arrive.
T wo
Cass flew into the parking lot and swung into her reserved spot. Once inside the building, she waved absently to the desk sergeant as she walked briskly through the lobby.
“Spencer here yet?” she asked over her shoulder.
“He went back about a minute ago,” the sergeant replied.
Cass followed the hall to the chief’s office, knocking on the door although it stood partially open.
Denver motioned her in without looking. He sat at his desk, a thick file in front of him.
“We’ve had an odd development.”
He slid a piece of white paper across the desk, and both detectives leaned forward to get a closer look. “This was found in the lobby today.”
Hey, Denver! Have you found her yet?
“That would refer to the victim we found out in the marsh?” Spencer asked.
“Yes.”
The chief tapped his pipe on the edge of the desk. The bowl was empty of tobacco, as it had been every day for the past four years since he’d successfully given up smoking. He still, however, had a need to handle it in times of extreme stress. Like now.
“So he’s taunting us?” Spencer again.
“In a way. He’s deliberately trying to remind us of one of our old cases.”
“How old is old?” Spencer asked. “Two years? Five?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Twenty-
six
?” Spencer looked from the chief to Cass, then back again. “Twenty-six
years
?”
Denver nodded as he slipped on a pair of thin plastic gloves and opened the file. He took out another white envelope and removed a sheet of white lined notebook paper, which he unfolded and held up for both detectives to see. The message had been composed with letters cut from newspapers and magazines.
Hey, Wainwright! I left something for you on the beach!
And then a second sheet from a second envelope.
Hey, Wainwright! Did you find her yet?
“George Wainwright was the chief of police here in Bowers Inlet for almost thirty-five years,” Denver explained, his voice softening.
“Well, the notes sure look the same. Did you ever find out who sent those?” Spencer pointed to the letters that lay, one next to the other, across the center of the desk.
“We know who sent them. We just don’t know his name.”
“I don’t understand . . .”
“The Bayside Strangler mailed those letters to Chief Wainwright,” Denver said.
“The Bayside Strangler?” Spencer leaned forward in his seat. “Hey, I heard about him. Geez, he must have killed, what, nine, ten women . . . ?”
“Thirteen,” the chief told him. “He killed thirteen women, back in the summer of ’79.”
“All in Bowers Inlet?” Spencer asked.
“No. Just the two here,” Denver replied. “But over the course of that one summer, he hit several of the other small bay towns as well—hence ‘the Bayside Strangler.’ Killion Point, Tilden, Hasboro, Dewey—he hit all of ’em at least once. Then the killings just stopped.”
“Just like that? Like, he just left the building?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Denver said dryly.
“And there was never a suspect?” Spencer frowned.
“Nothing. No idea who he was or why he started, why he stopped.” Denver shook his head. “No one had ever seen this guy. We had no description, no evidence to help us narrow down the field. And think about how huge that field was. Besides the permanent residents of all these little towns, you have the summer people. The ones who come back every year and own or rent the same house, the ones who used to live here but come back in the summer because their family still owns property here. You have the rentals—Christ, they change every week or two. And then you have the summer help, the kids who come for ten weeks to work at the shore, then leave and go back to wherever they came from. Day-fishers, day-trippers.”
“So he just moved away . . .”
Cass spoke up for the first time. “Most serial killers only stop because they die or go to prison. Moving away doesn’t usually stop them from
T wo
Cass flew into the parking lot and swung into her reserved spot. Once inside the building, she waved absently to the desk sergeant as she walked briskly through the lobby.
“Spencer here yet?” she asked over her shoulder.
“He went back about a minute ago,” the sergeant replied.
Cass followed the hall to the chief’s office, knocking on the door although it stood partially open.
Denver motioned her in without looking. He sat at his desk, a thick file in front of him.
“We’ve had an odd development.”
He slid a piece of white paper across the desk, and both detectives leaned forward to get a closer look. “This was found in the lobby today.”
Hey, Denver! Have you found her yet?
“That would refer to the victim we found out in the marsh?” Spencer asked.
“Yes.”
The chief tapped his pipe on the edge of the desk. The bowl was empty of tobacco, as it had been every day for the past four years since he’d successfully given up smoking. He still, however, had a need to handle it in times of extreme stress. Like now.
“So he’s taunting us?” Spencer again.
“In a way. He’s deliberately trying to remind us of one of our old cases.”
“How old is old?” Spencer asked. “Two years? Five?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Twenty-
six
?” Spencer looked from the chief to Cass, then back again. “Twenty-six
years
?”
Denver nodded as he slipped on a pair of thin plastic gloves and opened the file. He took out another white envelope and removed a sheet of white lined notebook paper, which he unfolded and held up for both detectives to see. The message had been composed with letters cut from newspapers and magazines.
Hey, Wainwright! I left something for you on the beach!
And then a second sheet from a second envelope.
Hey, Wainwright! Did you find her yet?
“George Wainwright was the chief of police here in Bowers Inlet for almost thirty-five years,” Denver explained, his voice softening.
“Well, the notes sure look the same. Did you ever find out who sent those?” Spencer pointed to the letters that lay, one next to the other, across the center of the desk.
“We know who sent them. We just don’t know his name.”
“I don’t understand . . .”
“The Bayside Strangler mailed those letters to Chief Wainwright,” Denver said.
“The Bayside Strangler?” Spencer leaned forward in his seat. “Hey, I heard about him. Geez, he must have killed, what, nine, ten women . . . ?”
“Thirteen,” the chief told him. “He killed thirteen women, back in the summer of ’79.”
“All in Bowers Inlet?” Spencer asked.
“No. Just the two here,” Denver replied. “But over the course of that one summer, he hit several of the other small bay towns as well—hence ‘the Bayside Strangler.’ Killion Point, Tilden, Hasboro, Dewey—he hit all of ’em at least once. Then the killings just stopped.”
“Just like that? Like, he just left the building?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Denver said dryly.
“And there was never a suspect?” Spencer frowned.
“Nothing. No idea who he was or why he started, why he stopped.” Denver shook his head. “No one had ever seen this guy. We had no description, no evidence to help us narrow down the field. And think about how huge that field was. Besides the permanent residents of all these little towns, you have the summer people. The ones who come back every year and own or rent the same house, the ones who used to live here but come back in the summer because their family still owns property here. You have the rentals—Christ, they change every week or two. And then you have the summer help, the kids who come for ten weeks to work at the shore, then leave and go back to wherever they came from. Day-fishers, day-trippers.”
“So he just moved away . . .”
Cass spoke up for the first time. “Most serial killers only stop because they die or go to prison. Moving away doesn’t usually stop them from
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