Last Girls Alive (Detective Katie Scott #4) - Jennifer Chase Page 0,44

with ink. Each photo was taken from a different distance. The close-up one he magnified on the screen. “You can see that there are varying levels of depth—but the writing style is consistent with both victims. You can see the tail on the gs and es. This was done freehand and it’s quite competent, but it still leaves little craters here and there, based on pressure and hesitation. It would be impossible to keep the pressure exactly the same, free-handed. I would have to say it was written by the same person.”

Katie leaned in and studied the photos. It was amazing to see details through twenty-four to fifty magnification. Each stroke resembled a peak or valley with a streaked dark substance running through it. It made her think of the crime-scene locations with the trails and views of stunning landscapes. “It’s difficult to imagine anything else making that cut. Would a thick knife or ice pick give that same result?”

“That I cannot give a conclusion on and there’s no way of testing for accuracy.”

“Dr. Dean said that the Harlan victim was written on post mortem.”

“Now we’re getting into more of the psychological aspect of the evidence—and that, detective, is your territory.”

Smiling, she said, “Well, it never hurts to ask, does it?”

“Oh, by the way.” John interrupted her many contemplations.

“Am I forgetting something?” she said.

“An interesting tidbit.”

“From the killer?” she said, hoping that was the case.

“The letters were all written in a standard style of calligraphy—a bit crude but a good effort—like when someone buys a beginner calligraphy set.”

Twenty-Four

Thursday 1925 hours

Rain tapped on the roof of the car, keeping a distinct tempo as Katie sat waiting for McGaven to arrive before going into The Well to talk with Hugh Keller, ex-deputy sheriff, who was now a managing bartender at the dive bar. She wondered when he had last had contact with Shelly McDonald.

Katie’s nerves buzzed with a strange energy. She glanced at her watch again, willing it to tell her something else: McGaven was running late. He had to attend a patrol meeting since he was still active on patrol one to two shifts a week.

Katie took the opportunity to read back through the police reports for Elm Hill Mansion. Deputies from the sheriff’s department were dispatched seventeen times in a six-month period. From the reports, it was mostly screaming arguments with some pushing and shoving, but nothing that led to any arrests. Most of the problems stemmed from Mrs. McDonald and Candace. Sometimes it involved Heather Lawson or Terry Slaughter. Some of the statements were worrisome, with accusations of sexual assault, excessive discipline, and outside people being brought in for sexual favors. Shockingly, no one was arrested or prosecuted for any of the alleged abuse.

You don’t understand, Detective. If I would have left, then one of the other girls would have to take my place for the discipline.

…Just like it was Candace’s place to protect us from…

The conversation with Tanis had left Katie drained mentally and physically. There was something about the young woman that stirred every emotion inside her. Maybe it brought up memories of losing her childhood friend at camp when she twelve. Her instincts told her that Tanis had told the truth as she experienced it—the genuineness of her recollections was undeniable.

Katie didn’t want to think about the abuse and violence that was rife at Elm Hill Mansion. McGaven had forwarded her the official report from the county, detailing the reason to close the foster house was that the house was too unstable and posed a safety risk due to its age and there wasn’t enough money to fix everything. The allegations of abuse had been investigated, but didn’t reveal anything substantial. It was left open.

Her cell phone alerted to a text from Chad: Hey, haven’t heard from you. Love you.

She stared at the words and smiled. She had forgotten to call him earlier when she was rushing around at her house and feeding Cisco, but he would have to wait a little longer.

As Katie flipped through reports and background pages, she could see why no one wanted to live at Elm Hill or remodel it, until some investors saw the potential—caring more about the location and land than the history. She had to admit it was one of the most beautiful settings in the area.

She looked across the parking lot. There were four more cars than fifteen minutes ago. It seemed that Thursday nights were pretty busy here, but Katie thought that some of the patrons