe that’s why he has a problem with you,” Jake mused. “He must blame your father somehow and, by extension, you.”
“He pretty much said that to me last night,” Olivia confirmed. “He basically accused me and my dad of being a murder tag team. I think, in his mind, my father committed the original murders, and I took up where he left off until Dad busted out of the nut house. Now he thinks we’re having ourselves a little joint murder spree.”
“For fuck’s sake.” Jake pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Christ, not only is that ridiculous, but I also had no idea that he?—
“Prefers the company of men?” Theo answered, his brow furrowed.
“Yeah,” Jake murmured. “I mean, I knew he wasn’t married, but we all just figured he was married to the job. He obviously goes to great pains to hide his preference. I’ve never even had a hint that he was gay. It wouldn’t matter to any of us, though. I wonder why he feels as though he has to hide it?”
“There could be many different reasons.” Olivia shrugged. “He could be ashamed or have family that wouldn’t approve. He could’ve felt that it would hinder his career, or maybe he’s just a very private person. Who knows.”
“You know, this makes him very dangerous. If he believes your father murdered the person he was in love with, a person he has been unable to mourn publicly for the last twenty years. He is going to take it out on you if he can’t get to your father.”
“Yeah,” Olivia murmured. “I’d pretty much figured that out. He’s not about to let this go anytime soon, and while he’s fixated on me, he’s not looking for the real killer, whether it’s my father and his partner or not.”
“Olive”—Jake frowned—“I really think you need to speak with Erica and put in an official complaint about Chief Walcott.”
“That will probably only make him worse.”
“But it will mean that there is someone keeping an eye on him,” Jake insisted. “It will give you some measure of protection.”
“I guess so,” Olivia answered, although she didn’t look convinced.
“Do you have any idea who sent you the file?” Jake scanned through the notes. “Do you still have the packaging it was sent in?”
“Yes.” She sipped her tea.
“I’ll check into it. Maybe I can find where it was sent from. Was it through the postal service or a courier?”
“Courier,” she answered.
“I might be able to trace it then, if this is the former chief’s copy, that would mean it was possibly sent to you by the pale haired man working with your father. But why would he want you to know about your father’s connection to the victim?”
“I have no idea.” Olivia shrugged. “To be honest, the whole thing’s giving me a headache.”
Jake fell silent as he studied the case notes intently. “Jesus.” He paled as he read through the later victims’ autopsy reports.
“Yeah, it’s pretty grim.” Olivia agreed.
“Going by the details of Adam’s and Brody’s murders, I’d say we’re dealing with the same person. If a third body turns up in the same condition as victim number three from these earlier murders, we’ve either got the original killer, or an apprentice. There are too many precise details for it to be a copycat, things that were never released to the press.”
“There is something I’ve been meaning to ask you.” Olivia took the file from him and pulled out the crime scene photos. “What do you think this is?”
She pointed to picture after picture of a blurry mark on each of the corpses.
“That looks like a brand, just like what the current victims were marked with, but it’s not very clear.” He squinted. The rest of the picture seemed to be sharply in focus; it was just the mark on the corpse that was unclear. “There should have been close-ups taken of the markings.”
“You mean these?” Olivia handed him another small stack of pictures.
“What the hell?” he murmured.
Every single shot of the mark, regardless of which victim it was on, was obscured by a bright light, like a flare.
