killing.”
“I guess if there’d been a serial killer someplace else with the same MO you’d have heard about it.”
“Maybe, maybe not. If he’d gone on another spree like he did here, it would have made the papers, but we may not have seen those papers out here,” Denver said.
“Twenty-some years ago, there wasn’t any way to track something like that,” Cassie noted. “No national data banks, no central records.”
The chief nodded. “You’re right. Chances are, he just moved on. Now, the young woman found in the marsh . . . do we know who she is?”
“Not yet. There was no ID, no wallet,” Cass said.
Denver stared at her.
“Chief?” She waved her hand in front of his face.
“No ID at all?” he asked.
“None. Why?”
“Just coincidentally, the Bayside Strangler always took his victims’ wallets,” he replied. “Of course, not knowing if this woman had a wallet on her at the time, we don’t want to jump to conclusions.”
“That’s a pretty odd coincidence,” Spencer pointed out.
“She might not have carried ID. I can’t tell you how many times my own daughter has gone out and left her purse or her wallet right there on the kitchen counter.”
“Still—” Spencer began, but Denver cut him off.
“We’re not going to connect the dots just yet, Detective. Understand?” Denver shrugged. “As tempting as it is. It’s more likely that someone is trying to throw us off.”
“Yes, but—”
“Let’s focus on our victim, shall we? Start checking the missing persons reports, statewide. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find, in the end, that we’ve got a guy who’s killed his wife or girlfriend and has enough knowledge of the Bayside Strangler to try to muddy the waters. It was no secret that the Strangler had sent Wainwright taunting notes. Anyone could have remembered that. And the fact that the victims’ IDs were stolen, well, maybe this guy figures if he takes the wallet, he sends the letter, everyone will assume there’s a copycat Strangler out there and take the heat off him. Let’s not automatically buy in to that, all right? I wanted you to be aware of what we dealt with before, but let’s not assume. Let’s start by finding out who our victim is.
“Put your focus on her,” Denver repeated, “so that we can find her killer.”
“But we can compare the evidence, right?” Spencer asked as he stood. “The old to whatever new forensics comes up with?”
“Back then, fingerprints were the best you could hope for, and unfortunately, this guy didn’t leave any. None that we found, anyway. Thank God, investigative techniques have come a long way since then, but we don’t have anything to compare.”
Spencer scratched behind his right ear. “All those crime scenes and no evidence? Hard to believe.”
“Today, a good CSI can get prints off a victim’s skin. Scrapings from under the nails. Fibers and hair. They can test trace found at the scene. Dirt found on carpets, all sorts of things. Back then, the techniques were not quite as sophisticated. DNA was just a glimmer in the eyes of a few scientists twenty-six years ago.” Denver seemed distracted for a moment, then said, “I was a rookie here in 1979. I worked that case. I have to admit, seeing that body this morning took me right back. It’s uncanny . . .”
“Then, you remember those cases firsthand,” Spencer said.
“Like it was yesterday. The first victim here in Bowers Inlet was a thirty-four-year-old woman named Alicia Coors. She disappeared from her home and was found the next morning on one of the dunes down past Thirty-sixth Street. And that was just the beginning. Every few days, there’d be another, somewhere in the area. All women about the same age—late-twenties to mid-thirties. All were sexually assaulted and found dumped in one of the marshes. Cause of death in each case, manual strangulation. All left posed in the same manner.”
“How were they left?” Spencer
“I guess if there’d been a serial killer someplace else with the same MO you’d have heard about it.”
“Maybe, maybe not. If he’d gone on another spree like he did here, it would have made the papers, but we may not have seen those papers out here,” Denver said.
“Twenty-some years ago, there wasn’t any way to track something like that,” Cassie noted. “No national data banks, no central records.”
The chief nodded. “You’re right. Chances are, he just moved on. Now, the young woman found in the marsh . . . do we know who she is?”
“Not yet. There was no ID, no wallet,” Cass said.
Denver stared at her.
“Chief?” She waved her hand in front of his face.
“No ID at all?” he asked.
“None. Why?”
“Just coincidentally, the Bayside Strangler always took his victims’ wallets,” he replied. “Of course, not knowing if this woman had a wallet on her at the time, we don’t want to jump to conclusions.”
“That’s a pretty odd coincidence,” Spencer pointed out.
“She might not have carried ID. I can’t tell you how many times my own daughter has gone out and left her purse or her wallet right there on the kitchen counter.”
“Still—” Spencer began, but Denver cut him off.
“We’re not going to connect the dots just yet, Detective. Understand?” Denver shrugged. “As tempting as it is. It’s more likely that someone is trying to throw us off.”
“Yes, but—”
“Let’s focus on our victim, shall we? Start checking the missing persons reports, statewide. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find, in the end, that we’ve got a guy who’s killed his wife or girlfriend and has enough knowledge of the Bayside Strangler to try to muddy the waters. It was no secret that the Strangler had sent Wainwright taunting notes. Anyone could have remembered that. And the fact that the victims’ IDs were stolen, well, maybe this guy figures if he takes the wallet, he sends the letter, everyone will assume there’s a copycat Strangler out there and take the heat off him. Let’s not automatically buy in to that, all right? I wanted you to be aware of what we dealt with before, but let’s not assume. Let’s start by finding out who our victim is.
“Put your focus on her,” Denver repeated, “so that we can find her killer.”
“But we can compare the evidence, right?” Spencer asked as he stood. “The old to whatever new forensics comes up with?”
“Back then, fingerprints were the best you could hope for, and unfortunately, this guy didn’t leave any. None that we found, anyway. Thank God, investigative techniques have come a long way since then, but we don’t have anything to compare.”
Spencer scratched behind his right ear. “All those crime scenes and no evidence? Hard to believe.”
“Today, a good CSI can get prints off a victim’s skin. Scrapings from under the nails. Fibers and hair. They can test trace found at the scene. Dirt found on carpets, all sorts of things. Back then, the techniques were not quite as sophisticated. DNA was just a glimmer in the eyes of a few scientists twenty-six years ago.” Denver seemed distracted for a moment, then said, “I was a rookie here in 1979. I worked that case. I have to admit, seeing that body this morning took me right back. It’s uncanny . . .”
“Then, you remember those cases firsthand,” Spencer said.
“Like it was yesterday. The first victim here in Bowers Inlet was a thirty-four-year-old woman named Alicia Coors. She disappeared from her home and was found the next morning on one of the dunes down past Thirty-sixth Street. And that was just the beginning. Every few days, there’d be another, somewhere in the area. All women about the same age—late-twenties to mid-thirties. All were sexually assaulted and found dumped in one of the marshes. Cause of death in each case, manual strangulation. All left posed in the same manner.”
“How were they left?” Spencer
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