He’d hired Tessa to conduct research on a number of his books. Tessa had worked for the FBI, Homeland Security and the NSA. Now retired and living in Georgetown, Tessa was a forensic genealogist. She’d worked on proving identity in cases involving descendants of victims of the Titanic and the Holocaust; she’d located fugitive war criminals, assisted investigators finding next of kin in major disasters and cold case crimes. Tessa’s expertise and extensive network of colleagues gave her access to an ocean of archives and databases both public and restricted in over fifty countries.

“This one sounds interesting,” Tessa said, after he’d explained the case and given her all the details on the girls that he had, including names and approximate year of birth.

“I need to find these women now. You can charge more than your usual rate if you can expedite it.”

“That won’t be necessary, Ben. We’re only talking about a couple of decades. I just finished a contract, so your timing’s good. If there are no complications, this shouldn’t take me too long. I may have to access a few restricted databases.”

“Thank you, Tessa.”

“I’ll get going on this right away.”

Next, Ben called Manitoba’s Justice Department to follow up on his request.

“Yes, Mr. Grant,” an official with the department said, “we’re arranging to send you court transcripts both printed and in a compressed digital file.”

“Thank you, and my other requests?”

“Your request to see evidence in this case, and the journals and other writings of the defendants while they were serving their sentences, is being reviewed. I must again remind you, much of the material remains sealed under court order. However, I’ve been advised that it’s possible that some items may be released. It will require further review.”

“Thank you.”

Ben ended the call, collected his things and got into his rental car.

Seventy-Four

Eternity, Manitoba
Present day

Ben drove to a neighborhood lined with tall shade trees, stopped at a tidy two-level frame house and knocked on the front door.

Now that he had names, he needed to confirm which girl had lived at which address so that he could learn more about the young killers. Waiting for a response, he looked next door at the run-down bungalow with the unkempt yard and the For Rent sign in the window. He was knocking at the door of the house where he’d seen a curtain move when he was here earlier with Jurek.

Nosy neighbors tended to know things.

Ben was about to knock again when the door was opened by a heavyset woman in her seventies or eighties with white hair piled in a bun. She eyed Ben guardedly.

“I’m not buying anything, mister.”

“I’m not selling anything.” He smiled. “I’m a writer.”

“A writer?”

“Ben Grant.” He gave her his business card.

She looked at it. “From California.”