The Missing Page 0,49

addicts.

‘This is a picture of John Smith taken from his Colorado license,’ Evan said. ‘Neighbors said the back bumper of Smith’s Porsche had been dented from a recent accident. They also filled us in on some other details. Smith went out a lot at night, was somewhat antisocial. Nobody knew what he did for a living, and nobody had been inside his house. Several neighbors recalled spotting the same crude tattoo on his forearm – a shamrock with the numbers six-six-six.’

‘The tattoos used by members of the Aryan Brotherhood,’ Darby said.

Evan nodded. ‘The ethnic backgrounds of the Denver women suggested a tie to the Aryan Brotherhood. Naturally, Brotherhood members claimed they didn’t know Mr Smith. The name isn’t listed on any of our computers. We don’t even know if John Smith is Traveler’s real name.’

‘The blood sample you found,’ Darby said. ‘Did you find a match in CODIS?’

‘We did. It belonged to one of the missing Denver women,’ Evan said. ‘After Denver, Smith set up shop in Las Vegas. This was toward the end of ninety-three. Here he changed his selection process. Over the next eight months, twelve women and three men vanished. The Vegas police didn’t pay much attention to the cases, since people disappear from Vegas all the time. People go there down on their luck to indulge whatever vices they have; everyone comes and goes.’

‘What were the ethnic backgrounds of the victims?’

‘The women were mostly white,’ Evan said. ‘The men were Jewish. One of the female victims, her car was left on the road. Someone messed with the ignition wires. Fortunately, a piece of evidence had been left behind – the Ryzer boot print.

‘By the time I got involved, Mr Smith had already moved on to Atlanta, his third stop. This was in ninety-four, and we had given his case a name: Traveler. The boot print was listed on VICAP and we were called in.’

Evan shifted in his chair, springs squeaking. ‘Carrie Weathers, Traveler’s fourth victim in Atlanta, was spotted getting inside a black Porsche Carrera. The witness said the car had a busted fender and Maryland license plates, but she didn’t get a good look at the numbers. It was the first real break we had, so we asked local gas stations and garages to be on the lookout for a black Porsche with a dented fender coming in for fill-ups, repairs, whatever.

‘We were in the process of running down registrations when a call came in at night from a gas station attendant working at a local Mobil station. A Porsche matching our description had just come in. A blond woman was in the passenger’s seat. She was sleeping. She had too much to drink, the driver had said. I asked the attendant to secure the pump. I went to the station along with someone from the lab.

‘The gas station attendant was very relaxed, very cooperative,’ Evan said. His voice sounded oddly detached, as though he were reading from a script. ‘He said he wrote the license plate down on his pad next to his phone. I followed him through the garage. When I entered his office, he was standing behind me. He hit me on the back of the head. That was the last thing I remembered.

‘When I woke up at the hospital, I was told he used the gas from the pumps to set the fire. At some point, I managed to crawl away, but I don’t remember it because of the concussion. They identified the lab tech and the real owner of the gas station through dental records. They had both been shot with a Colt Commander.’

‘The same weapon used to kill Carol Cranmore’s boyfriend,’ Darby said. She had the ballistics report in her folder. ‘You didn’t recognize the gas station attendant?’

‘This man was heavier, clean-cut with a shaved head,’ Evan said. ‘He looked nothing like John Smith. He was wearing a jacket, so I didn’t see any tattoos. And he didn’t fit the profile. He didn’t ask many questions about the investigation, which psychopaths generally do. Obviously, I was wrong.’

‘Had he attacked a police officer before?’ Darby asked.

‘Not to my knowledge. But if John Smith is a member of the Aryan Brotherhood or some other white supremacist group, killing a police officer or any member of law enforcement means you move up through the ranks. It’s a badge of honor.’

‘Still, it’s odd that he would target you – and set up a trap,’ Darby said.

‘It’s what psychopaths do when they’re cornered. Or