Just three Georgia-issued driver’s licenses stuffed in a plain white envelope and placed beneath the windshield wiper of my car. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Driver’s licenses? You talking forgeries or the real deal?”
“Real deal. I have valid photo IDs for Bonita Breen, Mary Back, and Etta Mae Reynolds. White females, roughly twenty years of age, addresses from the greater Atlanta area. I did some digging and guess what?”
“They’re all missing hookers.”
“They’re all working girls,” he fine-tuned, “who haven’t been spotted in months. Now, according to the grapevine, Mary headed for Texas, while Etta Mae ran off with some bartender. I’ve issued BOLOs for both, without any hits. So in my world, that makes them missing, though it’s possible my supe has other ideas on the subject.”
Kimberly had to smile. She might know something about disagreeing with a superior. These things happened.
“Then,” Sal continued, “three months ago, same thing. I come out to my car and discover a new envelope, with three new licenses: Beth Hunnicutt, Nicole Evans, and Cyndie Rodriguez. Except this time I get lucky. Beth Hunnicutt
has
been declared missing, by her roommate,
Nicole Evans
.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute. The same Nicole Evans whose driver’s license is in the envelope?”
“The very same. According to the missing persons file, Hunnicutt was last seen heading out for a ‘big job,’ by her roommate Evans. Furthermore, Evans asserted that Hunnicutt never would have taken off without grabbing her stereo equipment and collection of CDs from their apartment. Of course, when I tried to follow up with Evans, I discovered that she also hadn’t been seen in months, and in fact, the third roommate, Cyndie Rodriguez, had disappeared, as well. Three more IDs, three more missing girls.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“So says you, so says me. Brass, on the other hand…”
“Six missing girls and you can’t make a case?” she asked in shock.
“No evidence of foul play. And technically speaking, of my six names, only one has been declared missing. The others are simply ‘unaccounted for.’ According to the bureaucrats we got bigger fish to fry—you know, the growing meth problem, gangland shootings, new requirements for Homeland Security, yada, yada, yada.”
Kimberly sighed. She’d like to say she’d never heard of such garbage, but she would be lying. Bureaucrats ran the world, even in law enforcement.
“Back to the envelope,” she mused. “Someone is making the effort to outreach not once, but twice, to the police. That’s something.”
“Envelope was unsealed and yielded no physical evidence. So for kicks, I ran it by a shrink friend who sometimes consults for the department on cold cases. His first thought was sure—a lot of killers like the spotlight just as much as celebrities, and are driven to reach out to local cops or press. The fact the package contained driver’s licenses interested him, as the BTK guy out of Kansas liked to mail in driver’s licenses of his victims to the press. So maybe a classic copycat element—hey, look how famous that schmuck is, I can do that!
“Problem is, the predators who make the effort generally crave recognition. It’s about bragging, gamesmanship, and arrogance. Meaning there should be a note, poem, follow-up phone call, something. This…In Jimmy’s own words, it’s like mailing out a party invite without any directions on where or how to play. His best guess: The stash came from a third party.”
“Third party?”
Kimberly asked incredulously. “Like who, the guy’s cleaning lady?”
“Think of it this way: A wife cleans out her husband’s sock drawer. Comes across a stack of photo IDs. Now, there can’t be any
good
reason for her husband to have the driver’s licenses of three young women. Then again, she’s afraid to confront him with it. So she sticks the plastic in an envelope, and
“Driver’s licenses? You talking forgeries or the real deal?”
“Real deal. I have valid photo IDs for Bonita Breen, Mary Back, and Etta Mae Reynolds. White females, roughly twenty years of age, addresses from the greater Atlanta area. I did some digging and guess what?”
“They’re all missing hookers.”
“They’re all working girls,” he fine-tuned, “who haven’t been spotted in months. Now, according to the grapevine, Mary headed for Texas, while Etta Mae ran off with some bartender. I’ve issued BOLOs for both, without any hits. So in my world, that makes them missing, though it’s possible my supe has other ideas on the subject.”
Kimberly had to smile. She might know something about disagreeing with a superior. These things happened.
“Then,” Sal continued, “three months ago, same thing. I come out to my car and discover a new envelope, with three new licenses: Beth Hunnicutt, Nicole Evans, and Cyndie Rodriguez. Except this time I get lucky. Beth Hunnicutt
has
been declared missing, by her roommate,
Nicole Evans
.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute. The same Nicole Evans whose driver’s license is in the envelope?”
“The very same. According to the missing persons file, Hunnicutt was last seen heading out for a ‘big job,’ by her roommate Evans. Furthermore, Evans asserted that Hunnicutt never would have taken off without grabbing her stereo equipment and collection of CDs from their apartment. Of course, when I tried to follow up with Evans, I discovered that she also hadn’t been seen in months, and in fact, the third roommate, Cyndie Rodriguez, had disappeared, as well. Three more IDs, three more missing girls.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“So says you, so says me. Brass, on the other hand…”
“Six missing girls and you can’t make a case?” she asked in shock.
“No evidence of foul play. And technically speaking, of my six names, only one has been declared missing. The others are simply ‘unaccounted for.’ According to the bureaucrats we got bigger fish to fry—you know, the growing meth problem, gangland shootings, new requirements for Homeland Security, yada, yada, yada.”
Kimberly sighed. She’d like to say she’d never heard of such garbage, but she would be lying. Bureaucrats ran the world, even in law enforcement.
“Back to the envelope,” she mused. “Someone is making the effort to outreach not once, but twice, to the police. That’s something.”
“Envelope was unsealed and yielded no physical evidence. So for kicks, I ran it by a shrink friend who sometimes consults for the department on cold cases. His first thought was sure—a lot of killers like the spotlight just as much as celebrities, and are driven to reach out to local cops or press. The fact the package contained driver’s licenses interested him, as the BTK guy out of Kansas liked to mail in driver’s licenses of his victims to the press. So maybe a classic copycat element—hey, look how famous that schmuck is, I can do that!
“Problem is, the predators who make the effort generally crave recognition. It’s about bragging, gamesmanship, and arrogance. Meaning there should be a note, poem, follow-up phone call, something. This…In Jimmy’s own words, it’s like mailing out a party invite without any directions on where or how to play. His best guess: The stash came from a third party.”
“Third party?”
Kimberly asked incredulously. “Like who, the guy’s cleaning lady?”
“Think of it this way: A wife cleans out her husband’s sock drawer. Comes across a stack of photo IDs. Now, there can’t be any
good
reason for her husband to have the driver’s licenses of three young women. Then again, she’s afraid to confront him with it. So she sticks the plastic in an envelope, and
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