Hen. Cock. I was sure fellow cops had crafted the nickname. Doubted she went by it. “Was the problem lack of interjurisdictional sharing?” I asked.

“Partly that. Partly the Anson County Sheriff’s Office was busy mucking out its own barn.”

“Meaning?”

“Couple of their superstars got nailed for taking bribes.”

I remembered now. Both deputies had gone to jail.

“Partly it was timing. The initial lead retired some months into it. That’s when the case bounced to Hull. Mostly it was the fact that no one found dick. No physical evidence, no eyewitnesses, no cause of death.”

“Who did the post?”

“Some hack who didn’t bother to visit the scene.”

I wasn’t surprised. The Charlotte Observer had done more than one exposé on the failings of the North Carolina medical examiner system. A scathing series ran in 2013 after an elderly couple and an eleven-year-old boy died three months apart in the same motel room in Boone, and it turned out the culprit was carbon monoxide. The local ME had neither visited the motel nor filed a timely report after the first deaths. Another series shocked the public in 2014. Murders classified as accidental deaths, accidents as suicides, misidentified bodies delivered to the wrong funeral homes.

When interviewed, the state’s new chief ME attributed problems in the system to inadequate funding. No kidding. Except for Mecklenburg County, local medical examiners were paid a hundred dollars per case. And since the state didn’t require it, many had little or no training in forensic pathology. Some weren’t even physicians. The new boss was trying to bring about change, but without increased financial support, her chance of success was unlikely.

“No one kept pushing?” I asked.

“Estrada’s mother got deported to Mexico shortly after the kid vanished. There was no señor in the picture.”

I finished my burger and thought about Mama’s three girls, Koseluk, Estrada, and Donovan. One dead, two missing. Files ignored because no one was pushing.

Ryan rejoined us, carrying a hint of cigarette smoke into the booth.

“Tinker was at the scene last night?” I asked.

Slidell snorted loudly, then went back to working his gums.

“The SBI’s taking the position that the investigation will benefit from sharing information and resources at the state level.” Ryan’s first spoken contribution.

“There’s no way the SB-fucking-I will share piss-all.” Slidell jammed the toothpick into the remains of his slaw. “They think a clear on these cases is their ticket to a makeover. And that don’t include us.”

“What does Tinker think about these other three vics?” I asked.

“That asshat couldn’t think his way through a fart without coaching.” Slidell’s outburst caused several patrons to glance our way.

“He’s not convinced they’re related,” Ryan said.

“Leal?”

“That one he’s saying maybe.”

“What happens now?”

“I kicked what we got up the COC.” Slidell was using shorthand for “chain of command.” “Now we wait.”

We were returning to our cars when Slidell’s mobile sounded. He answered, and as he listened, his face grew red. Finally, “A couple extra whiteboards ain’t gonna clear this thing.”

Disconnecting with a furious one-finger jab, Slidell turned to us. “We’re screwed.”

CHAPTER 12

THE RULING WAS that the Leal homicide would continue to be viewed as a one-off, so there would be no task force. Slidell was getting space but not extra personnel. He was to cooperate with Tinker and use Ryan ex-officio. If the investigation tossed up stronger links to the other cases, the situation would be reassessed.

While Ryan and a seething Slidell headed back to the law enforcement center, I returned to the ME facility. The press vans were gone, in search of bloodier pastures.

Leal’s ring wasn’t in autopsy room one or lying in a Ziploc on Larabee’s desk. A quick scan of his paperwork turned up no mention of jewelry.

I thought a moment, then gloved, went to the cooler, and checked every inch of Leal’s body bag. Found twigs, leaves, some gravel, but no ring.

I phoned Larabee. Got voicemail and left a message.

Out of ideas, I drove to the LEC. Slidell wasn’t at the CCU or in his cubicle in the homicide squad. Ryan was nowhere in sight, either. A few detectives were talking on phones. A guy named Porter was discussing footprint impressions with a guy I didn’t know. He directed me to the conference room.

The scene looked like a setup in a low-budget cop show. A phone and computer sat, unstaffed, on a desk in one corner. Erasable boards stretched the length of the back wall, most used, two empty.

The large oak table still filled the center of the room. On it were the two MP and four homicide files. Those for Gower and Nance were hefty, a box and a tub, thanks to the work of Rodas and Barrow’s CCU team. The others were meager enough to fit into brown corrugated files secured with elasticized binders.

Ryan was trolling through Rodas’s box. Slidell was beside him, studying a printout. Neither looked up when I entered.

I crossed to the boards. Topping six of the seven were victim photos. A name was penned below each in large block letters. A last-seenalive location and date.

NELLIE GOWER, HARDWICK, VERMONT, 2007

LIZZIE NANCE, CHARLOTTE, 2009

AVERY KOSELUK, KANNAPOLIS, 2011

TIA ESTRADA, SALISBURY, 2012

COLLEEN DONOVAN, CHARLOTTE, 2013–2014

SHELLY LEAL, CHARLOTTE, 2014

Each LSA date marked the beginning of a time line tracing that child’s movements backward from the moment of her disappearance. Few items had been entered on any chronology. Posted on the Gower, Nance, Estrada, and Leal boards were CSS photos. I stepped up to inspect the Estrada pics, which I hadn’t seen.

Like the others, Tia Estrada lay faceup, fully dressed, with her arms at her sides. Beneath her were brown grass and dead leaves, above her gray sky. In the background I could see a picnic table and what looked like the base of a gazebo.

A soupçon of Brylcreem told me Slidell had closed in.

“Is it a campground?” I asked.

Slidell nodded. “By the Pee Dee wildlife refuge. You know, for the boat and bug spray crowd. Has a couple docks, tent and trailer sites, latrines so the fam can take a dump with the birds.”

Nice.

“Was she found inside the grounds?”

“Eeyuh.”

“And no one saw anything?”

“It was winter. The place was deserted.”

“Were the neighbors questioned?”

“We’re talking the boonies.”

“Where people take notice.” Curt. “No one remembered selling gas to a stranger? No one saw an unfamiliar car pass by on the road? Parked on the shoulder?”

Slidell looked at me without blinking. “You know why these douchebags don’t acknowledge we got a serial here?”

Though I shared Skinny’s opinion that his superiors were wearing blinders, I had no desire to hear his latest conspiracy theory.

“I didn’t find Leal’s ring,” I said. “Could it be downstairs in the property room?”

Slidell gave an “I don’t think so” twist of his mouth. Then, “I’ll pull the CSS report, see if a ring turned up in their sweep.”

“And ask the mother to look around at home.”

Slidell nodded.

“Nance should have been carrying ballet gear, at least shoes. Nothing was listed in the file.”

Another nod.

“We should query Hull, see if anything was missing with Estrada. Maybe give Rodas a call about Gower.”

Slidell knew what I was thinking. Souvenirs. Reminders of the kills. He strode over to Ryan. Explained. Ryan nodded. Pulled out his phone.