Page 14 of Darkwater Lane

I consider keeping this information to myself, banking on the possibility that they may not put the pieces together. After all, Connor deleted his account and erased his posts. The only problem is that the FBI was the one to figure out that Connor was posting as Melvin’s Little Helper in the first place. Which means there’s already an internal record making that connection.

I lace my fingers together on the table and take a breath. “You should know something, then. My son, Connor, was active on the main Melvin Royal message board for several months. You should reach out to Mike Lustig—he’s a special agent as well. He can fill you in on the relevant details.”

This piques Wren’s interest. “Can we talk with your son?”

“Absolutely not.” I don’t even have to think about the question. In no way do I want Connor forced to rehash that time in his life.

Wren presses the point. “It would be really useful to know if he interacted with or has more info on?—”

“I said no.” I snap, my voice cutting. She glares at me, and for a moment I think she won’t back down. If that’s the case, she has no idea who she’s up against. I’ll stop at nothing to protect my children.

Indiri intervenes, his demeanor calm in an attempt to lower the tension. “Understandable. We’ll speak with Special Agent Lustig and get what we need from him. In the meantime, do you know if your son connected with other posters outside of the boards? Maybe to continue discussions in chat rooms or via text?”

I would love to tell him no, absolutely not, but I can’t be sure. Connor claimed that all he did was post messages—answering questions about Melvin and providing details he gleaned from the letters Melvin sent me over the years. At the time, he’d been having problems making friends at school and felt isolated. On the Melvin Royal boards, he was treated like a rock star. He was popular for once.

I want to believe Connor when he says all he did was post, but he lied about his involvement for so long that it’s been hard to rebuild my trust in him. So instead, I tell Indiri, “Authorities never found any indication that his involvement went beyond his public posts.”

It’s obvious the two special agents find the connection between my son and Cooper Kuntz intriguing. That makes me uneasy. It’s one thing for them to consider my involvement; it’s another thing entirely to bring Connor into this.

I stand and collect their mugs, making it clear our conversation is over. “If that’s all you have for me, I need to get back to work,” I tell them.

The two stand, and Wren reaches into her pocket for a card. She sets it on the table. “If you wouldn’t mind sending me photos of the receipts you mentioned earlier, along with your friend Kez’s contact information, I would appreciate it.”

I don’t know why I’m surprised by her request. It’s case management 101 to follow up on a suspect’s alibi. I just figured that I’d provided enough information to be removed from suspicion. That they still want to verify my alibi means that I’m still a suspect. Hopefully verifying my alibis will put an end to that.

I escort the two special agents to the front door and shake their hands before firmly closing it behind them. Out of habit, I immediately flip the lock and reset the alarm.

Once I’m back in my office, I try calling Sam to fill him in on the FBI’s visit, but it goes straight to voicemail. I glance at the clock. It’s only early afternoon, and I have more work to do, but there’s no way my brain will be able to focus on anything else right now.

Instead, I find myself staring at the photo of Melvin’s grave. Or former grave, I guess I should say. Someone went to great lengths to not only steal his body but also cover their tracks. If authorities hadn’t found the finger bone at Cooper Kuntz’s murder scene, Melvin’s missing body may have never been discovered.

Which means that whoever dug him up didn’t want anyone to know about the crime at the time, but now, they no longer care. So what changed?

The actual removal of Melvin’s bones would have required a monumental amount of effort. Modern cemeteries may only bury bodies four feet deep, but it would still take hours to dig up a coffin by hand. Plus, they’d be working at night with minimal lights to avoid being detected.

Once they uncovered the coffin, they’d have had to deal with Melvin’s body. Depending on how long after his burial they dug him up, he’d have already started to decompose. It’s not like theycould just throw him over their shoulder and cart him away. They would have needed a method of transportation nearby. Then they’d have had to rebury the coffin, making sure to tamp down the dirt before replacing the sod and cleaning up and erasing any tracks.

I shake my head, trying to think through all the steps. It would make the most sense if they used a backhoe. That’s what most cemeteries use these days. But would the grave robber have been willing to use a machine that might attract attention?

I make a note to check into landscaping equipment rental companies in the area to see if anyone who’d rented a backhoe recently stood out to them. Though it would be easier if I could narrow down the window of time when this might have happened.

Maybe I can. I pull up the cemetery’s address on Google Maps and then switch to satellite view. I zoom in until I’m in the general area of Melvin’s grave. Then, I start clicking back through previous images of the same spot taken on earlier dates. Unfortunately, the images are too blurry at this resolution to be of much help.

I’m not ready to give up, though. Most people don’t realize that nearly every photo they take contains trackable metadata, including location information. When they post those photos online, that metadata gets uploaded as well. Even if the photo is behind a privacy block or has been deleted, the data is accessible with the right software.

I just happen to have access to that software through work. I jot down the coordinates of Melvin’s grave from Google Maps and enter them into the image search engine. Given the number of photos and videos uploaded to the internet on any given day, a search like this can take a while, so I let it run in the background while I turn to something else.

I click through several folders on my computer until I find one labeledTaxes-2019. After Connor found the USB key with the scans of Melvin’s letters I’d hidden, I decided it might be more effective if I tried hiding information I didn’t want him to access in plain sight.Hence, my finances folder. I figure no teenager is going to go clicking around in tax documents. So far, I’ve been right.

After entering a password to open the folder, I’m faced with a list of case files. This is where I keep the more egregious offenders from Sicko Patrol—the ones I forward to the FBI. The ones I refer to as SuperSickos. Early on, I tried tracking down the SuperSickos, hoping a real name or address might make the FBI more likely to act on the threat. Back then, however, my investigative skills weren’t that impressive.

I hadn’t been trained like I am now. Nor did I have access to the tools and databases I do today. I start with the first name: At0m1Cluck. He’d been a regular for a while, sending messages every month or so. I click on his folder, already bracing for what I know I’ll find. He was a fan of torture porn, and he especially liked photoshopping my face on the women involved and then sending me the results. The video begins to play automatically, and I practically jump out of my skin trying to get it to stop.

At the time, I’d been able to track his user name across several different sites. He’d posted enough personal details on each one that I eventually pieced together his real identity. His name was Salem Adams, and he worked as a forklift operator in a warehouse outside Boise. I’d considered collecting some of his messages and sending them to his boss, but this was early on in my post-Melvin life when I was still on the run and trying to keep a low profile.

I jot down his name and run it through one of the more powerful search engines I have access to through work, wondering if his online activity ever caught up to him. Instead of an article about him getting fired for any of his violent, racist posts, I find an obituary. I dig a little deeper and discover that he was murdered several months ago in what authorities determined was a home invasion gone wrong.

I can’t say I’m sorry he’s gone. That’s one less person in the world dedicating his life to spewing hate.

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