Cut to the Bone(76)

“Federal grant,” Sanders said. “The Justice Department is paying the states to put their old paper records online. So I review each document, track down missing pieces from public and private sources, and digitize it for the Internet.”

He held up the sheet of paper that caused his lap burn at Lou Mitchell’s. “This is Appendix F from the execution held June 29, 1972, at Stateville. When you see it, you’ll know why I came here.”

Emily passed out copies. Hands slapped desktops and foreheads.

“Damn! It’s our serial victims,” a detective said.

“Correct. We finally have our common link,” Cross said. “Go ahead, Johnny.”

“Yes, sir,” Sanders said as Branch handed him water. “A few days ago, I was at home in Springfield, reading the morning newspapers. I saw the obituary for Frank Mahoney. The barber whose throat was cut in Arizona?”

Heads nodded.

“Another story mentioned Sage Farri’s death in Los Angeles and Zabrina Reynolds’s here in Naperville. At the time, they didn’t mean anything to me.”

The cops drummed fingers, inhaled coffee, studied the handout.

“At breakfast this morning, I reviewed the next document on my list,” he said, rattling Appendix F. “It contains the names of the twelve official witnesses to that June 29 execution. They share the same last names as the victims of your serial killer.”

“What’s an ‘official’ witness?” a computer tech asked.

“The ordinary citizens who volunteered to witness the execution as representatives of the people of Illinois,” Sanders said. “There’s twelve, same number as on a jury.”

“In addition to the reporters and relatives?”

“Yes, ma’am. An entirely separate group.”

Cross took over.

“Johnny saw the names, remembered the newspaper stories, put two and two together. He drove here to let us know.” He flicked his foam cup into the overflowing wastebasket. “Every victim is the grandchild of a person on Appendix F. Name for name.”

“Why didn’t this F pop up when we ran the victims before?” a CSI asked.

“It’s never been digitized,” Sanders said. “It gathered dust in a records warehouse for more than three decades. That’s what my project’s about. Making documents Internet friendly so you guys can search them from anywhere.”

Branch thumped his cane. “Thanks to Emily’s burnt-match posting on NCIC, we’ve already backgrounded eight of them. Now we’ll get the rest.”

Cross extended his hand. “Thank you, Johnny. I’ll inform the governor personally how vital your help was in finding this killer.”

Sanders beamed.

“The officer will escort you to your car,” Cross said, waving over a uniform. “As I mentioned earlier, keep this information to yourself. Tell no one. If reporters call for comment, plead ignorance. It’s crucial we keep the killer in the dark about how much we’ve learned.”

“I will, sir,” Sanders said, flushing from the applause. “Just catch this maniac.” He recalled the roses in Sage Farri’s windpipe. “Nobody should die like that poor boy in LA.”

The officer touched his arm, and they walked out.

“Questions?” Cross said.

The CSI raised his blue chin. “Sanders said twelve witnesses. Only eleven on this handout.”

“That’s ‘cause you ran out of fingers,” the detective said.

“I still got this one,” the CSI said, raising it.

Emily smiled. Wisecracking eased the strain of killer hunting.

“I left it off for security,” Cross said. “I haven’t told him yet he’s a target.”

“Told?” the CSI said. “He’s alive? We can save Twelve from this freak?”

“If we don’t,” Cross said. “Everyone in this room can start looking for a new career.”

Deep breath, blowout.

“Starting with me.”

June 29, 1972

Hello?” Danny Monroe said, frowning as the word echoed without response. It was unlike Mom not to be on the stoop, purse in hand, when he pulled into the driveway. “I’m here!”

No sound but the ticking of the grandfather clock.

He and Verna were driving to Stateville Prison this morning - her to witness the execution of her eldest son, him to wait in the car, per his long-ago agreement with Earl. For years, he’d tried to talk her out of it, but she remained adamant that “my baby not die alone.”

“We’re going to be late!” he said. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

Still nothing.

Shrugging, he checked each room as he made his way to the back of the house. Window air clicked off, on, off. Dust motes drifted over the snowflake shakers Mom collected on family vacations. Yellowed snapshots of him and Earl grinned from faded eggshell walls.