“They did,” Sloan said. “But listen, Ben, I was there for much of the trial, the sentencing and their release. A lot of experts debated the findings of the correctional psychologists and caseworkers.”

“What do you mean?”

“Any or all of the girls could’ve hoodwinked the court into believing they were fully rehabilitated. It could have been just an act, and it’s possible that whatever disturbing forces they had that drove them to do what they did will never go away and that they could kill again.”

Sixty-Seven

Eternity, Manitoba
Present day

That evening a gum-chewing server at the Tel-Star Café brought Ben his order—a club sandwich, which was good.

After eating alone and watching the sunset, he walked across the street to the Snowberry Motel, where he’d checked in earlier. A Good Night’s Sleep at a Great Rate, the motel sign promised. His room was spacious, clean and quiet. As night fell, he worked, studying his research material, rereading his newest notes and creating new files in draft form while thinking about the case.

The lawyers had indicated that the full story of the murders hadn’t been told, while the investigators held that the case was solid, suggesting the girls, now women, were free to possibly kill again.

Where are these women now? What’s become of them? I need to find them, talk to them.

To do that, Ben needed their full names, which were sealed. He already had their first names. He’d talk to people, check property records of the addresses, school records, whatever he could. There were ways to get the names and sooner or later, he’d have them. He’d get photographs, too, to see what the faces of the young killers looked like then compared to what they look like now. If he could find them and they agreed to be interviewed.

Ben’s neck and shoulder muscles ached. He took a hot shower. After pulling on a T-shirt and sweats, he thought of Kayla and Emma, stirring his worry. He considered calling home but he was exhausted and got into bed.

Lights off, room lit only by the glow of his laptop on his chest, Ben swiped through the photos he’d taken that day: the places where the Skull Sisters lived, the smell of the slaughterhouse; the Tullock property, smelling of cleaner, silent, empty of life, with nothing visible to betray the outrage that had descended on the family.

He’d see that tomorrow.

He was meeting Roy Tullock’s brother and his wife at the cemetery.

The next morning, Ben was back at the Tel-Star Café having breakfast and reading notes about how the Skull Sisters had taken on new names.

He went online to read up on the laws and the process used to legally change a person’s name in Manitoba when his phone rang.

It was Kayla. Ben checked the time difference. She was up early.

“Hi, honey.”