“Walter Elliott, of Hartford, Connecticut,” was our perp.
“We can't just roll up with an arrest warrant,” Keith mused, leaning back from the screen. “Coordinating an out-of-state arrest with the Connecticut courts will take days, and if a local patrol car idles outside his house too long, he might bolt. We go up there under the radar. We knock on his door with a bogus pretext—tell him we're doing a routine verification for his son’s Navy security clearance updates.”
I nodded, the gears turning. “We feel him out, see if he matches the physical profile from ’76, and maybe snag a discarded coffee cup or a soda can while we're at it. Get a direct DNA match to seal the deal.”
“Exactly,” Keith said, a plan forming in his mind. “Once we lock him down and the lab confirms the direct match, we drop the hammer with the Hartford PD. Let's go to Connecticut after we have a little bit more info on him.”
“OK,” Keith said while settling in at his computer. “Give me a couple of hours, and I’ll search and print out anything online about our guy.”
I went home to pack a few things, and Melanie was waiting for me. “Melanie, we might have something,” I told her translucent form. “Does the name Walter Elliott ring a bell?”
“It sounds familiar, but I don’t know what or where from,” the spirit said, a slight shrug rippling through her shoulders. “Is he the man that killed me?”
“All the scientific evidence says it’s him,” I explained. “My partner and I are going to do a bit more research, then go to Connecticut and try to question him under the radar.”
If a ghost could look excited, Melanie did. Her form seemed to flicker with a sudden, sharp energy. “If it’s him, you’ll arrest him?”
“I’ll slap the cuffs on him myself,” I assured her. “There’s no statute of limitations on murder, Melanie. If this is our guy, he’s going away for life.”
“Then go get him ,”she grinned. “It’s not easy or fun being a restless spirit,” she laughed , then dissolved away.
“Hooo boy Bill, I hit the jackpot researching our Mr. Elliott,” Keith exclaimed, climbing into the passenger seat as we began our road trip a couple of hours later. “Our man was Brooklyn born and raised. And get this—he was born in 1960, and was class of 1977 at Lincoln High.”
“Holy crap, Keith,” I muttered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. “That was the same graduating class as Melanie. They were the exact same age. That’s how he knew her.”
“And it gets better,” Keith said, tapping his folder against the dashboard. “Remember that VIP party that was going on the night Melanie was murdered? It was for Thomson and Associates, that accounting firm. They're still in business, and guess who was an intern there in the summers of ‘76 and ‘77 before he graduated with an accounting degree from UConn? One and the same!”
“So, I was partially right,” I said, a grim focus settling over me as I rubbed my chin. “She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But he didn't just stumble across her. He recognized her from school. If he was working that dinner, he probably saw her, maybe overheard her telling Trisha she was leaving early. He went out to the parking lot ahead of her and waited in the dark.”
“Yeah,” Keith agreed. “He didn’t need to blend into the crowd, he was already part of it.”
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