Page 5 of Her Last Whisper
“No, no. Dinner sounds nice,” she countered, trying not to let her voice rise another octave.
“Well, actually…”
Katie knew that look, had seen it many times when they were growing up; his blue eyes twinkled irresistibly and signaled that he had something really important to share. “Spit it out,” she said. “C’mon, how long have I known you? You have something important on your mind.”
“I thought we could celebratebothof our new jobs.”
“What? You finally were hired full time?”
“Yep, you are looking at an official full-time firefighter for Sequoia County. No more picking up short gigs here and there,” he said with some relief to his voice.
“That’s great. I’m so happy for you.” She gave him a quick hug.
“So that means we both have something to celebrate,” he said.
“Absolutely.”
“Pick you up around 7.30p.m.?”
“Uh,” she hesitated. “Sure. See you then.”
He walked slowly to the door, barely turned the corner, and then leaned back into the room and said, “Detective Scott, I think this job agrees with you. I wouldn’t have left here with anything except a yes for dinner.”
Four
Monday 1745 hours
Katie had lost track of time as she piled her large work desk with thick file organizers and corresponding banker’s boxes, sorting everything by urgency and solvability. She not only wanted to read through the top cases pulled personally by the sheriff, but also familiarize herself with the kinds of cases that generally went cold. It wasn’t only homicides; there were sexual assaults, burglaries, missing persons, and one arson case that took place when she was a teenager.
As she scanned the case overview notes, she realized that there were some significant problems and stumbling blocks with almost every case. It made them extremely difficult, especially some of the older ones, which had missing evidence and insufficient detective notes, and where many of the prime suspects and witnesses were deceased or missing.
She turned on her desktop computer and waited for it to warm up, instantly recognizing the database that she had spent time updating when she had returned home from the military and her uncle, the sheriff, had suggested she fill in at the records division until she figured out what she wanted to do. She had been assigned to enter all types of police data from investigation files, patrol reports, crime reports, warrants, and various traffic citations, so she was one step ahead when it came to learning the ropes.
After careful consideration, Katie decided that she would create a streamlined spreadsheet for the overview of cases, and it would make it easier for her to write weekly updates for the sheriff. She quickly created a system using her own version of abbreviations, solvability rates and key case information and got to work.
In the first box she opened, the ones suggested by the sheriff, there were several files she skimmed through. The first case involved a missing person from ten years previous: Sam Stiles, thirty-four years old, who worked at Palmer’s Auto Repair, left work early feeling unwell one day and was never seen again. The sheriff had made a notation that Stiles was known for fighting in bars, usually over card or pool games. There were a few leads from friends, co-workers, and patrons at the bar he frequented regularly, but all leads petered out and then the case eventually went cold. No forensics. No eye witnesses. Sam Stiles never resurfaced; the family still checked with the sheriff’s department every year on Sam’s birthday to find out if there were any new leads.
Katie sat back in her chair and mulled over the facts of the case. Ten years was a long time, but perhaps a fresh look would pull up something now the dust had well and truly settled. Or, perhaps not. She put the folder aside for now and opened another file for a kidnapping and assault case from only six months ago.
Six months and a cold case already?
Katie read the brief overview of the case to make sure that it hadn’t been misfiled. There was a note inside that read:undetermined—victim uncooperative—cold case. Not something that she had ever seen before.
Her interest piqued, she began to read the account carefully. The original report was typed, double spaced, and sorted neatly into sections of a special file folder. It had been written by Deputy Karl Windham, one of the two officers who had discovered the victim that night. Katie didn’t know the officer personally, but was impressed by how thoroughly the report was written and the detailed recording of events. There were even some initial photos.
The victim was Amanda Payton, a thirty-one-year-old nurse working for First Memorial Hospital, who had run out into the road in the middle of the night, scarcely clothed and was almost hit by a patrol car. The two officers, Deputy Windham and his partner Deputy Miller, were the ones who had first contact with Amanda. She’d been disoriented, covered in dirt and blood, and had difficulty conversing with the officers. She kept repeating the phrase, “I told the truth.”
Reading through the rest of the report, Amanda claimed she had been kidnapped from her car at a grocery store, held for over a week by a man whom she never saw, then escaped that rainy night and was luckily picked up by the police. After taking Amanda back to the station to warm up and make a full report, the deputies went back and thoroughly searched the area she had cryptically described, but they never found anything to corroborate her claim of kidnapping and being held against her will. The deputies looked at houses with blue doors and white trim, near large tree landmarks, for evidence of the bedroom, of restraints, or anything to indicate someone had been imprisoned. There was nothing; none of her remaining clothes, blood, or paraphernalia of the perpetrator was found. The deputies had taken extra efforts to search for anything that indicated any type of criminal activity and anything confirming Amanda’s story, but their attempt came back negative.
Amanda was later admitted to the South Street Psychiatric Hospital for a seventy-two-hour hold, which was routine observation for any victim who had shown severe anxiety, unable to sufficiently explain what had happened, and unable to assist in the investigation surrounding their circumstances. Deputy Windham had made the call to take Amanda to be checked out.
Reading on, Katie saw that there was little investigation into her kidnapping claims due to the lack of evidence corroborating her story except for her injuries. It made Amanda’s case almost impossible. There were some follow-up phone calls to Amanda’s place of work, to her supervisor Dr. Jamison, and to Amanda personally after she had been released from the psychological evaluation—but she wouldn’t cooperate further with police because they were asking so many questions and she sensed they didn’t believe her. She claimed that she just wanted to put the horrible incident behind her. The investigation was left at a standstill and was ultimately shuffled into the backlog—then into the cold cases when no more leads materialized. Katie looked up from the file, trying to take it all in.
She thumbed through the photographs that the hospital and deputies had taken of Amanda. The lighting was poor, but it was clear there were dark bruise marks around her wrists and ankles consistent with restraints over a period of time. Her neck was scratched in a way that could possibly have been caused by some type of restraint. The toxicology report was clean—no drugs: prescription or otherwise.
After the photos, there was a notation that the rape kit had not been used to test Amanda for signs of sexual assault. Katie shuffled back through the original report from Deputy Windham where Amanda had specifically told the officers that shewasn’traped. Flipping back to the forensic evidence reports, it had been reported that the hospital had taken her remaining clothing, bra and panties, and packaged them to be transported to the forensic division at the sheriff’s office. The report didn’t have test results or proof that the clothing ever arrived.
Were they misplaced? Backlogged?
