wishing for Kane’s death wasn’t going to find him. And it wasn’t going to save Dixie. “Well, deciding whether Kane lives or dies isn’t up to us. All we can do is help find him. Can you think of anyone at all that seemed friendly with Kane?”
Duane’s forehead furrowed and he heaved a sigh as if settling deeply into thought.
Footsteps echoed through the corridor, growing louder, nearer. The barred door slid open and Trent strode through, carrying a cardboard box. Detective Wiley and the two uniformed officers who’d been outside Kane’s cell followed.
She took one look at the determined line of Trent’s lips and pushed herself away from the wall, standing solidly on her feet. “Did you find anything more?”
“Not much.” Trent paused only to sign out at the entrance desk. When he was finished, he turned a probing gaze on her. “How are you holding up?”
The question and his tone showed nothing but concern for her, but she couldn’t help feeling the heavy thump of frustration hit her in the chest once again. Frustration with herself. “I’m fine.”
Trent retrieved his gun and headed for the exit. “Good. Because we’re on our way to the police station.”
She followed him to the door, giving Duane a parting glance.
Forehead still furrowed, the guard shot her a shy grin. “I’ll think on your question, Professor. And if I come up with anybody who might have helped Kane, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks, Duane.” It was a long shot, but maybe Duane could tell her something useful. She hoped her trip to the prison hadn’t been a total waste. Giving the guard a parting nod, she followed Trent’s broad shoulders out into the night.
TRENT RAKED a hand through his hair and glanced at Rees. She sat slumped in a chair in the area adjacent to the tiny Grantsville police station’s conference room, her eyes riveted on the polished tile floor in front of her. Her complexion was still ghostly, but at least she’d regained a little color since she’d seen the mutilated photo of her sister.
Or maybe it was just the lighting.
Another needle of guilt pricked his conscience. He’d had to let Rees examine the evidence in Kane’s cell, but that didn’t make him feel better about the horror she’d had to endure.
He glanced over his shoulder and into the conference room. Several file boxes sat on the long table. File boxes filled with the crime-scene photos and case reports that had put Kane behind bars the first time. At least Trent didn’t have to wrestle with letting Rees see these testaments of Kane’s evil. There was nothing she could tell him about these case files that he didn’t already carry deep in the shadows of his soul.
He drew himself up. He had to get his mind off Rees. He had work to do and only two hours before he was scheduled to meet with the emergency task force assembled to find Kane. Two hours to come up with ideas on where Kane had gone and proactive strategies for luring him into the open.
He stepped into the conference room and pulled the door shut with a thunk. Turning, he faced Wiley.
The detective glanced at the closed door and arched a blond brow but refrained from comment. Good choice. If he had let one negative comment about Rees cross his lips, Trent probably would have had to throttle him.
The door opened behind him and a slightly built, dark-haired man slipped inside. He nodded to Trent, his eyes lighting up like a puppy who’d been reunited with his owner after a long absence. He thrust an eager hand forward. “Rook, sir. I’m Grantsville’s Chief of Police. It’s an honor to finally meet you.”
Trent shook Rook’s hand. The varied responses he received from local law enforcement personnel never ceased to surprise him. Most of the time his presence was met with skepticism or even downright contempt. But then there were some who saw federal agents in a much more glamorous light. Obviously Rook was among the latter group. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Chief.”
He ducked his head to the side, as if the title embarrassed him. “Please, call me Rook. Or John. My department has only three full-time officers, including me.”
“It’s about time you got here, Rook,” Wiley growled. “Quit pumping Burnell’s hand like some damn bootlicker and sit down. We have work to do.”
Rook meekly did as Wiley ordered. Apparently the young, small-town chief was intimidated by county law enforcement.
Once they were all seated, Wiley zeroed in on Trent, waving a hand at the boxes of old files. “I looked for your profile of Kane, but I couldn’t find it.”
Trent stepped to the table. “There is no written profile.”
“Why not?”
“We don’t want a comprehensive written report leaked to the press. There are too many factors that could be misconstrued, sensationalized. Besides, we want to be able to release only select details. Details that will make the serial offender nervous. Make him take unnecessary risks. Or force him into the open. If reporters get their hands on a written report that contains the entire profile, we lose that ability.”
“Reporters. We set up a media office in Platteville. Hopefully we can keep the bloodsuckers off our backs.” Wiley shuffled through one of the boxes. “So do you need to make up a whole new profile? Won’t that take too long?”
He didn’t have to do too much to reconstruct his original profile. He saw the faces of Kane’s victims in his nightmares every night. And a day didn’t go by that he didn’t think of them and the families they’d left behind. Think of them and curse the fear, the pain, the crippling grief Kane had caused.
Trent picked up the stack of photographs he’d glanced through in Kane’s cell. “I’ll sort through the things we found in his cell and take a look at the files. I’ll be ready by the time the task force gets here.”
He focused on the photographs in his hands. The wedding shot of Kane and Dixie. The seductive snapshots of Farrentina Hamilton. The uneasy tension he’d experienced in the cell descended on his shoulders again. Something was definitely wrong with these pictures.
He set the photos back on the table and reached for the closest box of old case files. He plucked a file from the box, flipped open the manila folder and leafed through the contents. His fingers closed over a stack of crime-scene photos. One of the coeds Kane murdered stared back at him with unseeing blue eyes. Ashley Dalton. A twenty-year-old with two younger sisters and an interest in biochemistry. Her mutilated, naked body glowed white in the photographer’s flash. Her long, blond hair tangled around her face.
He snapped the folder shut and reached for another, the haunting details of Kane’s crimes rushing back to him. Rushing back to him, hell. They had never left. They were as much a part of him as his pounding heart, his straining lungs, his racing mind.
The woman in the second file was Dawn Bertram, a grad student studying psychology. A beautiful girl, Dawn had green eyes, not blue. But long, blond hair framed her lifeless face.
That was it.
That was what bothered him about the photos of Farrentina Hamilton. Her hair. Her brunette hair.
Kane preferred blondes.
Wiley leaned toward him from across the table.
