don’t.”
“Not these girls. Runaways, hookers, addicts. Who cares enough to file a claim? They disappear and no one’s the wiser.”
“They’re also transient,” Kimberly countered. “If they go missing, maybe it’s because they hopped on a bus.”
“Absolutely. You’re not talking about one of the population groups most likely to fill out the U.S. Census Bureau questionnaire. On the other hand, get a lot of officers in a room, and they each have a story of some girl or addict or whomever, who was pinched lately, and first question she asked them is have you seen so-and-so? She’s looking for a lost friend, roommate, partner in crime. ’Course, no one knows what she’s talking about, so end of story. You’re right, these girls
don’t
file missing persons reports. But one by one, they’re raising the exact same question: Where have all the hookers gone?”
“Very poetic of you, Sal.”
“I play an open mic night, every Thursday at the Wildcat…”
Kimberly stared at him.
“Oh, you weren’t serious.”
“I’m going to eat another pudding,” Kimberly said, and opened a third, not because she was hungry, but because she needed something to do.
“I don’t get it,” she said at last. “So girls are whispering about missing girls. Okay, but where
have
the missing hookers gone? If someone is ‘picking them off ’ as you say, where’s the evidence? Shouldn’t missing Girl A, last seen here, correlate with unidentified Body B, now found there?”
“Tried that. No unidentified female bodies have been found lately.”
She gave him a look. “Seems to shoot down your theory right there. If a predator was preying on prostitutes, he’d be disposing of the bodies somewhere. In Dumpsters, back alleys, along the interstate. Something would’ve turned up.”
Sal shrugged. “How many of Ted Bundy’s victims are still undiscovered? He favored rolling them down ravines. Let’s face it, this state has a lot of ravines. And chicken farms, and marshlands, and miles and miles of nothing at all. You wanna hide a body, Georgia is the place to do it. Or,” he conceded, “maybe the guy crosses state lines. It’s always a possibility, but you’d know better than me.”
Kimberly could already hear the skepticism in his voice. After all, if a subject was picking up prostitutes in Georgia and killing them in Louisiana, then it definitely would be a federal case and Sal didn’t think this was a feebie case. He thought it was
his
case, so for that reason alone, the subject could only be operating inside Georgia lines.
Kimberly studied him. She was doing some math in her head and it wasn’t working out in his favor. “Trevor said they picked up Delilah shortly after one. But I didn’t get called until after three. Anything you want to add to that timeline, Special Agent?”
Sal didn’t bother to appear repentant. He simply shot her a grin. “Heard you were smart.”
“Violent, too. Don’t let the belly fool you.”
His grin broadened. “Okay, sure, so maybe I took a shot at her.”
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
“If it’s any consolation, little Miss Muffet wouldn’t bite. Was adamant from the moment the police picked her up that she would speak with you and only you.”
“Liked her tattoos, did you?”
“How do you know her?” he asked curiously. “Drug activity? Meth? Seems kind of low level to be narc’ing for a fed.”
“You never know where the good information might come from.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why this level of intensity, Sal? Poaching an informant, rousing a fed in the middle of the night. From the sound of it, you don’t even have a case, yet you’re jumping through a lot of hoops to talk to one inked-up hooker.”
Sal didn’t answer her. His gaze had gone out the window. He wasn’t smiling anymore, and the dark look on his face had probably scared an informant or two.
“I got a package,” he said curtly. “Fourteen months ago. No name on it, no note in it.
“Not these girls. Runaways, hookers, addicts. Who cares enough to file a claim? They disappear and no one’s the wiser.”
“They’re also transient,” Kimberly countered. “If they go missing, maybe it’s because they hopped on a bus.”
“Absolutely. You’re not talking about one of the population groups most likely to fill out the U.S. Census Bureau questionnaire. On the other hand, get a lot of officers in a room, and they each have a story of some girl or addict or whomever, who was pinched lately, and first question she asked them is have you seen so-and-so? She’s looking for a lost friend, roommate, partner in crime. ’Course, no one knows what she’s talking about, so end of story. You’re right, these girls
don’t
file missing persons reports. But one by one, they’re raising the exact same question: Where have all the hookers gone?”
“Very poetic of you, Sal.”
“I play an open mic night, every Thursday at the Wildcat…”
Kimberly stared at him.
“Oh, you weren’t serious.”
“I’m going to eat another pudding,” Kimberly said, and opened a third, not because she was hungry, but because she needed something to do.
“I don’t get it,” she said at last. “So girls are whispering about missing girls. Okay, but where
have
the missing hookers gone? If someone is ‘picking them off ’ as you say, where’s the evidence? Shouldn’t missing Girl A, last seen here, correlate with unidentified Body B, now found there?”
“Tried that. No unidentified female bodies have been found lately.”
She gave him a look. “Seems to shoot down your theory right there. If a predator was preying on prostitutes, he’d be disposing of the bodies somewhere. In Dumpsters, back alleys, along the interstate. Something would’ve turned up.”
Sal shrugged. “How many of Ted Bundy’s victims are still undiscovered? He favored rolling them down ravines. Let’s face it, this state has a lot of ravines. And chicken farms, and marshlands, and miles and miles of nothing at all. You wanna hide a body, Georgia is the place to do it. Or,” he conceded, “maybe the guy crosses state lines. It’s always a possibility, but you’d know better than me.”
Kimberly could already hear the skepticism in his voice. After all, if a subject was picking up prostitutes in Georgia and killing them in Louisiana, then it definitely would be a federal case and Sal didn’t think this was a feebie case. He thought it was
his
case, so for that reason alone, the subject could only be operating inside Georgia lines.
Kimberly studied him. She was doing some math in her head and it wasn’t working out in his favor. “Trevor said they picked up Delilah shortly after one. But I didn’t get called until after three. Anything you want to add to that timeline, Special Agent?”
Sal didn’t bother to appear repentant. He simply shot her a grin. “Heard you were smart.”
“Violent, too. Don’t let the belly fool you.”
His grin broadened. “Okay, sure, so maybe I took a shot at her.”
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
“If it’s any consolation, little Miss Muffet wouldn’t bite. Was adamant from the moment the police picked her up that she would speak with you and only you.”
“Liked her tattoos, did you?”
“How do you know her?” he asked curiously. “Drug activity? Meth? Seems kind of low level to be narc’ing for a fed.”
“You never know where the good information might come from.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why this level of intensity, Sal? Poaching an informant, rousing a fed in the middle of the night. From the sound of it, you don’t even have a case, yet you’re jumping through a lot of hoops to talk to one inked-up hooker.”
Sal didn’t answer her. His gaze had gone out the window. He wasn’t smiling anymore, and the dark look on his face had probably scared an informant or two.
“I got a package,” he said curtly. “Fourteen months ago. No name on it, no note in it.
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