about dessert?” Z offered. “RT made Jack Daniels pecan pie.”
“I never turn down dessert,” Brantley said, winking at Reese again.
By the time they made it back to the hotel, Reese could tell Brantley’d gotten his second wind. Probably didn’t help that JJ was blowing up his phone with information. So much so, Brantley had called to let her know they’d do a FaceTime call to get it all sorted.
Now that they were in their room, Brantley had set up his laptop on the desk, and JJ’s face was plastered on the screen, her eyes flashing with fire. Every so often, Reese would see Baz move behind her.
“I think you’re on to somethin’ here, Reese. Not sure what gave you the heebie-jeebies with this guy, but you hit the mark.”
Heebie-jeebies? Reese wasn’t even sure what that was.
“What’d you find out, JJ?” Brantley asked, watching the screen intently.
“From a psychological perspective, guy’s got all the necessary triggers for a serial killer.”
“Since when are you a psychologist?” Brantley asked.
“Oh, you know, I study up in my spare time.” She grinned. “I’m not. And that was me bein’ facetious. I mean, a lot of us had a shitty childhood. Doesn’t mean we’re gonna resort to routinely killin’ people.”
Reese admired Brantley’s patience. It was obvious he was on a hair’s trigger, but he wasn’t rushing her. Too much.
“Anyway,” JJ continued. “Johnathan Jacob Collins, forty-five years old, grew up in and around Dallas. Spent his childhood in Pleasant Grove. His mother and father separated when he was four, divorced by the time he was five. He lived with his mother until he was twelve, when he went to stay with his grandparents. I think CPS might’ve been called in a couple of times, but it looks like someone tried to redact the details.”
“CPS?” Brantley asked. “Child protective services?”
“One and the same,” JJ confirmed. “Neither Mom nor Dad held jobs or stayed in one place for long, so I figure it’s not a leap that they didn’t bother to take care of their child. Volatile relationship from what I’ve read. Quite a few run-ins with the law for drugs. Mostly marijuana.”
Reese didn’t like where this was going.
“When his grandparents died, John couch-hopped until he graduated from high school.” Her eyes lifted to the screen. “At least that’s what his juvie file says. And aside from this, there isn’t much documented on him.”
“Juvie? He’s got a record?”
“Sealed, so I don’t have exactly what’s on it, but from the gist of what I’ve found, the guy roughed up his girlfriend a time or two. They chalked it up to teenage hormones. According to some notes, he’s got one younger brother, Jake, I think it was, who lives with him. Looks like John took care of him growin’ up. Notes show the brother’s got some mental issues.”
“You said he couch-hopped durin’ high school,” Brantley noted. “What’d he do with the brother?”
“Actually, there’s nothin’ I can find referrin’ to the brother. Maybe he lived with another family member? Says his mom had a brother.”
“Had? Where is he now?”
“Dead. Hit-and-run accident about two miles from the house he lived in. The house was left to John because there was no other family.” She peered back down, Reese assumed to read from something. “After high school, John got just enough college credit to get him into the police academy. Worked patrol in the same area he grew up until he made detective.”
“When did that happen?” Reese asked.
JJ’s light green eyes sparkled. “Three years ago.”
“And you said he’s forty-five?”
“Yep. But get this,” she said, her tone growing more excited. “I did some diggin’ in and around the area he patrolled, and during the time he was on the street, there were eight women who went missin’. Age and race vary drastically, like the women we’re lookin’ for now. Eight women over the course of thirteen years.”
“Probably spaced just enough not to connect the dots,” Brantley mumbled.
“Where has he lived since he became a detective?” Reese asked, seeing a strange pattern forming.
JJ tapped the keys, her eyes swinging to the top of the screen. “It says…” Her eyes widened as she looked back at them. “In the same neighborhood as Jody Henderson.”
“Not a coincidence,” Brantley stated.
“And during the time he’s been a detective? How many women have gone missin’ in his area?” Reese asked.
“Eight.”
“Holy fuck,” Brantley breathed. “He’s poachin’ women in the neighborhood where he lives and works.”
Yes, it certainly looked that way to Reese.
Chapter Fifteen
“I want more on the brother,” Brantley demanded, processing all