himself. “No, I want to know what else you didn’t tell me. Are you really divorced, or is Richard hiding somewhere upstairs too?”
Ellen sat silently, staring at the floor, and Sam cursed softly. “I’m sorry,” he said.
She looked up at him, her brown eyes vulnerable and so very sad. “No, I probably deserved that.” She stood up. “Maybe you should go.”
Sam didn’t stand up. Instead he picked up the file of letters and sighed.
“No, I shouldn’t go. You’ve got a problem here,” he said, gesturing to the file, “that’s bigger than this problem here,” he added, gesturing between the two of them. “Please, sit down and tell me about the phone calls.”
Ellen sat down slowly, her eyes searching his face. “You think this could be serious?”
“Bob said something about a caller hanging up when he and Jamie picked up the phone. Have I got it right? You and your daughter were the only ones who’ve gotten these calls?”
Ellen nodded.
“Can you tell me everything you remember about the calls? Can you describe the voice?”
“Male,” she said, her eyes still on his face. “It was definitely a man, even though it was kind of high pitched and raspy, as if he were trying to disguise his voice.”
“What did he say?”
“It was weird. The first time I picked up the phone, he said something like, ‘Do you like to fly?’ and I said something like, ‘Who is this?’ or ‘Who’s calling?’ He asked something else really odd—‘What do you smell like?’ or, no, ‘
Who
do you smell like?’ It was weird.
Who
. And then he said—and I remember this really clearly, because he said the same thing in the other calls, and to Lydia too. He said, ‘Do you want to get probed too? Where do you want to get probed?’” Her face flushed and she glanced away from him. “And then he got pretty explicit with his list of choices. That’s when I hung up.”
Sam was scribbling her words down in his notebook. Probed. That wasn’t a word he’d heard too often. Maybe they’d get lucky and come up with a match for some previously apprehended creep’s MO. They’d plug the words used in both the phone calls and the letters into the police computer—together and separately, because at this stage they couldn’t even assume it was the same guy—hoping to find some previously tagged sex offender with a similar method of operation. This kind of creep tended to favor certain words over others, such as “probe,” or asking
who
you smell like, rather than
what
, and those word choices sometimes helped in identifying them.
And IDing this guy would help them find him.
“The second and third times he called, I hung up as soon as he started talking about probes,” Ellen continued.
Sam looked up. “Did he ask for or mention your uncle at all?”
“No.”
He flipped back through his pages of notes. “The first letter arrived on…June twenty-eighth. The first phone call was…before that or after that?”
“After. A couple days after.”
“You’re certain of that?”
“Yes. I’m sure you know that Bob’s number is unlisted. He thought it was just a coincidence. But I remember being really spooked, thinking it was maybe the same guy who sent those awful pictures. Still, Bob thought it was just some pervert who randomly dialed a number, searching for a female voice.
Sam glanced up from his notes.
“But you don’t think that, do you?” Ellen asked, a note of worry creeping into her voice.
He shook his head. “Ellen, do you remember the date your commercial first aired?”
She frowned. “No. Wait—yes. It was…” She met his gaze only briefly. “It was the day after us. You know. You, me, the lions…”
Sam smiled crookedly. “I don’t need a lot of reminding about that.” He flipped through his notebook to a calendar page. “That was a week ago Friday. So you saw the commercial on Saturday…June twenty-fifth.” He looked up at Ellen. “Three days before you got the first
Ellen sat silently, staring at the floor, and Sam cursed softly. “I’m sorry,” he said.
She looked up at him, her brown eyes vulnerable and so very sad. “No, I probably deserved that.” She stood up. “Maybe you should go.”
Sam didn’t stand up. Instead he picked up the file of letters and sighed.
“No, I shouldn’t go. You’ve got a problem here,” he said, gesturing to the file, “that’s bigger than this problem here,” he added, gesturing between the two of them. “Please, sit down and tell me about the phone calls.”
Ellen sat down slowly, her eyes searching his face. “You think this could be serious?”
“Bob said something about a caller hanging up when he and Jamie picked up the phone. Have I got it right? You and your daughter were the only ones who’ve gotten these calls?”
Ellen nodded.
“Can you tell me everything you remember about the calls? Can you describe the voice?”
“Male,” she said, her eyes still on his face. “It was definitely a man, even though it was kind of high pitched and raspy, as if he were trying to disguise his voice.”
“What did he say?”
“It was weird. The first time I picked up the phone, he said something like, ‘Do you like to fly?’ and I said something like, ‘Who is this?’ or ‘Who’s calling?’ He asked something else really odd—‘What do you smell like?’ or, no, ‘
Who
do you smell like?’ It was weird.
Who
. And then he said—and I remember this really clearly, because he said the same thing in the other calls, and to Lydia too. He said, ‘Do you want to get probed too? Where do you want to get probed?’” Her face flushed and she glanced away from him. “And then he got pretty explicit with his list of choices. That’s when I hung up.”
Sam was scribbling her words down in his notebook. Probed. That wasn’t a word he’d heard too often. Maybe they’d get lucky and come up with a match for some previously apprehended creep’s MO. They’d plug the words used in both the phone calls and the letters into the police computer—together and separately, because at this stage they couldn’t even assume it was the same guy—hoping to find some previously tagged sex offender with a similar method of operation. This kind of creep tended to favor certain words over others, such as “probe,” or asking
who
you smell like, rather than
what
, and those word choices sometimes helped in identifying them.
And IDing this guy would help them find him.
“The second and third times he called, I hung up as soon as he started talking about probes,” Ellen continued.
Sam looked up. “Did he ask for or mention your uncle at all?”
“No.”
He flipped back through his pages of notes. “The first letter arrived on…June twenty-eighth. The first phone call was…before that or after that?”
“After. A couple days after.”
“You’re certain of that?”
“Yes. I’m sure you know that Bob’s number is unlisted. He thought it was just a coincidence. But I remember being really spooked, thinking it was maybe the same guy who sent those awful pictures. Still, Bob thought it was just some pervert who randomly dialed a number, searching for a female voice.
Sam glanced up from his notes.
“But you don’t think that, do you?” Ellen asked, a note of worry creeping into her voice.
He shook his head. “Ellen, do you remember the date your commercial first aired?”
She frowned. “No. Wait—yes. It was…” She met his gaze only briefly. “It was the day after us. You know. You, me, the lions…”
Sam smiled crookedly. “I don’t need a lot of reminding about that.” He flipped through his notebook to a calendar page. “That was a week ago Friday. So you saw the commercial on Saturday…June twenty-fifth.” He looked up at Ellen. “Three days before you got the first
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