Redheads by Jonathan Moore Page A

murder on VICAP we’d expect to be there: Allison. All the others are gone. And you may think it’s just police who are too stupid or too proud to work with the FBI, so they don’t enter the data. But that can’t be true. I was on HPD when Cheryl Wilcox was killed and I uploaded that case to VICAP myself. And it’s gone.”
    Julissa scribbled on her pad and looked up. Chris could see she was drawing a flow chart.
    “That leaves us one of three places,” she said. “One: the killer’s in the FBI, maybe works at Quantico, has access to VICAP, and erases each old case before he kills again so there are never two cases in the system for the computer to connect. Two: the killer has protection from someone high up with access to a person who can change the database. Or three: the killer, either by himself or by paying someone he trusts, is sophisticated enough to hack into the FBI’s database and alter it.”
    Mike looked at her. “I think that about sums it up. I thought about it all night on the plane and I couldn’t think of anything else.”
    “If that’s true, we better make sure the FBI and the police never find out what we’re doing. Our investigation has got to stay secret,” Chris said.
    “Why?” Westfield asked.
    “Because no matter which one of Julissa’s options you pick, the FBI’s compromised. The killer’s one of them, or they’ve got a mole, or the killer can hack their system. And it’s clear he doesn’t want anyone looking for him. So if he gets word of us—”
    “He’ll erase the data and then come after us,” Mike finished.
    Chris nodded. “That’s the way I see it. And this isn’t necessarily a bad development. If he’s in the FBI, it gives us a suspect list. And if he’s well protected or capable of hacking—that at least makes the pool a lot smaller.”
    Julissa’s phone rang. She took it from her purse and stepped out onto the balcony. The men watched her through the glass sliding doors. When a few moments passed, Westfield cleared his throat.
    “What’re you guys thinking for the next step?”
    “I have some ideas. I thought we should all talk about it and agree. So none of us repeats what someone else already did,” Chris said.
    “Divide up assignments,” Westfield said.
    “Yeah.”
    “Can you project a map of Galveston?” Westfield asked.
    Mike nodded and typed at his laptop. A few seconds later the projection screen showed a satellite image of Galveston. Westfield went to the screen and pointed at the fishing dock at Seawolf Park.
    “People on this pier might’ve seen a swimmer. Unless you guys have other plans for me tomorrow, that’s what I’m going to check for. Anywhere else you think I should look?”
    “What about these other two shipyards?” Mike asked. He circled the laptop’s mouse arrow around two industrial yards on Pelican Island northeast of the one which lay directly across the channel from Allison’s condo.
    “I checked. Neither one runs a night shift anymore.”
    “How about the yacht basin on the other side of the channel?” Chris asked. The yacht basin had four long rows of covered slips and an uncovered fifth row, for sailboats, directly facing the channel. “Fireworks that night were on the Gulf side of the island. People might’ve gone over on their boats to watch. Maybe someone coming through the channel afterwards passed him in the water.”
    “I’ll check.”
    The glass door slid open and Julissa stepped inside. She’d been crying again.
    “My parents finally got off their ship long enough to call home and check their messages,” she said. She went back to her chair and sat down.
    “They coming home now?” Mike asked.
    Julissa nodded. “Day after tomorrow.”
    She put her elbows on the table and held her head in her hands, her fingers lost in her red hair. Chris thought of Cheryl, sobbing at the kitchen counter when her father died of cancer. The muscles in his legs tensed, ready to carry him over to her so he could