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  She walked back toward the car, where Bill and Jake stood waiting.

  She had a new idea of where the search should lead next.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  When Riley emerged from among the trees, she saw that Bill and Jake were standing by the car looking at her expectantly.

  “Did you get anything?” Jake asked.

  Riley held up the shovel blade.

  “The killer threw it aside after he finished covering the body,” she said. “Fallen leaves and underbrush are thick out there, so this could have easily gotten covered up in the days before the body was found. The cops on the scene must have missed it.”

  Jake shook his head.

  “Damn,” Jake said. “I wanted to comb this crime scene with my own people. But I got yanked off the case before I got a chance. And like I said earlier—Woody’s a hell of a nice guy, but never was much of a cop.”

  “So where does this leave us?” Bill asked.

  “With the car,” Riley said. “We might be able to trace it.”

  Jake grunted with disapproval.

  “Fat chance,” he said. “Tony couldn’t even remember its make.”

  Riley said, “Yeah, but do you remember what he did say about it?”

  Bill said, “He said it looked like some monster had ripped it up on top.”

  Riley nodded.

  “I know it sounds crazy, but I think there’s something to it. Other parts of Tony’s story are starting to make sense.”

  Then Jake let out a chuckle.

  “Son of a gun,” he said. “I think I get it. Do you remember how they used to make cars with vinyl roofs back in the seventies and eighties? They’d gone out of fashion about the time of these murders. But some of those cars were still out on the road.”

  Bill said, “Sure, I remember. Those vinyl roofs were a pain in the ass. They got damaged much too easily. Even the weather wore them out.”

  Jake added, “And do you remember how they sometimes looked after they got damaged?”

  Bill nodded.

  “They tore in long strips—like they’d been ripped by giant claws,” he said. “And a car with such visible damage would be easy to identify. The killer must have wanted to get rid of it.”

  Riley added, “He wanted to get rid of everything related to the murders.”

  Jake scratched his chin thoughtfully.

  “That narrows our search at least some,” he said. “We’re talking about a car that was probably old in 1992, one of the makes that might have had a vinyl roof. We can put our BAU techies to work searching records. They can go through owner-to-owner sales that took place in this area just after the last murder. That is if the killer didn’t just abandon the car.”

  But Riley was thinking along different lines. A hunch had been growing in her head since she’d probed the killer’s thoughts back among the trees. She remembered the sheer revulsion he must have felt when he threw the shovel away.

  “I don’t think he just abandoned the car,” she said. “I don’t think he even simply sold it. He was through with killing. The car’s very existence sickened him. He wanted it gone—completely gone.”

  Jake’s eyes widened with understanding.

  “He wanted to have it destroyed,” Jake said.

  Bill yanked out his cell phone.

  “We need to look for local scrapyards,” he said.

  Riley and Jake watched while Bill searched.

  “I think I’ve found a place to start,” Bill finally said. “The junkyard closest to Greybull is the Codner Scrapyard. Their ad says it’s been in business since 1960.”

  Riley snapped her fingers.

  “Bingo,” she said. “Let’s start right there.”

  *

  It was a short drive from Greybull to the scrapyard. As Riley and her companions got out of the car, she was surprised at the place’s appearance. She’d never visited a scrapyard before, so she’d expected this one to be the very picture of chaos.

  Instead, everything was neatly arranged around a wide open area. The ground was bare dirt, but clean and orderly. On one side was a metal building and next to that was an array of parked whole cars in various states of dilapidation. At the far end was an open shed full of shelves covered with spare parts. On the other side was a sheer, solid wall of crushed metal.

  A middle-aged man wearing jeans and a safety helmet climbed out of the cab of a massive yellow material handler.

  “What can I do for you folks?” the man asked.

  Riley and Bill took out their badges and introduced themselves and Jake.

  “I guess you’d want to talk to the owner,” the man said. He pointed to the main building. “You’ll find her over in the office.”

  When Riley, Bill, and Jake walked into the office building, they were greeted by an elderly woman wearing coveralls and heavy shoes. She was sturdily built with leathery skin, and she was smoking a cigarette.

  “What’s your business?” she asked.

  Riley and her companions introduced themselves again.

  The woman squinted.

  “FBI?” she said. “That don’t sound good. Should I fetch me a lawyer?”

  Judging from how she talked without removing the cigarette in her mouth, Riley guessed that she was a dawn-to-dusk chain smoker.

  “No,” Riley said. “We’re here investigating a cold murder case, and we’re just looking for some help.”

  The woman shrugged.

  “Murder, eh? Well, I don’t guess you’ll find any dead bodies around this place. But you’re free to look around, maybe I’ve overlooked a corpse or two.”

  She let out a burst of raspy laughter and offered Riley her hand.

  “By the way, I’m Audrey Codner. I’ve been here forever.”

  Riley shook her hand.

  “Then maybe you can help us,” she said. “We’re looking for a suspect, and we think he may have junked a car here twenty-five years ago.”

  The woman rolled the cigarette between her lips.

  “That’s quite some time ago—before we got this damn fool thing.”

  She thumped an archaic computer with her hand.

  “Still trying to figure out how it works. Back then my husband Caleb kept the records, did it all on paper. He croaked in 1998—God rest his ornery soul.”

  As tough as the words sounded, Riley detected genuine affection in Audrey’s voice.

  “Come on, I’ll show you,” Audrey said.

  She led Riley and her companions through into a room filled with shelves laden with cardboard boxes.

  She said, “If the car came through here, there’s a record of it here somewhere.”

  Riley felt daunted by the sheer quantity of files that must be here.

  “What kind of records do you have?” she asked. “License plates?”

  “Naw, the license plates would have been returned to the DMV by the owner. But we do have to get proof of ownership before we take a car. Usually that means we have the title. Sometimes we take a copy of the registration card instead. And a copy of the owner’s driver’s license.”

  This sounds promising, Riley thought.

  She exchanged looks with Bill and Jake and sensed that they were thinking the same thing.

  The woman climbed a stepladder to one of the shelves.

  “What year are you looking for exactly?” she asked.

  “Nineteen ninety-two,” Bill said.

  The woman pulled a heavy box off the shelf, lugged it down the ladder, and plopped it onto a worktable.

  “I’ve got three boxes from that year,” she said. “This one should get you started. But tell me more about this car you’re talking about.”

  Riley said, “We don’t know the make, but we think it had a badly damaged vinyl top. We think the suspect wanted to have it destroyed.”

  Audrey puffed at her cigarette.

  “Say, that kind of rings a bell. Caleb was here working one day when I was away visiting my folks. When I got back he told me abo
ut some guy who’d come in with a car. It was in good shape except for the vinyl roof, which was pretty beat up. Caleb said the guy looked real strange and gave him the creeps. Something about his eyes, Caleb said. He never told me exactly what it was.”

  Riley’s pulse quickened.

  We’re on the right track, she thought.

  Audrey thought for a moment, then said, “Yeah, Caleb was really puzzled by that one. Perfectly good vehicle, just needed some repair. But the guy was as anxious as hell to get rid of it. He didn’t want any money for the car, but he didn’t want Caleb to resell it or even sell parts from it. He wanted to see it crushed. He insisted on watching while Caleb and the crew did it. Caleb said it was the damnedest thing. He couldn’t understand it.”

  Riley had to catch her breath.

  “Did your husband mention the man’s name?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” Audrey said.

  “What about the make of the car?” Bill asked.

  Audrey scratched her head.

  “No, except that it was kind of old but still in pretty good shape. Except for the vinyl.”

  Jake asked, “What happens to cars after they’re crushed?”

  Audrey let out a short chuckle.

  “Did you see that mountain of metal when you came in? That’s what the cars get to be. Then the shreds are sold for their scrap value. Even if a car was still under there somewhere, good luck trying to find it.”

  Audrey patted the box.

  “Help yourselves to whatever you can find.” Then pointing the shelves, she added, “If you need more stuff from 1992, you’ll find it over where this came from. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

  As Audrey wandered back to her office, Jake pulled the lid off the cardboard box and immediately began to rummage through its contents.

  His face dropped with disappointment.

  “What a mess,” he said. “The late Caleb Codner wasn’t exactly a crack records keeper.”

  Bill and Riley peered into the box. Right away, Riley saw the problem.

  The box was stuffed with records from 1992, but in no particular order—certainly not by date. It looked as though Caleb had simply shoved the folders into the box haphazardly whenever he got them.

  Bill said, “I guess we’d better get those other boxes she mentioned.”

  Riley and Jake pulled down the other two boxes from 1992 and hauled them over to the table. On his cell phone, Jake started searching for car makes of that era that might have had vinyl tops.

  Jake said, “I’m getting a lot of possibilities—Consuls, Capris, T-Birds, Cortinas, Volvos …”

  Bill started pulling files out of the first box.

  “Jot down a list, Jake,” he said. “This could take a while.”

  In a matter of minutes, the table was strewn with files full of documents. Riley found it hard to stay focused. What was she looking for exactly, aside from one of the car brands that might have had a vinyl top? Their search seemed so vague, she worried that she could easily miss it. She was sure that Bill and Jake felt the same way.

  *

  After what seemed like a long while, Jake let out a yelp of glee and held up one of the folders.

  “I think maybe I’ve got it,” he said.

  Riley and Bill huddled next to Jake.

  The folder he’d found was labeled “NO RESALE.”

  Jake showed Riley and Bill the papers in the file.

  Jake said, “This car was a 1982 Ford Granada, which had exactly the kind of vinyl roof we’re looking for. The instructions were to destroy it immediately.”

  Jake pushed a yellowed piece of paper toward Bill and Riley.

  “Here’s a copy of the registration card and a driver’s license.”

  The images on the paper had faded, and it didn’t look like it had been a good photocopy to begin with. The registration card seemed to have been crumpled up, then spread out again before it was copied. The face on the driver’s license was especially bad. Was it the spectral character described by Roger Duffy and Tony Veach? Possibly, but Riley couldn’t tell for sure.

  Bill grumbled, “I guess Caleb wasn’t a stickler for what kind of documentation he’d accept.”

  Jake said, “Well, I’m not sure I blame him. Caleb wasn’t paying for the car, but he wasn’t going to be able to sell it or even the parts. Why bother with details? He had no way of knowing he was dealing with a murderer.”

  Riley peered closely at the license.

  “The name is smudged and impossible to read,” she said. “So are most of the numbers.”

  Jake waved another piece of paper.

  “Maybe this will help,” he said.

  It was the receipt—and sure enough, it was legible.

  Riley’s heart pounded as she read.

  The man’s name was Reed J. Tillerman, and the address was 345 Bolingbroke Road in Greybull.

  “Do you think that’s his real name?” Jake asked Riley.

  Riley didn’t reply, but she had her doubts. The smudged name on the driver’s license didn’t look that long.

  Bill was running a search on his cell phone.

  “It’s a real address, anyway,” Bill said. “It’s not actually in Greybull. It’s in a rural area just a short drive from here.”

  “What are we waiting for?” Jake said. “Let’s go!”

  They walked back into the office and thanked Audrey Codner for her help.

  “Any time,” Audrey said. “By the way, what did this suspect of yours do exactly?”

  “He killed three women,” Riley said.

  Audrey growled and shook her head.

  “Oh, yeah. The Matchbook Killer. I sure do remember that poor girl over in Greybull. I hope you catch the bastard. Come back if there’s anything else I can do.”

  Riley and her companions headed out of the building got back into the car, and Riley started to drive. As excited as she was, a long-ago voice kept pushing its way into her mind.

  “Give me your money.”

  It was the voice of her mother’s killer—and it sounded startlingly clear, as if she’d heard it just yesterday.

  Riley stifled a sigh.

  She had work to do, and didn’t want to be distracted—especially by something she couldn’t do anything about, perhaps not ever.

  Maybe solving the Matchbook Killer case would drive that old torment out of her mind.

  Riley started to dare to hope.

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  Riley felt puzzled when she arrived at the address that she, Bill, and Jake were looking for. It certainly didn’t look like the lair of a serial killer. A sign in front of the property read …

  Shaffer Family Farm

  pony rides

  baby animals

  organic produce

  Riley pulled the car into a large parking area to one side of an attractive, three-story farmhouse. Everything around them looked so incredibly picturesque that she could hardly believe it was real. It was spring in rural Virginia, and the landscape was astonishingly green and fresh. This seemed like another world and an earlier, more innocent time.

  When she and her companions got out of the car, a baby goat came dancing toward her. She drew her hand back when the animal tried to nibble her fingers.

  She heard a child’s voice say, “Lucky won’t hurt you. He’s just looking for treats.”

  The boy was about eight or nine years old. He was surrounded by several other baby goats.

  A woman came out of the house. She looked a little younger than Riley, and her complexion was ruddy and healthy.

  She said, “Fritz, take these goats back to the barn.”

  The boy led the little goat named Lucky away, and the other goats followed them.

  The woman smiled broadly at the new arrivals.

  “Welcome to the Shaffer Family Farm,” she said. “I’m Sheila Shaffer. You’re just in time for fresh strawberries.”

  Riley and her colleagues introduced themselves.
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  At the sight of their FBI badges, Sheila Shaffer’s eyes widened with surprise.

  Riley said, “We’re looking for a man who may have lived here twenty-five years ago. His name might have been Reed J. Tillerman.”

  The woman looked mildly puzzled.

  “You must have the wrong place,” she said. “We Shaffers have lived here for generations. I’ve never heard of anybody by that name.”

  Riley brought up the old composite sketch on her tablet and showed it to Sheila.

  “No, I don’t recognize him,” Sheila said. “Sorry.”

  Riley, Bill, and Jake looked at each other. Riley felt disappointed, and saw her disappointment mirrored in the eyes of her companions. Had the address on the receipt been faked, and the name as well?

  We shouldn’t have gotten our hopes up, Riley thought.

  Before they could ask any further questions, a man came along leading a small Shetland pony. He was about Sheila’s age and looked as hearty and healthy as she did. Like Sheila and the boy, he had freckles and red hair.

  “Anybody for pony rides?” the man asked. “Just thought I’d ask before I put Jimbo back in his stall.”

  The woman said to Riley and her companions, “This is Frank Shaffer, my husband. He’s lived here longer than me—all his life.” Then she said to Frank, “Honey, these folks are FBI. They say they’re looking for someone who may have lived here twenty-five years ago.”

  Turning toward Riley, Sheila asked, “What did you say his name was?”

  Riley showed the sketch to Frank. She said, “He might have been calling himself Reed J. Tillerman.”

  “I was just a kid back then,” Frank said. “I don’t remember the name Tillerman, but there’s something about that first name, Reed …”

  His voice trailed off.

  Then he said, “Dad might have been able to tell you, but he passed away years ago. Let’s go talk to Aunt Maddie. She was my dad’s sister. She’s the only one still around who might remember something.”

  Riley, Bill, and Jake followed Frank and Sheila to a fenced-in yard full of chickens. An older woman in a plain cotton dress was scattering grain to the hens. Riley was amazed.

  Does anybody really do this by hand anymore?