Page 21

Rachel slumped into the hard plastic chair at the borrowed desk, the list of hotline volunteers feeling heavier in her hand than it should. There was only a square of purplish darkness through the window to her right, a reminder of how many hours they'd spent here today, poring over files and databases instead of being out in the field. Her back ached from sitting too long, and her thoughts felt as stale as the air in the precinct.

But she had to remind herself that the constant return to this precinct—to the case files and the database—had led to where they were now. And she felt like they were closer than ever to finding all the right answers to this case. But at the same time, she was just so tired of sitting down.

"I'm going to grab us some coffee," she told Novak, who was already logging into the computer system. "Want anything from the break room?"

"Thanks," he said without looking up, his fingers moving with practiced efficiency across the keyboard. "Black is fine."

Rachel stood, stretching muscles that had grown stiff from too much desk work. The break room was little more than a closet with a coffee maker and a few aluminum chairs, but it was mercifully empty when she entered. The coffee pot was nearly full, though judging by the burnt smell, it had been sitting on the warmer for hours. She poured two cups anyway, knowing they needed the caffeine more than they needed it to taste good. A box of donuts sat open on the counter, probably left over from the morning shift. She grabbed two of the least stale-looking ones, chocolate glazed for her and plain for Novak. She was pretty sure that’s how he preferred it; it was yet another of those things about her new partner she’d not yet figured out.

As she carefully carried the coffee cups and napkin-wrapped donuts back to their workspace,

Novak looked up from the screen, accepting the coffee with a grateful nod. She sat back down, sipping the bitter coffee, and spread the list of volunteers across the desk, brushing donut crumbs away from the paper. She scanned the names Mitchell had printed out: fifteen people who had volunteered to spend their free time talking to strangers on the edge.

As Novak began running the first names through the database, Rachel noticed how the paper had become slightly creased from her grip. She forced herself to relax her hands, remembering Dr. Tharpe's office and the careful way she'd guarded her patients' privacy. These volunteers were probably just as dedicated to helping people – but one of them might be using that trust for something far darker.

"Hey, I might have something on this guy, Marcus Phillips," Novak said, breaking into her thoughts. "Looks like he was picked up for stealing prescription pads from a doctor's office about five years ago. Charges were dropped when he agreed to enter rehab." He scrolled through more records. "Clean since then. Works as an accountant now."

Rachel made a note but didn't feel much excitement about it. They'd been down too many dead ends today.

“And…well, damn,” Novak said moments later, leaning closer to the screen. “This is interesting. This lady, Mrs. Turner Bennett…she used to work as a nurse but lost her license after being caught forging prescriptions for patients. Seems like we've got a pattern of prescription drug issues with these volunteers."

"Makes sense," Rachel said, absently brushing more donut crumbs from her lap. "Sometimes the best counselors are the ones who've been through their own struggles. Wanting to use the lessons they’ve learned to try to prevent others from making the same mistakes." She stood up and paced a few steps, trying to work out the stiffness in her legs. The precinct was quieter now, most of the day shift having headed home. Their footsteps echoed off the linoleum floors and concrete walls.

The overhead fluorescent lights flickered slightly, casting strange shadows across the nearly empty bullpen. Rachel could hear the distant sound of a phone ringing somewhere in the building, the muffled voice of someone answering it. The clock on the wall seemed to move impossibly slowly.

Novak continued working through the list, the glow of the computer screen reflecting off his face. "Robert Nash has a completely clean record. Karen Murphy had a DUI about eight years ago. Jai Chen... nothing except a speeding ticket from last year. Sarah Whitmore..."

Rachel watched as he trailed off, his eyes narrowing at the screen. "What is it?"

"Two speeding tickets," he said. "But there's something odd about them. Both were issued at the same location, almost exactly a year apart. Both around three in the morning."

"Where?"

"Highway 64. The location is listed simply as ‘near Patterson Bridge’."

Rachel felt a slight tingle at the back of her neck but forced herself to stay objective. She took another sip of the now-cold coffee, grimacing at the taste. "Let’s flag it for a potential follow-up,” she said. “I’d like to get through the entire list before we take off running after shadows.”

"Got it," Novak said, making a note. He continued scrolling through records, the clicking of the keyboard mixing with the ambient sounds of the precinct. The coffee cups sat empty now, ring stains marking the desk where they'd been moved multiple times during their search.

Suddenly, Novak sat up straighter, his posture changing noticeably. "Thomas Eaves. This is different."

Rachel moved to look over his shoulder at the screen, the forgotten remains of her donut still wrapped in a napkin on the desk. She began to read, and within seconds, she was pretty sure Novak had unearthed a bit of gold.

Thomas Eaves had three arrests for possession of illegal firearms – modified hunting rifles, according to the reports. No convictions, but each arrest included detailed notes about his uncooperative behavior with law enforcement. The most recent arrest report noted that Eaves had become increasingly hostile toward authority figures, particularly after his wife's death nearly four years ago. Having read over it all, Rachel looked up, hoping to see Leery. But he was nowhere to be found.

Instead, she spotted a single female police officer walking through the bullpen toward the back of the building—likely to the breakroom. The lapel on her left breast read Jenkins.

"Officer Jenkins?" Rachel called out. The woman paused, coffee cup in hand, steam rising from what was clearly a fresh brew from somewhere better than the break room. "Do you have a minute?"

“Yeah, sure,” she said, doing her best to hide her curiosity and excitement as she approached their desk. She was younger than Rachel had initially thought, probably not more than a few years out of the academy, but there was a sharp intelligence in her face. Rachel hoped her hunch was right and that most of the officers working in Bowery knew the community well.

"What can I help you with?"

"We're looking into someone named Thomas Eaves," Rachel said, watching the officer's reaction carefully. "Does that name mean anything to you?"

Jenkins's eyebrows rose slightly, her free hand unconsciously moving to rest on her utility belt. "Old Tom? Yeah, everybody around here knows about him. Been here his whole life." She took a sip of her coffee, then added, "He’s sort of like a bit of folklore around here. Became a hermit after his wife passed away. He’s supposedly an avid hunter. Maybe too avid, if you know what I mean. Games and Wildlife's had their eye on him for years, but they've never been able to prove he's hunting out of season."

"Does the precinct tend to keep an eye on him?" Novak asked, turning away from the computer screen to give Jenkins his full attention.

Jenkins leaned against the desk, settling in. “Nah. Like I said, he’s what you'd call a shut-in these days. Lives way out in the woods, only comes to town for supplies. Used to be different, back when Marion was alive." She paused, glancing between Rachel and Novak. "That was his wife."

"What happened to her?" Rachel asked. But even as she asked, she thought she already knew. And if she was right…it could be huge.

"Killed herself," Jenkins said, lowering her voice and glancing around as if sharing a secret. "Three or four years ago now. Found her in their bathtub. Tom's the one who found her – he'd been out hunting all day. Hasn't been the same since." She took another sip of coffee, then seemed to remember something. "Come to think of it... his place isn't far from where Carla was found.” Her eyes narrowed as she seemed to understand the implications behind what she’d just shared. Couple miles at most."

Rachel watched the realization spread across Jenkins's face, but the officer quickly shook her head, her ponytail swaying with the movement. "But it couldn't be Tom. I mean, sure, he's odd, but kidnapping women? He barely talks to anyone these days. He rarely comes into town. Keeps to himself."

"Any idea why he'd volunteer at the suicide hotline?" Novak asked,.

Jenkins shrugged, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "I guess it makes sense, in a way. After Marion... well, maybe he's trying to prevent others from going through what he did." She straightened up, suddenly looking uncomfortable. "But listen, I've known Tom since I was a kid. He used to give hunting safety lectures at the high school. He's... he's just a grieving widower."

Rachel exchanged a look with Novak. They both recognized the protective instinct of a small town toward one of its own. But they also both knew that grieving widowers sometimes turned their pain outward in devastating ways. The fact that he was isolated away from the rest of the town only made it all the more suspicious.

"You said he lives in the woods," Rachel said. "Would you happen to have an address?"

Jenkins hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly around her coffee cup. Finally, she nodded toward their computer. "Should be in the system. But I'm telling you, you're barking up the wrong tree with Tom Eaves."

After Jenkins walked away, Rachel and Novak sat in silence for a moment, processing everything they'd learned. Despite Jenkins’ insisting Eaves was not their man, Rachel felt that they'd finally found something solid – the suicide connection through his wife, the isolation, the proximity to where Carla's body was found. It all fit too well to ignore.

"What do you think?" Novak asked quietly.

Rachel stood up, gathering her jacket from the back of her chair. "I think Jenkins might be right about Eaves being changed by his wife's death – just not in the way she thinks. We need to at least look into it."

Novak nodded and began shutting down the computer. "The voluntary isolation would give him privacy. The hunting experience would explain how he managed to transport Carla's body without leaving obvious traces. And working the hotline..."

"Would give him access to vulnerable women," Rachel finished. "Plus, three illegal weapons charges show he's not as harmless as Jenkins wants to believe." She checked her watch and saw that it wasn’t quite eight yet. Still early enough to pay Thomas Eaves a visit. "Ready to take a drive?"

As they headed for the door, Rachel felt some of her earlier frustration falling away. Sometimes the paper trail and database searches were necessary – they led you to the right doors. Now it was time to start knocking.