The Girls in the Snow (Nikki Hunt #1) - Stacy Green Page 0,80
up and her dad had been kneeling, at that close range, his pants would have been hit with blood spatter at the very least.
Nikki studied the photographs of Mark’s clothes. There appeared to be a couple of small blood spots on his hip, but they could have been from contact with Nikki’s mother.
Budget and inexperience meant that no blood spatter analysis had been done, but a damning report in 2009 completely changed the science of blood spatter, so any analysis likely would have been rejected if Mark received a new trial.
Nikki looked at the pictures of Mark Todd for a long time. Blood smeared the Led Zeppelin logo on his T-shirt, his jeans appeared mostly clean, as did the top of his shoes. Nikki wasn’t a blood spatter specialist, but the white Nikes that Mark wore when he stepped in her mother’s blood and made tracks should have some sort of spray on the top, even if just a droplet, from shooting her father. If the deputy had been right about the angle, Nikki had a hard time believing those Nikes would be clean.
Photocopies of Hardin’s original notes, mostly witness interviews and tips, were clipped together. Nikki flipped through the pages, recognizing familiar names, including Bobby’s father, Robert. He and two other friends verified John’s account of the night, but where were the others? There had been at least a dozen people at the party before Nikki had gone into the bedroom. Even if they’d left by the time Mark tried to attack her, Hardin should have made sure every person had been interviewed.
Hardin’s interview with Nadine Johnson, the neighbor who’d allowed Nikki inside and called the police, was more detailed than the partygoers’. Relief washed over Nikki when she realized that Nadine’s statement matched her own memories, but it quickly evaporated when she read the final sentences.
Nadine had heard a loud engine roaring down the gravel road around 2:00 a.m. She’d still been awake when Nikki came pounding on the door thirty minutes later. Nadine told Hardin the engine reminded her of the muscle cars that used to race on the dirt tracks.
A vehicle racing down the gravel road that time of night wasn’t uncommon, especially on the weekends. But a muscle car speeding past in the same timeframe as her parents’ murder was something entirely different.
Mark Todd drove a beat-up station wagon.
John’s restored 1968 Shelby Mustang’s engine had been so loud that whenever Nikki snuck out, she had to walk all the way down her parents’ long driveway to meet John. He’d park on the side of the gravel road, and Nikki always heard the car’s idle before she was halfway down the drive.
Everything seemed to lead back to John Banks.
Had Hardin brushed the information off because it didn’t bolster his case against Mark?
Nikki gathered every piece of evidence, carefully putting it in order. She corked the wine and rinsed her glass. The hotel suite was chilly, so she turned up the thermostat.
Her parents had argued over the heat every winter.
Tears welled in her eyes. She unzipped her suitcase and pulled out the manila envelope she’d taken from her nightstand drawer the previous night. The envelope contained their last family photo, taken the summer before the murders.
Her throat constricted. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d looked at their pictures. Her father had been tall and lean, his hands perpetually calloused from working on the farm. He’d worn his farmer’s tan with pride, and his hair never quite behaved. He’d slicked it back for the picture. Her mother hated it.
Nikki looked more like her mother than she’d realized. Same dark, wavy hair, porcelain skin and strong cheekbones. Her mother never showed her teeth when she smiled because she’d been embarrassed by their crookedness. She’d taken a second job waiting tables to help pay for Nikki’s braces. Had Nikki ever thanked her for that?
Fat tears rolled down her cheeks and splashed onto the picture. She carefully wiped off the moisture and put it back into the envelope.
Nikki didn’t know if Mark had killed her parents anymore. But she couldn’t stop running from the idea. If Mark was really innocent, then everything that Nikki knew was a lie. Even worse, his innocence meant the real killer was still out there.
Nikki scrolled through her contacts. Civilians had to make their appointments during normal hours, but she hoped the number she’d found had a human being monitoring it.
A tired male voice answered the phone. “Minnesota Correctional Facility.”