Page 92 of Whispers in the Night

At nine a.m., Morris knocked on the conference room door and entered without preamble. “FBI lab called with updated analysis on the fiber evidence. They’ve narrowed down the specific uniform batch.”

Harper’s pulse quickened as she moved to his side. “Show me.”

Morris pulled up the lab report on the main screen. “The fibers found at the crime scenes come from a specific production batch of polyester blend fabric manufactured eighteen months ago. That batch was sold to only three agencies—Oregon State Police, a private security firm in Eugene, and Blackridge Police Department.”

“Can we narrow it further?” Silas asked.

“Already did. Oregon State Police uses a different uniform cut and style—the fiber weave pattern doesn’t match. The security firm went out of business a year ago and their remaining uniform inventory was donated to charity.” Morris highlighted the relevant section. “That leaves Blackridge PD. The fibers found at our crime scenes are consistent with current Blackridge Police Department patrol uniforms issued within the last eighteen months.”

Harper felt triumph surge through her. “So our killer has access to Blackridge PD uniforms. Current uniforms, not old ones purchased secondhand.”

“Which means he’s either currently employed by Blackridge PD or has access to their uniform supply,” Holloway said. “How many officers received uniform issues from that batch?”

Morris checked the records. “Forty-three officers total. But only twelve match our profile parameters—male, age thirty to fifty, appropriate physical build.”

“Twelve suspects,” Harper said. “And Sutton is one of them.”

“He’s at the top of the list based on everything else we know,” Holloway agreed. “But we need to investigate all twelve thoroughly. If we focus solely on Sutton and miss someone else, we’ve failed.”

They spent the morning pulling detailed records on all twelve officers. Service histories, performance reviews, any complaints or disciplinary actions, personal background checks. It was tedious work, but necessary.

By lunch, they’d eliminated eight officers—five had solid alibis for at least one murder, two were on medical leave during the killing spree, and one had been working patrol in a different part of the city during all the estimated times of death.

That left four viable suspects: Dale Sutton, Officer James Reeves, Officer Andrew Garrett, and Officer Ray Calder.

“Reeves has been with the department fifteen years,” Morris said, pulling up his file. “Excellent service record, multiple commendations. He’s also fifty-two—older than our profile suggests.”

“Garrett is thirty-one, matches the physical description,” Holt added. “But he transferred to Blackridge from California only eight months ago. The Portland and Seattle murders predate his time in Oregon.”

“Calder is forty-three, decent record, been with Blackridge for six years.” Morris showed his photo. “But look—he’s six-foot-four, two hundred and forty pounds. Significantly larger than our profile suggests.”

“Which brings us back to Sutton,” Harper said. “Mid-thirties, average build, employment history that places him in every city where murders occurred, access to current Blackridge uniforms, and evidence tampering behavior. He’s our guy.”

“Probably,” Holloway agreed. “But we still need proof.”

There was that word again: proof. Harper was sick of hearing it. But she pressed on, determined to get what they needed to finally end this.

At noon, Sanchez entered the conference room looking excited. “I’ve been analyzing the surveillance footage from Amanda Crawford’s disappearance more carefully. Found something.”

He pulled up enhanced video on the main screen. “This is from a traffic camera at the intersection of Maple and Seventh—the dead zone where Amanda disappeared from view. Look at the timestamp. Seven thirty-four p.m., two minutes after she left the restaurant.”

Everyone leaned in. The footage showed an intersection at dusk. Cars passing through, pedestrians on sidewalks. Then, briefly visible in the corner of the frame, a Blackridge PD patrol car.

“That’s Unit 23,” Sanchez said. “Dale Sutton’s assigned vehicle.”

Harper leaned even closer to the screen, squinting. “Can you enhance the image? See if there’s anyone in the passenger seat?”

Sanchez worked his keyboard. The image pixelated, then sharpened. The patrol car’s driver was clearly visible—male, dark uniform, features obscured by the angle and lighting. The passenger seat was harder to see, but there might have been someone there. Or it might have been shadows.

“I can’t tell for certain if there’s a passenger,” Sanchez admitted. “The resolution isn’t good enough.”

“But Sutton was at that intersection at the exact time Amanda disappeared,” Silas said. “That’s not coincidental.”

“His patrol route included that area,” Holloway pointed out. “He was supposed to be there. That’s his job.”

“But what if he used his position to approach Amanda?” Harper said, thinking it through aloud. “She’s walking alone at night, a police officer pulls up, asks if she needs a ride or if she’s okay. She’d trust a cop. She’d probably accept help if he offered it.”

“That’s speculation,” Holloway said. “We can’t prove he made contact with her based on him driving through an intersection.”