The detective believed that every family of an abducted child deserved to know the truth. That the bogeyman who’d struck with such suddenness and seeming impunity had been identified and was paying for his crimes; that he would never harm another child or devastate another family. And, if possible, the families deserved the remains to be given back to them for a decent burial.
To remind him of what this was really about, and the reason he needed to keep pushing on whenever he felt overwhelmed or discouraged, Sweet gathered several photographs of Roxann, as well as news clippings, crime scene photographs, the incident report, and the composite drawing of the kidnapper. Then he created a small scrapbook, but not for any legal reason, not something to refer to in court or use to track his investigation. He called it his “inspiration book,” and every time he needed to, he’d look at one of the photographs of the pretty child with the dark brown eyes, especially the one of her kissing her father, and push on. And if that wasn’t enough, he’d stop and pray for strength and guidance.
Wherever the path was leading, Sweet knew he needed to find Tiffany Ibarra. So once again, he turned to LexisNexis, which had pioneered computer-assisted records searches long before there was such a thing as the internet and search engines. It was a shot in the dark. As with Julia Diaz, he had no idea if she was married and living under a different last name. Or for that matter, if she was still alive and would remember an event with any sort of recall that could help his case, even an experience as frightening as being pulled off the sidewalk by a stranger.
This time, LexisNexis turned up several Tiffany Ibarras. However, there was only one approximately the correct age. According to the computer program, she was living in Bay of St. Louis, Mississippi, about five hundred and fifty miles away. The computer report didn’t contain a telephone number so he went back to old-school detective work and called the local sheriff in Bay of St. Louis.
As it turned out, Tiffany and her family were known to the sheriff, and in a Mississippi Delta accent thick enough to butter cornbread, the lawman said he’d be happy to help. In fact, he said he’d drive out to their place and, if she was around, ask Tiffany to give Sweet a call.
Hanging up, Sweet knew that the only thing he could do now was sweat it out and hope that he’d found the right Tiffany Ibarra.
CHAPTER TWELVE
August 16, 2000
A s he was waiting to hear from Tiffany Ibarra, Sweet got another call from Sunnycalb that would prove to be one of the most significant of their relationship. The informant said the detective might be interested in a certain photo album that Penton kept in his cell.
In it, Sunnycalb said, were several photographs of young girls. And on the back of each photograph, Penton had written one of three letters: V, O, and A. “It’s the code he uses to describe what kind of sex he had with them: V for vaginal; O for oral; A for anal.”
Sickened by the thought of what the letters meant to the children, Sweet was also excited from an investigation point of view because it confirmed, and would to any jury, that Penton was a serial pedophile. But he didn’t want to give Sunnycalb anything to let him know what he was thinking and kept his voice nonchalant as he asked, “What else?”
“There’s pictures of cars.”
Sweet furrowed his brow and thought about what the man on the other end of the conversation had just said. Sometimes Sunnycalb asked questions that made him think that the inmate was fishing for information, rather than trying to give it. And some of his questions were about the types of cars used by the suspect in the abductions of Meeks, Proctor, and Reyes. It was the sort of information a clever inmate might turn around and tell some other detective as if it was something incriminating the suspect had said, hoping to curry favor or make himself
To remind him of what this was really about, and the reason he needed to keep pushing on whenever he felt overwhelmed or discouraged, Sweet gathered several photographs of Roxann, as well as news clippings, crime scene photographs, the incident report, and the composite drawing of the kidnapper. Then he created a small scrapbook, but not for any legal reason, not something to refer to in court or use to track his investigation. He called it his “inspiration book,” and every time he needed to, he’d look at one of the photographs of the pretty child with the dark brown eyes, especially the one of her kissing her father, and push on. And if that wasn’t enough, he’d stop and pray for strength and guidance.
Wherever the path was leading, Sweet knew he needed to find Tiffany Ibarra. So once again, he turned to LexisNexis, which had pioneered computer-assisted records searches long before there was such a thing as the internet and search engines. It was a shot in the dark. As with Julia Diaz, he had no idea if she was married and living under a different last name. Or for that matter, if she was still alive and would remember an event with any sort of recall that could help his case, even an experience as frightening as being pulled off the sidewalk by a stranger.
This time, LexisNexis turned up several Tiffany Ibarras. However, there was only one approximately the correct age. According to the computer program, she was living in Bay of St. Louis, Mississippi, about five hundred and fifty miles away. The computer report didn’t contain a telephone number so he went back to old-school detective work and called the local sheriff in Bay of St. Louis.
As it turned out, Tiffany and her family were known to the sheriff, and in a Mississippi Delta accent thick enough to butter cornbread, the lawman said he’d be happy to help. In fact, he said he’d drive out to their place and, if she was around, ask Tiffany to give Sweet a call.
Hanging up, Sweet knew that the only thing he could do now was sweat it out and hope that he’d found the right Tiffany Ibarra.
CHAPTER TWELVE
August 16, 2000
A s he was waiting to hear from Tiffany Ibarra, Sweet got another call from Sunnycalb that would prove to be one of the most significant of their relationship. The informant said the detective might be interested in a certain photo album that Penton kept in his cell.
In it, Sunnycalb said, were several photographs of young girls. And on the back of each photograph, Penton had written one of three letters: V, O, and A. “It’s the code he uses to describe what kind of sex he had with them: V for vaginal; O for oral; A for anal.”
Sickened by the thought of what the letters meant to the children, Sweet was also excited from an investigation point of view because it confirmed, and would to any jury, that Penton was a serial pedophile. But he didn’t want to give Sunnycalb anything to let him know what he was thinking and kept his voice nonchalant as he asked, “What else?”
“There’s pictures of cars.”
Sweet furrowed his brow and thought about what the man on the other end of the conversation had just said. Sometimes Sunnycalb asked questions that made him think that the inmate was fishing for information, rather than trying to give it. And some of his questions were about the types of cars used by the suspect in the abductions of Meeks, Proctor, and Reyes. It was the sort of information a clever inmate might turn around and tell some other detective as if it was something incriminating the suspect had said, hoping to curry favor or make himself
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