bristled. It wouldn’t be long before the news was widespread that there was a serial killer in Delaware.
“No comment,” she snapped at the reporters. Then she added, “If you keep following us I’ll arrest you for interfering with an investigation. It’s called obstruction of justice.”
The reporters backed away. Riley and Bill disentangled themselves from the small crowd and continued on their way. Riley knew they wouldn’t have a lot of time on this case before other, more aggressive reporters arrived on the scene. They were likely to have a lot of media attention to deal with.
It was a short walk to Dennis Vaughn’s house. After just three blocks, they got to Brattleboro and turned left.
Vaughn’s house was a dilapidated little ruin with a heavily dented tin roof, peeling white paint, and a sagging front porch. The lawn was knee-deep with grass and weeds, and an old, decrepit-looking Plymouth Valiant was parked in the driveway. The vehicle was certainly large enough for the transportation of emaciated corpses.
Bill and Riley walked up onto the porch and knocked on the screen door.
“Whaddya want?” called a voice from inside.
“Are we speaking to Dennis Vaughn?” Bill answered.
“Yeah, maybe. Why?”
Riley said, “We’re with the FBI. We want to talk to you.”
The front door opened. Dennis Vaughn stood behind the screen door, which was still hooked shut. He was an unsavory-looking young man, overweight, with a shaggy beard. Excessive body hair showed under his torn, food-stained undershirt.
“What’s this all about?” Vaughn asked in a petulant, quavering voice. “Are you here to arrest me or what?”
“We’ve just got some questions,” Riley said, showing her badge. “Could we come inside?”
“Why should I let you in?” Vaughn asked.
“Why shouldn’t you let us in?” Riley asked. “You don’t have anything to hide, do you?”
“We could come back with a warrant,” Bill added.
Vaughn shook his head and growled. He unhooked the screen door and Bill and Riley stepped inside.
The house was even more of a wreck inside. The wallpaper was peeling, and there were broken gaps in the floorboards. There was hardly any furniture – just a couple of battered straight-back chairs and a couch with its stuffing hanging out. Plates and bowls were scattered everywhere, some of them filled with moldy food. Disagreeable smells filled the air.
What caught Riley’s eye were dozens of photographs randomly thumbtacked to the walls. All of them were of women and girls in casual, unsuspecting poses.
Vaughn noticed Riley’s interest in the pictures.
“It’s my hobby,” he said. “Is there anything wrong with that?”
Riley didn’t reply, and Bill said nothing. Riley doubted there was anything illegal about the pictures themselves. It looked as if they’d all been taken outdoors in public places in broad daylight, and none were actually indecent. Even so, the very act of snapping pictures of girls and women without their knowledge or consent struck Riley as deeply creepy.
Vaughn sat down on a wooden chair that creaked under his weight.
“You’re here to accuse me of something,” he said. “So why don’t you get on with it?”
Riley sat down on another rickety chair facing him. Bill stood beside her.
“What do you think we’re here to accuse of you of?” she asked.
It was an interview technique that had worked well for her in the past. Sometimes it was best not to start with direct questions about a case. Sometimes it was better to get a potential suspect talking until he tripped himself up with his own words.
Vaughn shrugged.
“One thing or another,” he said. “It’s always something. Everybody always misunderstands.”
“Misunderstands what?” Riley asked, still trying to coax him along.
“I like girls, okay?” he said. “What guy my age doesn’t? Why do people think everything I do is wrong just because I do it?”
He glanced around at some of the pictures, as if he hoped they’d say something to defend him. Riley just waited for him to keep talking. She hoped that Bill would do the same, but her partner’s impatience was tense and palpable.
“I try to be friendly with girls,” he said. “Can I help it if they don’t understand?”
His voice was slow, even a bit sluggish. Riley felt pretty sure he wasn’t drunk or drugged. Perhaps he was a bit mentally slow or had some neurological problem.
“Why do you think people treat you differently?” Riley said, trying to sound almost sympathetic.
“How should I know?” Vaughn said, shrugging again.
Then in an almost inaudible sullen voice he added …
“One of these days.”
“‘One of these days’ what?” Riley asked.
Vaughn shrugged yet again. “Nothing. I don’t mean anything. But one of these days. That’s all I’m saying.”
Riley felt encouraged that his talk was becoming nonsensical. That often happened before a suspect really betrayed himself.
But before Vaughn could say anything else, Bill stepped toward him menacingly.
“What do you know about the murders of Metta Lunoe and Valerie Bruner?”
“I never heard of them,” Vaughn said.
Bill bent uncomfortably close to him and peered into his eyes. Riley was worried now. She wanted to tell Bill to knock it off. But interfering might make things worse.
“What about Meara Keagan?” Bill asked.
“Never heard of her either.”
Bill was talking more loudly now.
“Where were you last Thursday night?”
“I don’t know.”
“You mean you weren’t at home?”
Vaughn was sweating nervously. His eyes were wide with alarm.
“Maybe I wasn’t. I don’t keep track. I go out sometimes.”
“Where do you go?”
“I go driving around. I like to get out of town. I hate this town. I wish I could live someplace else.”
Bill spat his next question in Vaughn’s face.
“And where were you driving around last Thursday?”
“I
