Chapter 8

The October air was chilly when Bryant first saw the Silver Memorial Bridge across the Ohio River and into Gallipolis. The temperature in Emerald Cove had been in the mid-seventies when he departed. Jan had suggested he fly to Ohio to interview the Brockleman family and Mary Beth Brockleman's friends. But after taking into account the drive to Atlanta, the wait at the security checkpoint, the hassle about bringing a firearm aboard the plane and the travel time from Columbus, Ohio, or Pittsburgh, Pa., to Gallipolis, Bryant decided it was better to drive.

He had hoped to visit Mary Beth Brockleman's parents the day after he left Emerald Cove but events had intervened.

He left Emerald Cove on Sunday morning and hit Interstate-95 north to I-26 west and into Columbia, the capital of South Carolina. From there it was north on I-77 through North Carolina and Virginia before passing through a tunnel into West Virginia. There was no traffic to speak of and he made good time. He had originally planned to stop outside of Charleston, W.Va., to spend the night. His map told him that Charleston was the last thing that could remotely be considered a city before he hit Gallipolis.

But he reached Charleston before sunset and decided to plow ahead. He continued north on Interstate-77 and cut across a winding state route until he reached Point Pleasant, a West Virginia town just across the river from Gallipolis. He saw a sign for a hotel and followed the directions down Main Street to a four-story building that looked like it might have predated the Great Depression.

He got out of his SUV and walked inside, wary about what he might find. Instead, he found an immaculate lobby and a smiling young woman behind a desk.

"Do you have vacancies?" Bryant asked.

"Absolutely, Sir," the girl said in a cheery tone. "Will it be just for yourself?"

"Yes, just me," Bryant replied.

He twisted his back to relieve a few of the kinks that had developed during the drive. He had last stopped just inside the West Virginia line, almost four hours before. The young woman handed across a registration form that was far less extensive than those in Emerald Cove. It just asked for a name, his vehicle license number and a piece of identification. It didn't require his blood type, his mother's maiden name or a DNA sample. Bryant found himself smiling and shaking his head.

The town of Point Pleasant was quaint, he decided. It compared favorably to the nearest town to where he had grown up. He went to his room, which resembled a bed and breakfast more than a utilitarian hotel room. After a quick shower, he pulled out his phone to check in.

He filled Jan in on where he was staying and what he planned to do the following day.

"You should see this hotel I'm in," Bryant told the chief with a laugh. "From the outside, it sort of looks like a soup kitchen. But inside is really cool. I'll take some photos so you can remember it if you're ever up this way."

"The only reason I would be up that way is if you decide not to come back," Jan replied. "Then I will track you down like a dog."

Jan was "urban" to her roots. It was taking her some time to get used to the friendly atmosphere of Emerald Cove and she had come to rely upon Bryant even more than she had when she was his partner on the Chicago force. Everyone she met wanted to shake her hand, which she despised. When Steve Curtis had held out a chair for her during the interview, she thought he was hitting on her. The same had been true when a gas station attendant had tried to strike up a conversation with her.

By that point, Bryant had been in town almost six weeks, although he was still living out of the same room he had occupied since he had arrived. Charlaine had taken it upon herself to find Bryant a home but so far nothing she had shown him had fit his budget. Until the house in Chicago sold, he would have to be careful not to dig himself a hole.

Jan's arrival had sped up the house hunt. The inn had a second room available; but Bryant knew the proprietor, Linda's sister-in-law, was charging far less to the new police officers than she could make from the general public. Thankfully, the peak season had ended and Bryant had some time to look around before jumping into something.

The same woman was behind the desk at Lowe's Inn when Bryant went down to see if there was somewhere nearby he could find something to eat.

"There's a nice steakhouse just down the street," she said brightly. "Does that sound like what you're looking for?"

Bryant agreed that a steak and the trimmings would suit him just fine.

"You're a cop?" the girl asked as he turned to leave. Bryant turned back and gave her a questioning look. "I saw your badge when you showed me your ID. I've heard of Emerald Cove, South Carolina, but I can't remember where."

"It's a resort town," Bryant replied.

The girl nodded thoughtfully.

"It's where that girl was murdered, isn't it?" she asked suddenly. "The one from across the river. It was on TV."

"Yeah," Bryant admitted.

"Is that why you're here?" the girl wondered. Bryant put her at that indeterminable age for females between eighteen and twenty-four. She was perhaps Mary Beth Brockleman's contemporary.

"Did you know her?" he asked in lieu of an answer.

"Nah," the girl replied. "We don't mix much. I mean, we go to separate high schools and all that. I just remember the story on the news. So, is that why you're here? Did you catch the guy?"

Bryant considered his answer.

"I'm just here to talk to the girl's family," he admitted. "Have you ever heard of anything like that happening around here?"

"Like what?" the girl asked.

"Oh, you know, a creepy guy who pays too much attention to a girl," Bryant wondered. One of the DNA samples taken from Mary Beth's vagina had come back to an unsolved rape case in Gallia County, just across the river, and another near Cincinnati. If the guy was from Gallipolis it wasn't a stretch to think he might have made his way across the bridge from time to time.

"Most guys I know are creepy," the girl answered with a slight giggle. "But if you're talking about a stalker or something, things like that are pretty rare. If it happens, usually the girl's father or a brother will pull the guy aside and explain the facts of life to him."

"How about, uh, assaults?" he asked after nodding at her answer.

"You mean like a butt kicking?" she wondered. "Or are you talking about rape?"

"The second," Bryant replied.

"It happens from time to time," the girl admitted. "A lot of kids around here, well, there isn't much to do. We drink and we party. Sometimes things go further than the girl wants. Sometimes the guy won't take no. My last year of high school, a girl got doped up and raped. She woke up the next morning on the side of the road having no idea of how she got there."

"Date rape drug?" Bryant asked.

"I guess," the girl replied. "I mean, I wasn't her friend or anything. I didn't talk to her about it."

"But you heard rumors," Bryant pressed.

"Yeah," the girl confessed. "That's what everyone was saying. She was hanging out with people and one of them roofied her. At least that's what everyone said."

"Did the police arrest anyone?" Bryant asked.

"She didn't go to the cops," the girl told him. "Her dad is a preacher. If he found out she had lied to him and went out to a party, she would have been grounded forever."

Bryant frowned but nodded his head. The stigma attached to sexual assaults was slowly lessening for women, but there were still a large number that were never reported.

"You hear who she was partying with?" Bryant asked.

The girl shook her head -- a little too quickly, Bryant thought.

"This is just between us," Bryant said in a soft voice. "I will never reveal where I heard the name. I give you my word."

The young woman scoffed.

"Your word?" she asked incredulously. "Are you trying to be funny?"

"No," Bryant said sincerely. "I'm trying to find out who killed a young woman who probably wasn't much different from you. The guy who killed her has been linked to an unsolved rape in Gallia County. I think it's likely that he has crossed into Point Pleasant a time or two. I think his method is to fixate on a girl for a while, stalk her, if you will. Then he finds her in a social setting, at a bar or a party. He drugs her and he rapes her. I think Mary Beth Brockleman knew her killer. I think the reason he killed her was because she might remember him from high school or from where she went to college. I promise I will never reveal where I got any information you might have for me. I will make sure no one ever learns I got it from you, even if it amounts to nothing."

"An unsolved rape in Gallia County?" the girl asked. Bryant nodded and she looked at the desk.

She pondered for a moment before she spoke.

"It was some of the rich kids from over there," she said, gesturing vaguely. It took Bryant a moment to realize she was pointing across the river to Gallipolis. "That's where she went to a party. We play them in football every year. Someone invited her to a party; at least, that's what I heard."

"And she was raped at the party?" Bryant asked.

"No, later," the girl said. "It was a few months later at a different party. But the guys were there from across the river. I mean, that's what everyone said."

"How long ago was this?" Bryant asked. He had no idea of the girl's age.

"Two years," she told him. "I graduated two years ago. It happened in the spring, just before Easter."

"Is the girl still around here?" Bryant asked, hoping he could talk to the victim.

The girl shook her head.

"She went to college at Marshall," she said. "I don't think she's been home since she left. I'm not sure she'll ever come back here."

Bryant pulled out his cell phone as he walked down the street to the steakhouse and called the station house. A courteous voice answered on the second ring.

"Emerald Cove Police Department, this is Officer Williams," the voice said. "How may I help you?"

"Hey, Stan, it's Bryant," Bryant told the officer, smiling at the politeness that the man had shown. "I need you to get someone to run a couple of names through NCIC for me."

NCIC is the acronym for the National Crime Information Center, a database for cataloging information about those arrested and those they harmed.

"Sure thing, Chief," Officer Stan Williams responded. It was Sunday night during the off season. Bryant was positive that any action was more interesting than what Williams had been doing.

"Richard Currence is the first one," Bryant said, spelling the last name. "The second one is Trevor Adams. I don't have a D.O.B. but they're probably between eighteen and twenty-two years old. Check for hits out of Ohio first. Gallia County, specifically, but anywhere close will do."

"If you want to hold on, I'll run them right now," Williams said. "I'll pull up the Ohio driver's license database if you or Chief Elliot will authorize it."

Bryant considered for a moment.

"Go ahead," Bryant decided. "If you can, pull the info and send it to my phone."

"Sure thing," Williams replied. Bryant heard a keyboard in the background as Williams typed. A few moments later, Bryant's phone vibrated in his hand. "You should have their stats and a photo now. NCIC has no hits in Ohio. But I got a hit on Currence in West Virginia."

"Point Pleasant or Mason County?" Bryant asked.

"No," Williams said. "It was a public intox charge from a few weeks ago in Huntington. I'm not sure where that is but I'll check for you."

Bryant found himself frowning. He remembered seeing a sign on the interstate for Huntington but he couldn't remember where or how long ago.

"That's clear over next to the Kentucky border," Williams said. "Nowhere near where you are."

Bryant nodded before another thought hit him.

"Is there a college or university there?" he asked.

He heard more typing before Williams came back.

"Yeah," the officer responded. "Marshall University. I've heard of them. It's where Rick Carson went to college."

"Shit," Bryant said softly.

"Not a Rick Carson fan?" Williams asked. Bryant paid no attention.

"Can you access CODIS for me," Bryant said urgently. "I want you to run the DNA matches from Mary Beth Brockleman against any unsolved rapes or homicides in or around Huntington, West Virginia."

CODIS is short for the Combined DNA Indexing Service, a computer that houses all DNA information collected by law enforcement crime labs in the United States.

Williams was suddenly all business.

"I'm on it," he said. Bryant heard him yell out to another officer to handle any incoming calls. It was a few moments before Williams' voice returned the line. "No match on the Brockleman case."

"Damn," Bryant muttered.