“I’m taking any lead I can get now.”
“I’ll have my secretary call.”
“Is Mark the kind of guy who would stab his wife?” Spencer asked.
“Hell no. He’s the last guy on the planet to hurt his family. He was very protective of them.”
Zoe checked her messages while Vaughan maneuvered through the evening commuter traffic, which was in full form. Instead of the beltway, Vaughan opted for the web of side streets that he knew better than most. They were blocks from the police station when his phone rang.
Vaughan veered past a slow car in the left lane and answered the call. “Detective Vaughan.”
His lips flattened into a grim line as he listened and continued to maneuver through traffic. He glanced toward the clock on the dash as he hung up. “They think they’ve found Hadley Foster in a motel dumpster.”
“Are they certain it’s Hadley?” Zoe asked.
“They aren’t sure. The victim is a white female who is of similar height and build to Hadley. There are also lacerations on her chest and arms, suggesting she was stabbed to death.”
“And Skylar?”
“No trace of her yet. The uniforms have started knocking on motel room doors all around the area.”
Zoe dropped her head against the headrest and closed her eyes for a moment before she straightened. “What’s the address of the motel?”
He rattled off the address while she plugged it into her phone. The motel was located on Bragg Street, near the Duke Street exit ramp.
They arrived fifteen minutes later and were greeted by six marked cars, including the captain’s car. Vaughan parked, and the two got out, quickly tugging on gloves as they rounded the building.
The 1950s motel was one level and painted a light blue. The parking lot had several potholes, and there were weeds growing up through the sidewalk. It had seen better days.
The lot was filled with at least a dozen cars, which, considering the motel’s sixty-seven-dollars-a-night price, was not surprising. In this area, there were few really cheap options for lodging.
“Galina Grant was found only a mile from here.” Vaughan checked his watch and frowned. “I missed her autopsy today.”
“You can’t be everywhere, Vaughan.”
“Tell that to Galina.”
“If we’re analyzing distance, this particular location is exactly 3.6 miles from the Foster residence and 1.2 miles from where we found the family’s car,” Zoe said.
“Foster could have stabbed his wife, dumped her, ditched the car, and run home by seven when he called 911, but it would have been tight.”
“There are also serial killers who operate within a specific geographical area. They kill or dump bodies in places that are close to home and work.”
“Maybe.”
Yellow tape surrounded the dumpster, and as they approached, she could see that the responding officer had marked off what appeared to be a trail of dark dried blood that stopped a few feet short of the dumpster.
“Who called it in?” Zoe asked the uniformed officer.
“The motel manager,” he said. “He was dumping trash and smelled the decomposition. He’s had trouble with a local restaurant dumping bad meat here illegally, so he poked around, trying to find packaging so he could figure out who’d done it this time. That’s when he saw the victim’s hand. He backed right off after that.”
The stench of death rose out of the dumpster. “In this heat and humidity, it’s surprising she wasn’t found earlier,” she said.
“The body is badly bloated,” the uniform said. “But hard to say how long she’s been in there, given the heat and humidity.” Nothing accelerated decomposition like August in Virginia.
Two forensic technicians set up a table as uniforms erected a tent to cover their work area. This scene would take a dozen or more hours to process, and if it was related to the Foster case, it meant a third crime scene was now in the lineup.
Zoe looked back at the motel, already wondering if there was security footage and how long the computer data would remain intact.
There was a growing collection of people across the street who had already gathered to watch, and she could not help but wonder if the killer stood among them. Some killers would return to their dump sites. In their minds, they shared an intimate bond with the victim because the killer was the victim’s last contact with the living. No one could take that away.
Once the techs were set up, both Zoe and Vaughan were given booties and closer access to the dumpster to view the body.
As she approached the open side door, the air filled with death. Bracing herself, she looked inside the door. The bin was filled with white trash bags as well as a collection of beer bottles and a couple of broken chairs. When she scanned the space, she saw the collection of gold bracelets ringing a discolored slim wrist.
The forensic technician took pictures to document the surrounding area as well as the interior. Knowing this would go on for at least a half hour before anyone crawled into the dumpster, she shifted her attention to the crowd, which had grown to nearly a dozen.
She raised her phone and took video footage of everyone before she crossed the parking lot and held up her badge to the group of onlookers. There were two couples, a group of four women, and three single males.
“Why are you taking our pictures?” The question came from a midsize man wearing faded jeans, a plaid shirt, and work boots.
“I’m FBI special agent Spencer. I’m investigating a murder.”
“But why do you care about us?” the man challenged.
“Perhaps you witnessed something. And your name, sir?”
“Rich Houston.”
“And what are you doing here, Mr. Houston?” The man smelled of cigarette smoke, fast food, and beer.
“Enjoying the show like the rest of the crowd. Why do you care?”
“Do you live around here?” she asked.
“I’m staying at the motel. I’m a truck driver and had to pull in here when my rig broke down.”
“How long have you been here?” Zoe asked.
“Three days. And before you ask, I didn’t see nothing.”
“Where are you based, Mr. Houston?” she asked.
“North Carolina. I make runs up and down the mid-Atlantic.”
“I saw something,” a woman to her left said.
Zoe kept her gaze on Houston a beat longer before turning. “And you are?”
“Theresa Kittredge. I work at the motel.” Kittredge was in her early fifties and had a thin, wiry build with hunched shoulders.
“What did you see?” Zoe asked.
“A guy lingering by the dumpster.”
She knew a dumpster in this area could easily see its share of illegal dumping. “What was he doing?”
“He opened the door and just stared inside.”
“Did he put anything in the dumpster? Did he take anything out of it?”
“No. He just stood there.” The afternoon sun caught the silver streaking her dark hair.
“When was this?”
“Yesterday.”
“Any alarm bells go off for you?” Zoe asked.
“No. We get all kinds around here. I thought at first he was dumpster diving, because restaurants dump here sometimes. But like I said, he didn’t take nothing.”
“Did he see you?”
Kittredge rubbed her hands over her arms as if chilled. “No, I don’t think so.”
“What did he look like?”
She shrugged. “Average. Wore a ball cap and a full jacket, so it was hard to tell. I remember thinking in this heat that the jacket must have been miserable.”
Eyewitnesses could be the most unreliable. Not only did people lie, but even the truth tellers did not always get it right. Human brains had a way of filling in details that fit their own personal worldviews.
Zoe scribbled down the woman’s name and contact information. She spoke to the others standing around, but most were passersby and had nothing to add.
She approached the dumpster just as the first technician crawled through the door and stood over the body, which was covered in debris. He snapped more pictures before he handed out the broken chairs to another tech, who set them on an outstretched tarp.
It took another half hour before the trash and debris were cleared off the woman’s body. The process was painstaking because the body lay under at least a dozen bags, which had to be carefully removed in case evidence was attached. Each sack was also opened on a nearby tarp and searched for any additional possible evidence.
The victim lay on its side, and sightless eyes stared from a discolored face that was drawn tight and also disfigured by what appeared to be animal activity. Her arms were crisscrossed, and her knees and ankles were drawn up toward her midsection. Her long blond hair was tucked neatly behind her ears.
She wore nice gold earrings, several rings on her exposed hand, and a bloodstained, gray, fitted athletic jacket that skimmed what appeared to be full breasts and a narrow, fit waist. Purple leggings covered athletic legs and matched the sneakers.
She looked very much like Hadley Foster.
But she was not Hadley.
And the odds of two random women who shared a similar look potentially dying within miles of each other were too slim to calculate.
“Galina Grant looks like this woman, and so does Hadley,” Vaughan said.