The Devil's Closet by Stacy Dittrich Read Free Book Online Page A

it would have for my marriage. Or so he said. I always wondered if he ever regretted his decision. A sizeable part of me did, but the other part—the intellectual part—was grateful. I genuinely believe that not sleeping with Michael was the only thing that kept Eric from leaving me. Had I done the deed, there is no doubt I would be divorced by now.



CHAPTER SEVEN
    Carl Malone lived on the south side of town in a middle-class neighborhood. His house, a moderate two-story split-level with freshly mowed grass and trimmed bushes, was unassuming. I pulled in behind his older, rusted-out, gray pickup truck just in time to see him walk around the corner. It appeared he was doing some type of heavy-duty landscaping work in his backyard. Wearing gardening gloves and soiled jeans, he towered around six feet tall, slender, with thinning gray hair. Carl Malone smiled amiably at me.
    “Well, hello there! May I help you with something?”
    Carl took off his gloves and extended a hand, which I graciously shook, identifying myself and explaining my reasons for paying him an official visit.
    “Sweetheart, I’ll tell you what I told the other officers. I can’t for the life of me understand why someone came into this neighborhood and stole my van, in particular. It’s the safest neighborhood. We’ve never had that sort of thing happen here, and I’ve lived here for twenty-five years. I left the van parked in the driveway with the keys in it, like I have for the ten years I’ve had it. I know one thing: I don’t want it back. Not after what happened to that poor child. Can I get you something to drink, Detective? Gallagher, right? Are you related to the other Gallaghers at the department?”
    “Right. My father and uncles,” I answered, declining the beverage. My visit didn’t seem like it would add any new insight to the case.
    “Hell, they’ve been in that department since Jesus was a boy. How many years?”
    “Thirty-five and counting.”
    Enough with the small talk. I was anxious to get back to the interview. I got Carl back on track and started asking more personal questions. Initially, he seemed somewhat put off, but I explained they were standard questions and told him not to read into them. Carl had been married up until a year ago when his wife died of ovarian cancer. They had no children, and Carl spent his current life as a salesman for a local manufacturing plant, covering the Midwest. He retired when his wife got sick and began doing light drywall work on the side. Fifty-one years old, Carl had no enemies, was liked by his neighbors, and hadn’t received so much as a speeding ticket, which I’d already learned when I first did a criminal history check. Carl Malone was as uneventful as his life, so I thanked him and left.
    Back at the station, Kincaid, Coop, and the FBI agents were in the conference room waiting for me. A response to our inquiry into similar crimes had just come in from the Tampa Police Department. Jumping to it, Coop had already spoken to the detective on that case, which took place in 1983 and, by a miracle, the detective was still working there. Coop shared the case file the detective had faxed, along with a scanned photo sent through e-mail. Their case was unnerving, looking like a carbon copy of the Hanna Parker one—except for the shoe. Coop went on about how the detective said it was the case of his career that he forever wants to solve. He was stunned, and thrilled, to see our teletype. Simultaneously, our lab reports arrived, and they clearly showed Hanna had soil on her that differed from that of the cornfield where she was found.
    “Did he bury her somewhere else first?” I asked.
    “Not likely,” Coop answered. “She had only been dead three hours or so before her body was discovered, but I’ll get to that.”
    “It can’t be possible. We’re talking over twenty years ago,” I said, referring to the Tampa killing. “Copycat maybe?”
    “ That would be impossible. It’s