Chapter 8

LEAVENWORTH, KANSAS

On the morning of Day Two of her new job, Poppy slows her car, watches the bevy of reporters camped around the station house. Local news vans are parked in the lot across the street. TV reporters primp in makeshift press stations that pepper the sidewalks.

Poppy pulls into the underground garage. It’s not like in the movies where the press rushes your vehicle. She drew only a few curious glances. Finding the car in Suncatcher Lake is big local news, but it hasn’t captured the attention of national news desks. Probably because they already caught Alison Lane’s killer: the late MRK.

In the station, Poppy passes Sheriff Walton’s office. It has glass walls, which don’t lend to privacy. The sheriff is talking to two other people. A tall man in a dark suit and a woman with severe bangs and prominent frown lines on either side of her mouth.

“Good morning,” Poppy says to Margaret, who is shuffling down the hallway. Poppy is quickly learning that Margaret isn’t merely the desk receptionist, she’s the sheriff’s right hand and the office’s Yoda.

“Morning, dear.” She shakes her head. “It’s going to be one of those days.”

“What’s up?”

“Press conference at nine. The mayor’s chief of staff and his public relations lady are here. They always put the sheriff in a mood.”

Poppy nods. She checks the time on her phone. The press conference is in fifteen minutes. She wasn’t invited, but she assumes there’s no harm in her watching from the back of the room.

Inside her office, she notices the red light on her phone is flashing. In the age of texts and email, voicemails aren’t the norm. But she’s new to the office, so maybe it’s the culture. As she boots up the computer she listens to the message. The automated voice says it came in at 6:37 that morning.

“Poppy, it’s Ken. Sorry to call you so early, but I’m going to be tied up most of the day and not sure we’ll have a chance to talk…” The sheriff pauses, there’s the sound of the phone being cupped and the sheriff’s muffled voice talking to someone. “A couple quick things. Since you’re not plugged into patrol or other duties yet, I think it makes sense for you to focus on the Alison Lane stuff. If you can wade through the tips that come in, I’d appreciate it. Last time, it was a mass of crap, but we need to at least review them. Also, I gave your name to the point person at KBI. She’ll reach out to you if they have any luck identifying the bodies in the car or find anything helpful.”

The Kansas Bureau of Investigation’s forensics lab provides support for other state law enforcement agencies. Poppy knows this only because she applied, and was summarily rejected, for a job at KBI.

“Finally… there was an FBI agent on the Lane case five years ago, a woman named Jane Fincher. If she approaches you, you are not to speak with her. It’s a long story that I’ll fill you in on once things calm down.” More voices clatter in the background. “Anyway, thanks for your help. One hell of a first week,” the sheriff says before hanging up.

At 9:00 a.m., Poppy makes her way to the large conference room. The folding metal chairs are filled. Men balancing large cameras on their shoulders take stations in the corners. Poppy stands in the back, positioning herself so she can see through the gaps between the taller onlookers.

The room is buzzing but dulls to a murmur when the sheriff and his entourage enter from a door in the back.

As the sheriff approaches the lectern, Poppy senses someone sidling up next to her. She takes a quick glance and sees a tall, slender woman with a short haircut. She’s in her thirties, wears an expensive-looking blouse and flowing slacks.

Stoic, the sheriff begins: “Good morning, everyone.”

There’s a smattering of “Good mornings” before he continues.

“As you are aware, yesterday, private citizens using sonar equipment identified a vehicle submerged in Suncatcher Lake.”

Poppy scans the room and notices the two men from the Cold Case Company videos in the audience. They undoubtedly will make the interview rounds after the press conference, crowing about their discovery. That’s not completely unfair. They’ve been wildly successful at finding watery graves missed by others.

“The car is a BMW model five thirty sedan. The vehicle identification number shows that the car was registered to Michael Lane.”

Another low rumble fills the room. The sheriff doesn’t need to add that it’s the car Alison Lane was driving the night she disappeared.

“Inside the vehicle were two individuals. Though we have not yet identified either of them, the KBI’s preliminary analysis is that they were adult males, both victims of foul play.”

The murmur in the room rises to a buzz.

“We’ll take a few questions, but I trust you’ll understand that there are limits to what more we can say without jeopardizing the investigation.” The sheriff points to a reporter with well-coiffed hair in the second row.

“Sheriff, have you had a chance to speak to Alison Lane’s family? I understand her mother passed away some time ago, but we’ve been unable to reach her father.”

“Yes, I’ve spoken to Michael Lane. He moved abroad and requests that you respect his family’s privacy.” The sheriff shakes his head, as if the media frenzy were the reason Alison’s father fled the country. “Next question,” he says, pointing to another reporter.

“Erin Chaney from KMBC Nine. Do we know how long the vehicle was in the lake?”

“We don’t have a precise timeline, but it appears to have been submerged for a long period.”

“Long as in weeks, months…”

“Years,” the sheriff says.

The reporter continues: “We understand that Suncatcher Lake and other local bodies of water were searched shortly after Alison Lane went missing. Do you know why the vehicle was missed in those searches when Cold Case Company found the car in less than two hours?”

The sheriff doesn’t show any signs of annoyance or defensiveness. “We don’t know why the vehicle was missed, assuming it was in the water when the original search was conducted. It’s something we’re looking into.”

The woman next to Poppy makes a tiny scoffing noise. She looks down at Poppy. “They never searched that lake.”

Poppy furrows her brow and turns back to the sheriff, who’s pointing at another reporter to take a question.

“You mentioned foul play—how did the victims in the car die? And are there any clues about Alison Lane’s disappearance?”

The sheriff frowns. “We can’t talk about the evidence in an ongoing investigation. I can say that the vehicle had some personal effects of Ms. Lane that KBI’s forensic office is processing.”

“The Missouri River Killer has been the lead suspect in the disappearance of Alison Lane,” the reporter continues. “Does the presence of the two men in the car call that into question?”

“Right now, we’re considering all options. As you know, Ms. Lane’s DNA was found at Benedict Cromwell’s campsite, so we believe he was involved in her disappearance. None of the thirteen law enforcement agencies working the case have ever found evidence that Cromwell worked with others. But we’re hoping that once we identify the men in the car it will provide answers.”

The tall woman scoffs again.

Poppy turns her head to the woman. “You mind?” Poppy doesn’t like people who talk during movies and this woman is interrupting her boss, so she figures it’s an appropriate response.

The woman offers a smile. “He’s persuasive,” the woman says. “Trustworthy, believable.” She watches the sheriff as he wraps up the questions.

Poppy nods. The woman’s tone isn’t sarcastic, but the comment doesn’t match her other reactions to the sheriff’s remarks.

“And they’re all so tall.” The woman looks toward the podium as the sheriff closes out the press conference. He and his entourage are indeed tall, each over six feet.

“You ever heard of Warren Harding?” the woman asks Poppy, as the crowd starts clearing out.

Poppy examines her. She has a long neck that gives her an aristocratic air.

“You mean like the former president?”

The woman nods, pleased. “The twenty-ninth president. Considered by most historians to be one of our worst presidents. He was an idiot and corrupt.”

Poppy shakes her head, not clear where this is going.

“But he won in a landslide. You know why?”

Poppy says, “I gotta get go—”

“He looked the part,” the woman says. “And he was tall.” The woman stands erect as she says this. “Do you know that about fifteen percent of men are six feet tall, less than five percent are six-two or taller?”

Poppy considers walking away, but is genuinely curious.

“But in Fortune Five Hundred companies,” the woman continues, “nearly sixty percent of CEOs are six feet or taller and thirty-three percent are six-two or taller.”

“And this matters because…?”

The woman eyes the sheriff and his tall inner circle. “Often, those who seem like we should trust them, seem like they are leaders we should follow, are anything but.” The woman reaches into her handbag and retrieves something, which she hands to Poppy.

It’s a business card. It has the blue FBI seal on it, says: SPECIAL AGENT JANE FINCHER. The agent the sheriff warned Poppy about.

“It also means that those who aren’t male who aren’t exactly six feet tall”—she eyes Poppy up and down—“may benefit from working together.”

Before leaving the room, the agent says, “They probably told you not to talk to me. But you should.”