The General's Secretary Read online

  “What do you want to know?” the journalist asked.

  “How did you determine the disappearances of the women were related?”

  “The girls lived in the Techwood Drive area of Atlanta.”

  “The projects near the Georgia Tech campus?”

  “That’s right. The area was torn down just before the 1996 Summer Olympics.”

  “Surely more than three women have disappeared in the city. Did you have other evidence to link them in addition to where they lived?”

  “Printed T-shirts were left in their cars.”

  The journalist had Dawson’s full attention. “Go on.”

  “The shirts were custom-made, similar to what college kids wear for special-event weekends. These particular shirts were to commemorate the MLK weekend.”

  “Did the police determine where they had been purchased?”

  “Unfortunately, no. The cops came up empty-handed.”

  “And no additional women went missing?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What about your gut, Ms. Baxter?”

  “How’s that?” she asked.

  “What’s your gut tell you about the missing women?”

  “They were murdered, and a serial killer was on the loose for those three years. I never could determine what stopped him from killing again.”

  She paused for a moment before adding, “I always thought the killer was trying to leave a message or a clue or a warning, perhaps.”

  “What kind of warning?”

  “Who knows? I’m just telling you what I thought back then. The women disappeared more than twenty-five years ago. Their bodies have never been found, and the killer could be still on the loose. You might be the right man to bring him to justice.”

  “I’ll let you know if I find him.”

  “I’ll be praying for your safety and your success.”

  NINE

  Dawson drove along the winding two-lane that wove through an older residential area in the suburbs of Atlanta. Lillie checked the street addresses, searching for the house where Leonard Simpson’s parents lived. The community had been beautiful at one time, but the homes had aged, and many had fallen into disrepair.

  On the way, they had passed a number of vacant strip malls and closed gas stations, providing further evidence of the neighborhood’s decline with the passage of time.

  Lillie pointed to a faded number painted on the curb. “Two-forty. The next house on this side of the street should be two-forty-two.”

  Dawson pulled into the driveway and helped Lillie from the car. His gaze focused on the one-story ranch with a small, screened side porch and two large oak trees that would provide shade in the summer.

  Together they walked along a cracked sidewalk toward the small front porch. A handmade sign had been taped over the doorbell. Bell Broken. Knock.

  Following the instructions, Dawson rapped twice. Footsteps sounded inside the house.

  A lock turned, and the door opened a crack. Eyes stared at them over a chain lock still in place.

  “Mrs. Simpson?” He held up his identification. “I’m Special Agent Dawson Timmons, from the Criminal Investigation Division at Fort Rickman.”

  The elderly woman read his ID then searched his face as if ensuring he matched his picture.

  “Is this about Leonard?” she asked.

  Dawson nodded. “We saw him earlier today and wanted to confirm information he provided.”

  The guardedness in her expression lifted. “You talked to my boy?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He looked healthy, ma’am.”

  “And sends his love,” Lillie added before she introduced herself.

  “Just a minute.” Mrs. Simpson closed the door. The guard chain rattled before she opened the door, this time wide. “Why don’t you folks come in and tell me about Leonard.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Dawson waited until Lillie stepped across the threshold before he followed her inside. The living room was neat and clean.

  “Sit down, please.” Mrs. Simpson pointed them towards the couch. “I could perk a pot of coffee.”

  Dawson held up his hand. “Thank you, ma’am, but that won’t be necessary.”

  “Perhaps some sweet tea?” she offered.

  “A glass of tea would be very nice,” Lillie said before Dawson could decline the offer.

  The old woman’s face twisted into a smile. “I baked cookies this morning. They’ll taste good with the cool drink.”

  “Harriet?” a male voice called from the rear of the house.

  “Yes, dear.” She hesitated, waiting for a reply. When none came, she glanced at her guests. “That’s my husband, Charles. He stays in bed most days, but he loves when people visit.”

  She motioned them toward a narrow hallway. “Follow me. You can chat with him while I get the tea and cookies.”

  Dawson nodded optimistically at Lillie.

  “Charles, these are some nice army folks who know Leonard,” Mrs. Simpson said as they entered the bedroom.

  The elderly man sat propped up against a pile of pillows with a heavy crocheted afghan thrown over the bedding, giving another layer of warmth to his fragile body.

  His wife introduced them and then asked Dawson to open two folding aluminum chairs.

  “It’s good to meet you, sir.” Dawson arranged a chair at the foot of the bed and invited Lillie to sit.

  “These people talked to Leonard today, dear.”

  Recognition played over Charles’s face.

  Harriet excused herself and headed for the kitchen while Dawson settled into the second chair, which he positioned closer to the infirmed man’s bedside.

  “Your son looked fit, Mr. Simpson. He’s doing well.”

  “Leonard...” The old man drew out the name. “He’s a good boy.”

  His eyes glistened with pride for a son who had killed a convenience-store clerk in an armed-robbery attempt. Perhaps age or dementia had obscured Mr. Simpson’s memory of his son’s felony offense.

  “Sir, I’m with law enforcement at Fort Rickman, two hours south of Atlanta. I’m investigating a murder that occurred in nearby Freemont, Georgia, which may have ties to a young man you spoke with at your bar years ago. Leonard said one of your customers talked about three possible homicides. Do you remember that conversation, sir?”

  The old man closed his eyes. Dawson feared he had drifted to sleep.

  “Do you recall a customer who talked about burying women in steel drums?” Lillie asked from the foot of the bed.

  The tired eyes blinked open. He lifted his shoulders ever so slightly off the pillow, attempting to see her more clearly.

  She stood, walked to the opposite side of his bed and patted his hand. “I’m sure your customers sometimes told you more than you wanted to hear?”

  He nodded, his gnarled fingers picking at the afghan.

  “The young man’s story about killing women troubled Charles,” his wife said as she stepped back into the room, no doubt having overheard the conversation from the hallway. She carried a tray with four glasses of tea and a plate of sugar cookies.

  Placing the tray on a small table in the corner of the room, she handed Lillie and Dawson their drinks and offered them cookies, which they both accepted.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Dawson bit into the rich shortbread. “Delicious.”

  Harriet beamed as she stuck a straw in Charles’s glass and held it to his lips. The old man drank greedily and nodded with appreciation when she returned the half-empty glass to the bed stand.

  “I told Charles he couldn’t take everything to heart, but the story affected me as well.” Harriet patted her chest. “The boy said his brother had killed three women. Charles notified the police, hopin
g they could track down the boy and the victims.”

  “The Atlanta police?” Dawson asked.

  The older woman nodded. “They said a lot of kids tell stories when they’re under the influence, but Charles felt there was some truth to this young man’s tale.”

  Dawson leaned closer to the bed. “Do you remember what he looked like, sir?”

  The older man rubbed his chin and stared into space.

  Harriet helped him out. “Remember, dear, you said he reminded you of our boy.”

  “Brown hair, brown eyes, medium build?” Dawson ticked off the convict’s description and stared down at the old man.

  When Charles failed to respond, Harriet nudged his arm. “You remember, don’t you, dear?”

  “College boy,” he said at last.

  “How do you know he was in college?” Dawson asked. “Did he mention the name of his school?”

  Mr. Simpson pointed a shaky hand to his own chest. “His shirt.”

  “Did it say something about the MLK holiday?”

  “G—”

  “UGA?” The University of Georgia campus was in Athens, about an hour drive from Atlanta.

  Charles closed his eyes for a long moment. “G...T.”

  “Georgia Tech? Did you ever see the guy again?”

  The old man shook his head.

  “What did he tell you, sir?” Dawson needed to ensure Leonard’s details were accurate.

  “His...his brother killed three women. Buried them in steel drums.”

  “Do you remember the year?”

  A frown played across Charles’s drawn face.

  Harriet helped him out. “Leonard went to jail that spring, Charles. It’s been twenty-five years.”

  She turned to look at Dawson with serious eyes. “I’ve been praying for our son ever since, and for those women as well.” Wringing her hands, she added, “I’ve been praying for the killer too. That he’ll tell the police where he buried the bodies. Think what those families have endured by not being able to come to closure about their children’s disappearances.”

  Dawson continued to question Charles, but neither he nor Harriet could recall anything else about the young man that night.

  After thanking the couple for their hospitality and help, Dawson and Lillie headed back to his car. Before he backed out of the drive, the Simpsons’ door flew open. Harriet flagged them down from the porch.

  Lowering his window, Dawson called to her. “Is something wrong, ma’am?”

  “It’s Charles. He remembered the boy in the bar.”

  A plane flew overhead, and the sound drowned out her voice. “What’s that, ma’am?”

  She cupped her hands around her mouth. “The boy from Georgia Tech...”

  Dawson waited until a car drove past the house.

  “Could you repeat what you just said?”

  She walked down the steps and stood on the sidewalk. “Charles remembered something else about the boy from Georgia Tech.” She pointed to her head. “The boy had red hair.”

  * * *

  “Is Billy Everett the redhead?” Lillie asked as Dawson pulled out of the driveway.

  “From what Pritchard mentioned, it seems unlikely he went to Georgia Tech.”

  “But the college kid said his brother committed the crimes.”

  “Then we need to find out if Billy Everett has a brother with red hair who attended school in Atlanta.”

  Lillie stared out the window as they left the Simpsons’ neighborhood, lost in her own thoughts. Dawson seemed focused on the road, and they rode in silence for a period of time, until the freeway appeared in the distance.

  He glanced at his watch. “It’s late in the day, and we haven’t eaten. Let’s get some food before we head back to Freemont.”

  “There’s a diner about thirty miles south of the city that’s known for fast service and home cooking,” she suggested.

  “Sounds good.”

  Snippets of information kept floating through Lillie’s mind. “Maybe if we go over what we know so far, something might fall into place.”

  Dawson smiled. “You’re thinking like a cop. Go ahead.”

  She held up her finger. “First of all, we’re looking for a Georgia Tech college student with red hair?”

  Dawson nodded. “That’s right, and if what he said in the bar was true, his brother killed three women. Any idea how many kids from Freemont High get accepted to Tech each year?”

  She shrugged. “Not many. The school has stiff entrance requirements. Standardized test scores have to be high, and good grades are a must.”

  “I’ll call the high school on Monday and see if the guidance counselor can give me a list of anyone who attended Tech twenty-five to thirty years ago. Hopefully, the records will still be on file.”

  “Excuse my pessimism, but it’s not much to go on, Dawson.”

  “Sometimes the smallest scrap of information can be the missing link that pulls an entire case together.”

  “What if the Georgia Tech student and his brother weren’t from Freemont?” Lillie asked. “Suppose they were from Atlanta or knew my mother when she lived in the city.”

  Dawson nodded. “The killer could have found out where she was living and come after her in Freemont.”

  Instead of finding clarity, Lillie was more confused than ever. “If he killed my mother in Freemont, why had he killed the women in Atlanta first?”

  “When were you born?” he asked.

  “October twentieth.” She provided the year.

  “The first woman listed on the flash drive disappeared three months after your birth.”

  “What does that prove?”

  Dawson shook his head and let out a deep breath. “Nothing. But let’s go the other direction.”

  “You mean nine months before I was born?”

  He nodded. “That’s right. Nine months earlier would be the month in which you were conceived.”

  Lillie did the math. “That would have been January.”

  “As in the MLK weekend.” Dawson’s face was serious as he turned to her. “I think we may have uncovered a connection.”

  “I’m not following you?”

  “Your mother’s pregnancy may have upset the killer.” Dawson shrugged. “I’m not sure of the reason, but he could have been angry or jealous so he strikes out at other women for three years, always over the MLK weekend.”

  “To get back at my mother?”

  “Maybe. His rage could also have been directed toward your father.”

  “So he kills three women, then finally comes after my mother.” Lillie let out a deep breath. “Which means she died because of me.”

  Dawson shook his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong. He was upset about your mother’s pregnancy, not at you.”

  The diner came into view. “Let’s get something to eat. We can pick up where we left off after dinner.”

  Although Lillie was hungry, she didn’t know if food would help unravel the threads of the past that were tied together in a huge knot. Would she ever know what happened so long ago?

  She glanced at Dawson as he pulled into the restaurant parking lot. Before Granger died, he had asked her to free them from the past. Would the truth set them free or handicap them even more?

  TEN

  Full from dinner, Lillie felt her eyes grow heavy on the drive back to Freemont. Dawson had ordered the meat loaf with fresh green beans and mashed potatoes, and she had followed suit. The meal was delicious. Then he had ordered apple pie à la mode and insisted she indulge as well.

  At the cozy roadside restaurant, they’d talked about everything except the investigation. His hand had touched hers twice when they reached for the saltshaker at the same time.
r />   Lillie had to admit she enjoyed being with Dawson. He was committed to his job, and like the other army guys she knew, he loved his country and felt privileged to be able to serve. He also liked small towns and Southern cooking and sweet tea, which he had gulped down along with two refills.

  The waitress had told them to come back soon, and Dawson said they would. Not that his comment meant anything, but the thought of returning to the city with him, perhaps to tour the aquarium—which they both wanted to see—and stopping again at the quaint restaurant on the way home made her smile.

  “What’s so funny?” he said, pulling his eyes from the road.

  The sun had set, and his face was shadowed by the lights from the dash, causing more than a tingle of interest to meander lazily along her skin.

  She shook her head. “Just thinking about the nice dinner. Thank you.”

  “Thank you for suggesting the restaurant. We’ll have to do it again.”

  Another wave of energy, only this time it did more than meander. She sat up in the seat, knowing her thoughts were getting way ahead of where their relationship was going.

  Note to self. Dawson is investigating his father’s death, not taking me home from a date.

  For some reason, she preferred thinking about the date and found her eyes growing heavy once again.

  “I’m not good company.” She laughed.

  “You don’t have to worry, Lillie. Go ahead and close your eyes.”

  He was right. She didn’t have to worry with Dawson. For so long, she’d been on her own. The McKinneys had been there for her growing up, but her foster parents had tried to keep her insulated from the town gossips with homeschooling and living on the farm. Lillie had never felt a part of anything, not even the country church community that had welcomed her with open arms.

  The problem wasn’t with the congregation or the McKinneys. It was with her. She always kept up her guard so she wouldn’t be hurt again. She’d even kept up her guard with God.

  Tonight she didn’t want to think about anything that had to do with the past. She wanted to think about eating mashed potatoes and gravy and meat loaf with a man whose eyes made her think of bright sunshine and blue skies.