Buried [Completed]

Chapter twenty-three

Eight o'clock on Friday night at the Linger Longer, Dougal spotted Wade sitting at the bar and went to join him. He'd been here a few times this week already and this was the first time he'd seen Wade. His old friend looked at him warily. He'd removed his hat but was still wearing his uniform. 

"You're not meeting Charlotte here, are you?" 

"Nope." Dougal ordered a whiskey. "You?" 

Wade shook his head. "That's over." 

"Despite what you saw the other day at my place... there's nothing between us. Nothing serious, anyway." 

He hadn't talked to her since Sunday. He'd avoided the library, driving to Port Orford, instead, to check his email messages and grab supplies. 

"Are you sure? Don't mess with her, Dougal. She's too nice a person. And I mean that." 

"I know. That's why she's better off with me out of the picture." 

"You've told her that?" 

"God, you're acting like her older brother. Give it a rest, okay?" 

He knocked back some whiskey, and it burned like guilt going down his gut. Sure he could call Charlotte and make a clean break of it. But that was what a nice, thoughtful guy would do. And if he was that guy, then he wouldn't need to make the call in the first place. 

"How's the research going?" Wade asked. 

"Interesting. I've got the names of all four of the murdered women now." 

"All strangled with a red scarf?" 

"Yup. The pattern is one killing per year, the first in Roseburg in 1972, then Pendleton in 1973, Corvallis in 1974 and Medford in 1975." 

"Where the hell are you getting your information?" 

"Confidential source." He nodded at the bartender as he passed him his drink. 

"And you still think Shirley was somehow involved?" 

"Her death in 1975 was just three months after the last murder. Plus, I find it curious that she was wearing a red scarf in the most recent photograph we found of her." 

"I've got to admit— you're starting to intrigue me." 

"You know something else that bugs me? I've spoken to one of the original investigating officers in Medford. He tells me that only after the 1975 killing did they realize they might be dealing with a serial killer. Can you believe that?" 

Wade rubbed the side of his face, thinking. "We're talking about the seventies. Serial killers didn't have the profile back then that they do now. Not even in the police department. Each of those deaths would have been investigated in the jurisdiction where the body was found. And since each death was a year apart and took place in a different county..." 

The murderer had been smart enough to space out his killings and to move around, yet he'd never strayed beyond Oregon. There had to be a reason. The deaths had followed a pattern— Dougal just couldn't see it. Damn it. He ordered a second whiskey. 

"Buck a game? Loser pays?" 

"Rack 'em up." 

As they carried their drinks to the back of the room, Wade said, "Given all the years that have passed, the killer you're looking for may already be dead." 

"Maybe. But if he was in his twenties— and the majority of serial killers start then— he could still be alive." 

Dougal was reaching for a cue, when his sister and Kyle walked in. He watched them for a few moments— long enough to get the impression that his sister wasn't as deliriously happy as she'd been the last time he'd seen her in the bar with Kyle. Was the gold coating coming off the marriage so quickly? Wade was eyeing them, too.