Page 123 of Cold, Cold Bones
“Boldonado, the man found hanging in the state park, he ran with the bus guy?” Ryan was organizing data bytes in his head.
“Yes,” I said. “Bobby Karl Kramden. They were both vets. According to Cougar Piccitelli, Kramden uses the alias Smith.”
“Kramden and Piccitelli are preppers?”
“Survivalists. Whatever.”
Slidell jumped in. “Kramden’s pinups are a who’s who of serial killers. All the pretty boys. Dahmer. Bundy. Gacy. Ramirez.”
Ryan’s eyes met mine, looking like chips from a frozen lagoon. Then he turned to Slidell.
“Surely you’ve followed up on this skeeve?”
“Yes, but I’m CCU, pal. A detective named Henry did most of the digging, a newbie with Homicide/ADW. She found nothing suspicious in Kramden’s background.”
“So violent crimes is looking into this?”
Slidell waggled a hand. Yes and no. “Until Hunt, all we had were cold cases and a prepper with a sicko hobby.”
“And a stalker who leaves eyeballs.”
“And that.”
Ryan said nothing for a very long time. Then he asked me, “Does this complex have surveillance cameras?”
“Each unit is responsible for its own security,” I said.
“I don’t suppose you have video surveillance?”
“I have a Ring doorbell system.” Immediately regretted my snippiness.
“Awesome.” Glancing at the door, puzzled, then at me. “Where is it?”
“In its box in that drawer by the sink.”
“Sacre bleu.”
“My next-door neighbor has one.”
“The psycho Scot?”
“No. His unit is in the main house. Walter lives in the coach house. Perhaps his camera captured something.”
“Here’s my proposal,” Ryan said. “First, Tempe and I talk to Walter about viewing last night’s footage, see if we can spot her early-morning visitor. Meanwhile, Skinny gives Kramden another look. Then we discuss following up on the crematorium and on Sanchez.”
As Ryan let Skinny out, my memory cells unspooled a montage of Kramden’s board. Like a quick zoom lens, my mind’s eye zeroed in on one headline. On an article published in 2013.
Suddenly, I was on fire to get to my laptop.
It took me no time to find and review the file. MCME 580-13.
A teenage girl had been run down and left to die on Rountree Road in south Charlotte. The crime scene and autopsy photos brought it all back.
The girl’s long blond hair, dark at the roots. Her ravaged face. The tire treads scoring her pale flesh. The dark and lonely stretch of two-lane. The little pink purse lying down the embankment.
The girl had arrived at the MCME as an unknown. I’d given her a name. Slidell had caught her killer.
Sweet mother of god. It was true.
