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Saylorsburg, Pennsylvania

T hat little prick! He was in my house all the damn time!”

When Mark Baylis sees Kohberger’s image on the TV, he swears.

Suddenly it all makes sense.

If the guy is capable of murder, he’s certainly capable of burglary.

Baylis remembers Kohberger as clear as day, always lurking behind his son and nephew, never saying hello, staring into space.

He hadn’t connected the dots at the time. But now he’s sure of it.

Baylis dials the local state troopers and asks them to reactivate the investigation into the series of break-ins he experienced all those years ago.

He hadn’t been able to figure out who was stealing items from him piecemeal, maybe up to twenty-five times, taking thirty thousand dollars’ worth of rare coins, jewelry, and knives from his house out in the woods.

The worst of it was that, at the time, he’d worried it was some of the homeless veterans his charity aimed to help. That was a shitty feeling.

He’d known it had to be somebody who knew his property well, who could get close enough to watch the house and track his movements. Someone who had the time to sit out in the woods, crumpling up the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup wrappings, dropping them on his land.

He just hadn’t bothered to think about his son Jack’s friends.

Until now.

This Kohberger guy was always around. Until he got into heroin. And then Jack had dropped him for a bit.

So Mark asks the cops if this time they could do their job, because he knows who was stealing from him.

But it turns out, it doesn’t matter.

The case is no longer in their system. It’s too old.

“We can’t do anything,” they tell him.

Mark’s too busy to press further.

Looks like the little prick is going to get his comeuppance anyway.