Page 37
CHAPTER 35
CINDY SAT IN an extruded plastic chair in Detective Sergeant Steven Wilson’s office in the police station in Verne, Nevada. It had been too short notice for Lindsay to join, but Cindy promised to alert her if she found out anything useful. She had her laptop up and running, coffee in a paper cup, and her cell phone on the desk between them.
“No, you can’t record this,” said the good-looking, fortysomething, sun-weathered detective sitting across the desk from her. “Turn it off, Ms. Thomas.”
She turned off the recorder on her phone and put the phone in her bag.
“You don’t trust me,” she said.
“I’m a cop. And I don’t want this interview to kill my job. Do not mention my name when you write this up. Deal?”
“It’s off the record,” she said. “I forgot your name.” It was hilarious. Half her working life was “off the record.”
“You want to frisk me for a wire, Detective Wilson?” she asked, cocking her head, smiling, showing him she was joking.
“Gladly,” he said. “Stand up and put your hands on the wall.”
She laughed and so did he. “I’m reaching for my handbag,” she said. “But I’m not armed.” She pulled out her book on serial killer Evan Burke and put it on the desk. “How do you want me to sign it?”
“You have to ask? ‘Dearest Steve, Love and kisses. Thanks for the good time. Always, Cindy.’”
She signed it, “To Steve, With thanks and best wishes, Cindy Thomas,” and slid it over to him. He read it, grinned at her, and said, “Okay. Thank you. Now. You understand, I’m willing to kick this around with you because you asked nice and your husband is a cop. But everything I tell you is in the public record. Which you will find out shortly.”
“Fine,” she said. Even if he was telling her stuff she already knew, as long as he kept talking, Wilson might slip in a detail no one else had. “So, Detective Wilson, tell me about Herman and Sadie Witt.”
Wilson pushed his chair back and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Okay. Here’s what I know. Sadie’s father, Herman, was a bookkeeper at an H&R Block in Reno. Sadie’s mother, Anabelle, died when Sadie was twelve. Car crash, or so it says on her death certificate. More bad news for Sadie—Herman was abusive. Her dad was arrested, fined, and released twice while she was in high school. The third time, he punched his daughter in the face, and she nearly lost an eye because he was wearing a big gold ring with a stone. Tiger’s eye, if you like that kind of detail. More importantly, the ER doc said Sadie coulda died from loss of blood.”
Cindy was taking notes, wishing she could use her voice recorder, but you don’t always get what you want. Wilson slugged down his coffee and tossed the empty cup toward his trash can. Then he went on.
He said, “After that last attack, Herman was remanded to the court and sent to lockup pending trial. Sadie threatened a lawsuit of about a hundred grand against Herman, but her father—looking at minimum six years in prison, more if she got a sympathetic jury—went ahead and transferred ownership of the family home to Sadie as compensation.”
Cindy said, “But.” It was a prompt for Wilson to keep talking.
Wilson said, “So Sadie is missing. Herman is in jail when a neighbor goes looking for Sadie and finds her murdered in her bed. Our ME says she was stabbed with an eight-inch blade a dozen times in the chest. Sadie was small. She had no chance against her killer, who might as well be a ghost. We have nothing on him.”
Cindy asked how far they’d gotten in the Sadie Witt investigation.
“We’re at square effing one,” said Wilson. “No evidence. No witnesses. No nothing.”
Cindy said, “So. You’ve left no stone unturned?”
“Right. We’ve broken our picks on stones. But we’re not giving up.” Wilson smiled. “You doubt me?”
“Of course not,” she said, while thinking, Of course I do. People lie to me all the time. She said, “I have a question, though. Could Herman Witt have hired a hitter?”
“Maybe, but nothing points to a hired gun. No suspicious withdrawals from his bank account. We checked out his phone and internet history. I tracked down his calls and mail both incoming and outgoing from before he was locked up. Herman had no friends of the confidential sort. Well, his anger disorder discouraged friendship. And we got no tips worth a damn.”
Cindy said. “What about that note in Sadie’s pocket?”
Wilson said, “Right. I wasn’t thinking about that. ‘I said. You dead.’ It made no sense then or now.”
“Those same words were left near the bodies of two recent homicides in San Francisco.”
“No kidding,” said Wilson. “Sounds like you’ve got a copycat. Maybe your killer read about Sadie Witt.”
“That’s possible,” Cindy said. “Anything else you want to tell me off the record?”
He laughed. “Off the record, if your husband nails this killer, call me first.”
Cindy said, “Of course.” She held up crossed fingers, gave him her card, and caught the afternoon flight back to SFO.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37 (Reading here)
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 43
- Page 44
- Page 45
- Page 46
- Page 47
- Page 48
- Page 49
- Page 50
- Page 51
- Page 52
- Page 53
- Page 54
- Page 55
- Page 56
- Page 57
- Page 58
- Page 59
- Page 60
- Page 61
- Page 62
- Page 63
- Page 64
- Page 65
- Page 66
- Page 67
- Page 68
- Page 69
- Page 70
- Page 71
- Page 72
- Page 73
- Page 74
- Page 75
- Page 76
- Page 77
- Page 78
- Page 79
- Page 80
- Page 81
- Page 82
- Page 83
- Page 84
- Page 85
- Page 86
- Page 87
- Page 88
- Page 89
- Page 90
- Page 91
- Page 92
- Page 93
- Page 94
- Page 95
- Page 96
- Page 97
- Page 98
- Page 99
- Page 100
- Page 101
- Page 102
- Page 103
- Page 104
- Page 105
- Page 106
- Page 107
- Page 108
- Page 109
- Page 110
- Page 111
- Page 112
- Page 113