Crumpled, raggy blankets were sprawled across the bed; a small nightstand sat nearby, holding a lamp and a used condom that looked like it was still sticky wet. There was a tragically torn, stuffed dog placed beside one of the pillows. I recalled Mallory’s young age again and felt a renewed surge of revulsion and anger.
A mound of dirty laundry lay between the two dressers, one of which had a jewelry box on it, the other, a photo of a man, a woman, and a curly-haired little girl at Disney World, a price tag hanging from the corner. A small, surprisingly ornate handheld mirror rested on the dresser next to the jewelry box. A musky, rangy scent permeated the room.
The closet was beside the window.
I left the catalog on the bed for the moment, glanced beneath it, peeked in the drawers, and then in the jewelry box, where I found nothing particularly unusual, except an enigmatic diamond ring that, based on the condition of the house, I could hardly believe they could afford to own.
Crossing the room, I opened the closet door and tugged the string hanging from the ceiling to turn on the overhead bulb.
On the right, eleven shirts hung from wire hangers. Griffin was into flannel. Based on the size of the shirts, I anticipated that he would be small-framed, shorter than I was, maybe five feet six to five feet eight. No dress shirts or slacks. Nothing stylish. A blaze orange jacket for rifle season, a camo one for bow season.
On the left side of the closet, Mallory’s four dresses looked like hand-me-downs or thrift store ware. Just four dresses. That was it. No shirts. No skirts. No dress pants.
I had no idea what Griffin’s profit margin was on his merchandise, but taking into account the price tags of some of the items, I couldn’t help but wonder where all the money was going. Definitely not into his or Mallory’s wardrobe or home improvements. Maybe that ring.
Six pairs of shoes on the floor-four of his, two of hers. I checked. He was size nine. She was size six and a half.
Next to the shoes was a stack of three shoeboxes. I opened the top one and found that it was filled with sales receipts. Hundreds of them. I checked the other two boxes and found more of the same, some of them dating back eighteen years.
As I shuffled through the receipts, I found that they were carefully categorized, not by the date of sale, but by the first letter of the last name of the person who’d purchased the merchandise.
To make it easier to keep track of repeat customers?
Possibly.
I processed what we knew, the gossamer threads of facts and clues, the disquieting questions before us.
Vincent Hayes. The timing of his wife’s abduction.
The homicide in Illinois and the police tape.
Griffin’s catalog.
The handcuffs.
The abductor knew they owned a pair.
Everything in this case was somehow woven together.
Griffin referred to the guy as a Maneater.
Someone had provided this guy with the police tape from the crime in Illinois.
Someone is-
There’s no such thing as a coincidence.
I had a thought and flipped to the H’s.
And found what I was looking for.
The name on the receipt: Hayes.
The merchandise: a pair of handcuffs.
But it wasn’t Vincent Hayes’s name on the top of the receipt. It was his wife, Colleen’s.