Page 93 of Whispers in the Night

“Can we pull GPS data from Unit 23?” Harper asked. “See exactly where Sutton went that night?”

“Already requested it,” Morris said. “Should have the data by this afternoon.”

While they waited for the GPS data, Harper and Silas reviewed everything they had on Sutton one more time. Employment history, duty assignments, evidence room access logs, background from Baker City. Piece by piece, they were building a picture of a serial killer who’d hidden in plain sight for years.

At two p.m., Morris had the GPS data. They pulled it up on the map, tracking Sutton’s movements on the night Amanda Crawford disappeared.

“He left the station at three-oh-five p.m. when his shift started,” Morris narrated, following the GPS trail. “Drove his normal patrol route through downtown. Multiple stops—traffic stop at four-fifteen, responded to a noise complaint at five-thirty, routine patrol through the downtown corridor.”

The GPS showed Sutton’s car moving through the city in what appeared to be normal patrol patterns. Then, at seventhirty-two p.m., the car stopped at the intersection of Maple and Seventh.

“That’s where the traffic camera caught him,” Harper said.

“He stayed there for eight minutes,” Morris said. “Then continued patrol. Made another stop at—” He paused, zooming in on the map. “Riverside Industrial Park. Stayed there for forty-three minutes.”

Harper felt icy fingers of dread slide down her spine. “That’s where Amanda’s body was found. He went directly there.”

“His patrol route includes the industrial park,” Holloway said, but even he sounded uncertain now.

“At seven-forty p.m.? After spending eight minutes at the exact location where Amanda disappeared?” Harper shook her head. “That’s not normal patrol behavior. That’s him taking her there, killing her, staging the scene.”

They tracked the rest of Sutton’s GPS data. After leaving the industrial park at eight twenty-three p.m., he’d continued patrol for another three hours before returning to the station at eleven fifty-five p.m. to end his shift.

Normal behavior after committing murder. Because for Sutton, it was normal.

“We need to search his patrol car,” Harper said. “If he transported Amanda in that vehicle, there’ll be trace evidence. Hair, fibers, DNA.”

“His patrol car gets used by multiple officers on different shifts,” Holloway said. “Any evidence could be explained away as contamination.”

“Not if we find Amanda’s DNA in specific locations—the back seat, the trunk. Places where a patrol officer wouldn’t normally have contact with civilians.”

Holloway considered. “I can authorize a routine inspection of Unit 23. Standard maintenance check. If we happen to collect samples during that process...” He left the implication hanging.

“Do it,” Harper said.

At three p.m., Sutton reported for his shift. Harper watched on the security monitors as he checked out his patrol car, did his routine vehicle inspection, then pulled out of the station garage. Surveillance teams were already in position, ready to follow his every move.

“He looks completely normal,” Silas observed, watching Sutton on the camera. “Calm, unhurried. Like he doesn’t have a care in the world.”

“Because he thinks he’s gotten away with it,” Harper said with barely concealed contempt. “He’s been killing for years and no one’s caught him. Why would Blackridge be any different?”

While Sutton was on patrol, the department’s vehicle maintenance supervisor conducted an “inspection” of Unit 23. He collected fiber samples from the seats, trunk, and floor mats. Swabbed for DNA from the back seat and door handles. Photographed everything thoroughly.

The samples went directly to the FBI lab with a rush order. Results would take at least forty-eight hours.

Two more days of waiting while Sutton was out there, potentially selecting his next victim.

Harper spent the afternoon reviewing cold cases from Sutton’s previous jurisdictions, coordinating with detectives in Portland and Seattle, building a comprehensive case file. The pattern was undeniable—everywhere Sutton went, women died. And he’d been meticulous about covering his tracks, using his law enforcement knowledge to stay ahead of investigations.

But he’d made mistakes. The fiber evidence. The GPS data placing him at the industrial park. The evidence tampering that had left electronic records.

They were closing in. Harper could feel it.

At eight p.m., Sutton made a stop during his patrol. Harper watched the surveillance feed as he pulled into the parking lot of Summit Fitness—the gym where Amy Thorne had worked out.

“Why is he there?” Harper asked.

They watched as Sutton got out of his car and walked into the gym. The surveillance team’s body cam footage showed him approaching the front desk, talking to the employee there—a young woman, brunette, petite.