Editor:
You don’t know me. I don’t live here. But I know this town. Last night, I kidnapped a woman who lives here. Do not be horrified. I am not a pervert.
I want money. $10,000 cash. I will return the woman alive. I am serious. I am professional. Follow the rules, and all will be well. Ignore me, and the woman will die.
I have included a map showing where to find proof of life. Find the X by noon or the woman will die.
Ignore this letter, and the woman will die. Remember, I am a man of my word.
Sincerely,
The Fox
Quincy read the note three times. Then he carefully pushed it aside. The second page, also cheap white office paper, revealed a crude drawing done in thick black pen. As the note implied, X literally marked the spot.
Quincy was already forming impressions in his mind, and his first instinct had been that the map would be complicated. Something that would clearly prove that the unidentified subject—UNSUB—was the one in control, and the police must obey his every command.
Instead, the map was nearly cartoonish in its simplicity. One walked out of the
Daily Sun,
headed south on 101, took a left, took a right, and ended up near the Tillamook Air Museum in a cemetery. Amateurish. Adolescent. And yet brilliant. A location remote enough that the chance of someone noticing a man there in the middle of the night was small. And distinct enough that it wouldn’t be hard for the police to find the “clue.”
Quincy read the note again. Then again.
He didn’t like the icy feeling beginning to settle in at his gut.
Kincaid was now examining the envelope. “Return address,” the sergeant murmured to Quincy. “Gives the initials W.E.H. and a street address in L.A. Trying to prove his point that he’s not from around here?”
“Maybe.”
“Postmark is Bakersville, however, so he mailed it in town.”
A knock at the door. A detective, Ron Spector, from OSP’s Tillamook County office had arrived. Kincaid stepped back into the hallway, where he and Spector huddled together, speaking in low tones.
Quincy reviewed the map again. Part of him wanted to bolt out the door, head to the air museum, and race through the cemetery in an ironic search for proof of life. But the cooler, analytic side of him understood an investigator should never rush. The ransom note itself was a treasure trove of information, not to be ignored. So much could be found in the small play of words. Let alone paper type, ink choice, fingerprints on the page, saliva on the seal. A detective should be assigned to chase down the return address. Quincy himself wanted to run a search of the initials, W.E.H., which were already niggling at the corners of his brain.
Something he’d seen before? Someone he knew?
There were so many pieces of the puzzle they hadn’t even begun to put into place. They had yet to canvass the local hotels and motels, to interview twenty- to forty-year-old males traveling alone. They had yet to retrace Rainie’s last steps, determine who might have seen her. Had she been drinking somewhere? Did she still have her gun?
That last thought gave Quincy pause. If the abduction had been random, maybe the UNSUB didn’t yet realize he’d taken a member of law enforcement. . . . At one point, Rainie had been able to reach her cell phone. What about her weapon?
The idea made Quincy feel curiously seasick. On the one hand, if Rainie stood up to her attacker, she might get away. On the other hand, how many killers had he interviewed over the years who claimed their bloodlust was initially triggered by a woman’s resistance?
She fought me, so I killed her.
For some men, it was really that simple.
Kincaid was back. He informed Van Wie that Detective Spector would now be handling things at the
Daily Sun
. Then Kincaid carefully picked up the two-page ransom note, still using the handkerchief. Detective Spector would enter the original pages into evidence and start the process of preserving chain of custody. Kincaid and
You don’t know me. I don’t live here. But I know this town. Last night, I kidnapped a woman who lives here. Do not be horrified. I am not a pervert.
I want money. $10,000 cash. I will return the woman alive. I am serious. I am professional. Follow the rules, and all will be well. Ignore me, and the woman will die.
I have included a map showing where to find proof of life. Find the X by noon or the woman will die.
Ignore this letter, and the woman will die. Remember, I am a man of my word.
Sincerely,
The Fox
Quincy read the note three times. Then he carefully pushed it aside. The second page, also cheap white office paper, revealed a crude drawing done in thick black pen. As the note implied, X literally marked the spot.
Quincy was already forming impressions in his mind, and his first instinct had been that the map would be complicated. Something that would clearly prove that the unidentified subject—UNSUB—was the one in control, and the police must obey his every command.
Instead, the map was nearly cartoonish in its simplicity. One walked out of the
Daily Sun,
headed south on 101, took a left, took a right, and ended up near the Tillamook Air Museum in a cemetery. Amateurish. Adolescent. And yet brilliant. A location remote enough that the chance of someone noticing a man there in the middle of the night was small. And distinct enough that it wouldn’t be hard for the police to find the “clue.”
Quincy read the note again. Then again.
He didn’t like the icy feeling beginning to settle in at his gut.
Kincaid was now examining the envelope. “Return address,” the sergeant murmured to Quincy. “Gives the initials W.E.H. and a street address in L.A. Trying to prove his point that he’s not from around here?”
“Maybe.”
“Postmark is Bakersville, however, so he mailed it in town.”
A knock at the door. A detective, Ron Spector, from OSP’s Tillamook County office had arrived. Kincaid stepped back into the hallway, where he and Spector huddled together, speaking in low tones.
Quincy reviewed the map again. Part of him wanted to bolt out the door, head to the air museum, and race through the cemetery in an ironic search for proof of life. But the cooler, analytic side of him understood an investigator should never rush. The ransom note itself was a treasure trove of information, not to be ignored. So much could be found in the small play of words. Let alone paper type, ink choice, fingerprints on the page, saliva on the seal. A detective should be assigned to chase down the return address. Quincy himself wanted to run a search of the initials, W.E.H., which were already niggling at the corners of his brain.
Something he’d seen before? Someone he knew?
There were so many pieces of the puzzle they hadn’t even begun to put into place. They had yet to canvass the local hotels and motels, to interview twenty- to forty-year-old males traveling alone. They had yet to retrace Rainie’s last steps, determine who might have seen her. Had she been drinking somewhere? Did she still have her gun?
That last thought gave Quincy pause. If the abduction had been random, maybe the UNSUB didn’t yet realize he’d taken a member of law enforcement. . . . At one point, Rainie had been able to reach her cell phone. What about her weapon?
The idea made Quincy feel curiously seasick. On the one hand, if Rainie stood up to her attacker, she might get away. On the other hand, how many killers had he interviewed over the years who claimed their bloodlust was initially triggered by a woman’s resistance?
She fought me, so I killed her.
For some men, it was really that simple.
Kincaid was back. He informed Van Wie that Detective Spector would now be handling things at the
Daily Sun
. Then Kincaid carefully picked up the two-page ransom note, still using the handkerchief. Detective Spector would enter the original pages into evidence and start the process of preserving chain of custody. Kincaid and
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