He checked the statement from Cody Wyatt, who, according to Trisha, was the closest thing to a boyfriend Laney had. But Wyatt hadn’t seen Laney since early morning when they’d met for coffee at the student union the day she’d been abducted.

The person who’d found the bodies, Felicia Katz, was a blank; seemed like the girl was just unlucky enough to have her storage unit next door to the crime scene.

There was one guy, Phillip Armes, who had been walking his dog in the park near Lucille Springer’s apartment. He claimed to have seen a tall man whose race was undetermined walk across the street toward Lucille’s apartment house. But it had been far away, dark, and old Phillip was pushing eighty with thick glasses. Not much of a witness. Lucille’s neighbors hadn’t heard or seen anything, but scuff marks on the porch of the girl’s apartment might be consistent with an attack.

The only sure thing was that Lucille and Elaine had been text-messaging that night. Around the time Phillip Armes said he’d seen Lucille with the guy following her, she’d been busily sending messages to her sister. Both cell phones had been discovered at the kill site, their messages intact, messages that corresponded to the records obtained from the cell phone company.

The bastard who had abducted Elaine had sent a picture of her, trussed and terrified, to Lucille just before the attack.

Twelve years ago, during the Caldwell investigation, the victims didn’t have cell phones. It was one deviation from the current crime, but you could chalk it up to recent changes in technology, availability, and pop culture. That one factor was about the only difference in the crimes, though the Caldwell twins had been left in an abandoned warehouse, and the Springer girls were found in a storage unit.

Hayes was eyeing the reports, tapping the eraser end of a pencil against his lips, only vaguely aware of people coming and going. He felt, rather than saw, Dawn Rankin stop by his desk. Her purse was in one hand, a sweater tossed over her arm, as if she intended to leave for the day. “Guess who I got a call from?” she asked, her tone serious.

“I give.”

“Donovan Caldwell. Remember? The brother of the victims?”

“Yeah?”

She had his attention now and she knew it. Her big smile showed a bit of a gap between her front teeth. “He’s calling up with the same old story his family used to peddle; that we haven’t done enough. Now two more innocent lives have been lost because we’re inept and blah, blah, blah.”

“After twelve years.”

“Yeah.” She nodded.

“Just like Bentz.”

“What?”

“He shows up and the killer strikes again. What’s that all about?”

“Two separate instances.”

“Maybe.”