It was an old blue sedan, dusty and nondescript.
The road was a seldom-used passage between a farm and what passed for a city area in these parts. She never would have known about the road, much less the car, had it not been for the phone calls.
The farm's owner had called the police non-emergency line to report there was a car in need of a tow. He reported such an event every once in a while; not so much that it was a bother, but not so infrequent that it appeared as a surprise.
And then there was the chilling 911 where the operator could barely hear a girl's voice saying, "You're - you're The Carpet Killer."
It could be just a hoax, the operator had tried to reason. But there was a rigidness in her muscles, something about the girl's tone that just set her off. Besides, if it's not a hoax. . . The operator shuddered, thinking of her own two daughters. Both blondes.
The operator kept quiet, signaled her supervisor and listened. It was the nightmare she would never get out of her head.
The trace of the call came to a tower out here, and Gibbs had taken it upon herself to check out an abandoned rental car in the area.
Now, Detective Gibbs bent over the dusty old sedan, which had been left unlocked. Careless, she sighed.
But there on the car's driver seat was proof that she had been wrong. The piece of paper read:
Truck: red. MS Lic Plate: HVN 235. Mid 40s white, 250 lbs, brown eyes, no facial hair, brown hair. Tell Mom I love her.
Detective Gibbs stared at it for five minutes, then got back into her own car to call in the descriptions. She stared back at the note.
Tell Mom I love her.
The words echoed through Detective Gibbs.