Page 33 of Her Last Word

FALSE LEADS

Five days after Gina’s disappearance, the police opened a tip line. Within hours, a trickle of leads turned into a flood. At one point during the investigation, the police department had two officers dedicated to the tip line.

Some tipsters thought they’d spotted Gina alive and well living in southwest Virginia. Others swore the disturbed soil on their farm property was her shallow grave. One woman was convinced Gina was working in a convenience store in Arlington, Virginia, and had amnesia.

The cops followed up on all credible leads. Law enforcement searched vacant lots, farmers’ fields, and abandoned buildings not only in the Richmond area but also throughout Virginia and into the mid-Atlantic region. In the end, none of the information panned out.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Monday, March 19, 2018; 10:00 a.m.

Quinn had found the names of the two girls who had been sexually assaulted two years before Gina vanished. One of the victims, Lily Jackson, had moved to California, but the other, Maureen Campbell, worked as a cop in the state police’s vice unit. She discovered it was Agent Campbell’s day off and arranged to meet her in her Goochland home, forty-five minutes west of Richmond.

Minutes later, Adler and Quinn were in his car driving west, and within the hour he was parking in front of a small brick house on a large wooded lot. The grass around the house was cut, and the trim around the door and windows sported a fresh coat of white paint. They made their way to the front door, and he knocked.

Footsteps in the home moved toward the door. There was a hesitation, and he sensed they were being studied through the peephole. He stepped back and rested his hands on his hips while moving his jacket back slightly so his badge was in view.

The door opened to an attractive woman with long dark hair, a fit body, and green eyes that shifted from wary to somewhat welcoming. “Detective Quinn?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am, and this is my partner, Detective John Adler. Thanks for seeing us, Agent Campbell.”

“It’s Maureen.” She unlatched the screened door and pushed it open. “Your timing is good. I was about to open the paint cans when you called. It’s my first day off in a few weeks, and I’m determined to paint the living room.”

“Sorry to disturb your plans,” Adler said.

Maureen laughed. “No, any excuse to not paint is a good excuse.”

In the living room, there was a couch, a couple of chairs, and a navy-blue rug covering polished wood floors. All her pictures tilted against a wall in a neat stack.

Maureen sat and motioned for them to do the same.

“Have you been here long?” Adler asked as he took one of the chairs.

“Two years, but work has kept me on the go. There’s been little time to fix up the place. My unit and I infiltrated a human trafficking ring and just busted three guys controlling twenty girls.”

“That’s a hell of a win,” Quinn said.

“It is, but it’ll be a long way back for the girls.” She cleared her throat. “Can I get you coffee?”

Both declined.

“We’ll cut to the chase, if that works for you,” Quinn said.

“Absolutely.”

Quinn flipped open a notebook. “When you were sixteen a man broke into your parents’ home and sexually assaulted you?”

Maureen lifted her chin a fraction. “That’s correct. My parents had gone out for the evening and left me home alone. I’d fallen asleep on the couch and woke up to find a man standing over me. He had a knife pressed to my throat.”

“You said that your attacker was wearing panty hose over his face,” she continued.

“Yes. He kept his face covered. I later met with a police sketch artist, but the image wasn’t helpful.”

“Can you tell us what happened next?” Quinn asked.

Maureen shifted and then settled. “He dragged me to my room, tied me to my bed, and for approximately two hours raped me.”

“Was he concerned that your parents might return?” Adler asked.

“I told him they’d be home any second, but he laughed. He said he’d been watching the house and knew Wednesday nights were their movie nights and they never returned home before eleven.” She raised her fingers to the base of her throat. “Several times he put his hands around my neck and squeezed, but he seemed to grow tired.”

“He underestimated how hard it is to strangle someone,” Quinn said.

Maureen nodded. “Yes, I think that is exactly it. If I had to bet, I’d say I was one of his first victims.”

“Any other reason to support that theory?” Adler asked.

“Even though he said he knew no one was coming to help me, he was nervous. His hands shook as he was tying mine to the headboard. And once a car passed by outside and he stopped, put his hand over my mouth, and waited until the street was silent again.”

“Your attacker wore a condom, correct?” Quinn asked.

“Yes. He also made me take a shower after the attack. He stood by the shower and made me wash my hair and wash my entire body. He was smart. The forensic nurse who examined me couldn’t collect any useable evidence.”

“When did you learn about Gina Mason?” Adler asked.

“It was hard not to hear about her. She was in all the headlines. I was obsessed about her case. It struck very close to home for me.”

“Two years after your attack, you were shown Randy Hayward’s mug shot,” Quinn said.

“I was. I couldn’t identify him.”

“Did you ever see Hayward in a lineup?” Adler asked.

“His attorney argued because I couldn’t ID his mug shot and because there was no DNA in my case, a lineup wasn’t warranted. A judge agreed.” She sighed. “I’m older now and can see my case from a cop’s perspective. The MO of my attacker was different than Gina Mason’s. My attacker attacked me in my home, and he let me go. Yes, he covered his face, but many guys like that do. It’s reasonable to argue we had different assailants,” she said, frowning.

“Why do you think your attacker let you go?” Quinn asked.

“After he raped me, he noticed a stuffed bear on my bed. He said he’d had a bear like that when he was a kid. He asked me if I’d named my bear. I told him its name was Buddy. That seemed to amuse him. I thought we had some kind of emotional connection and he maybe finally saw me as a person. Five minutes later he left.” She scanned both detectives as if they were suspects. “Why all the questions now?”

“Randy Hayward is back in custody and is willing to lead us to Gina Mason,” Adler said.

Maureen stared at them both closely. “What do you want from me?”

“You know, as well as we do, that guys like Hayward evolve,” Quinn said. “First stalking, then rape, and then murder. Serial offenders require more violence to get the same rush of adrenaline and sexual payoff.”

Maureen drew in a breath. “When is Hayward supposed to take you to Gina?”

“End of this week,” Adler said. “I don’t know if we can ever link Hayward to your rape, but I hoped you might be able to tell us something we could use.”

Maureen regarded him a moment. “After my rapist finished, I could tell he was worried about being captured. He climbed on top of me and put his hands around my throat again. Before he started to squeeze, I asked him if he’d named his stuffed bear. The question caught him off guard, and he released my neck and climbed off of me.”

“Did he tell you the name?” Adler asked.

“Charlie. He said his bear’s name was Charlie. Ask Hayward what happened to Charlie.”

Adler nodded. “Will do.”

“Keep me posted,” Maureen said. “Whether he’s my guy or not, that poor kid needs to be found.”

“We will,” Adler said.

; They left Maureen Campbell and drove to Ruth Hayward’s home, but found the house closed up, the blinds drawn, and no cars in the driveway or garage.

“Think she’s left town?” Quinn asked.

“We’ll find her,” Adler said. “One way or another, we’ll talk to her.”

“She’s worried. Her kid is about to spill the beans, and she’s going to face a lot of questions,” Quinn said.

“What’s so special about Hayward? He has so many friends and family willing to protect him,” Adler said.

“He was young and charming. Mama’s boy. Everyone’s best friend. Psychopaths can be charming manipulators,” Quinn said.

“Nobody said they were stupid,” Adler said.

As Adler and Quinn made their way to his car, his phone buzzed with a text from a detective in a neighboring jurisdiction. Brad Crowley had returned home and realized the police were looking for him. He was ready to be interviewed.

“We don’t even know Erika is missing,” Quinn pointed out as she slid on her sunglasses. “She could be on a vacation.”

“You really think she’s on a vacation?” Adler asked.

“No. But we don’t have any evidence otherwise.”

“I want to listen in on the interview,” he said.

“I’d like in on it as well. I’ll try not to step on toes.”

A smile tugged at the edge of Adler’s lips. “Don’t kid yourself. You never miss a chance to stir shit up.”

She laughed. “Guilty. I’m a card-carrying provocateur.”

At the station, Adler and Quinn entered the room adjacent to the interview room. Through a two-way mirror, they saw Brad Crowley sitting in a plastic chair next to a scarred wooden table. Crowley wore charcoal-gray pants, a white shirt, and a yellow tie he’d loosened. His blond hair looked as if it had been slicked back but was now disheveled. His gaze downcast, he picked at a Styrofoam cup.

Detective Jeff Beck, a midsize, lean man, sported a blue suit and a full gray mustache reminiscent of the nineties. He stood outside interview room six sipping a cup of coffee.

Adler walked up to Beck and shook his hand. “Thanks for the call.”

“Hey, anytime.” Beck had taken a job with county police three years ago, but Adler and Beck had attended the city police academy together. Beck was one hell of a smart guy. They’d spent a few all-nighters studying for academy tests and had crossed paths during their uniformed patrol days more times than he could count. Each had attended the other’s wedding, and each commiserated when those marriages fell apart under the strain of the job.