Free Redheads by Jonathan Moore

of us probably still have connections in law enforcement, industry or government. We have favors we can call in. I thought maybe we could start by listing every killing we know.”
    Mike booted his laptop and connected it to the projector. He went to the wall near the minibar and used the switches there to lower the screen and dim the lights. Then he came back to the table.
    “Chris and I developed a search program over the years. We’ve used it to identify thirty-seven possible victims, starting in 2000 and going up to July 4th, when we found Allison.”
    “But,” Chris said, “we also know Aaron found the pattern earlier, in 1996. Maybe we should start with Aaron so if there are any trends that are developing over the years, we see them by going chronologically.”
    “Makes sense,” Mike said. He looked at Westfield. “You want to take over?”
    Westfield took his own laptop from his backpack and put it on the table. He opened the screen and cleared his throat.
    “First one I was aware of was in 1978. That was in Sasebo, Japan. My wife. Tara.”
    He went to the map, found the little box of pins Chris had left on the shelf under the bulletin board, and placed a pin carefully at Sasebo.
    “Two of you know this, but I’m just telling it for Julissa. I was aboard my ship when it happened. We were patrolling in the Strait of Taiwan. The Navy took me off the ship by helicopter to Kaohsiung, then arranged a transport plane to Sasebo. She was already dead three days by the time I got back. They found her in our apartment off base. She’d walked to the commissary that afternoon, then came back with groceries. They found her the next day. Her boss—she gave English lessons to a couple of kids—called the base when she didn’t show up.”
    Mike projected a map of Sasebo onto the screen. Westfield went over and studied it.
    “Been awhile since I looked at this.”
    “Take your time,” Julissa said.
    “Zoom in on this part here,” he said to Mike. He stepped back and waited for the image to resolve.
    They were looking at warships moored along piers in a deeply inset bay. Westfield pointed where the piers met the land.
    “This is the base. I don’t know about now, but in ’78 the commissary was here.” He touched the screen and it dipped away from him. He waited for it to stop swaying.
    “She would’ve walked along this road, come out the eastern gate, then followed these wharves. There was a pedestrian bridge over this expressway. The apartment was here.”
    He lightly touched a blue-roofed building.
    “Military or industrial wharves?” Chris asked.
    “Industrial.”
    “The first thing you notice about all of these is how close they happen to the water. Almost without exception the victim is found somewhere within a mile of a major shipping harbor.”
    “There’s always a close connection to wharves,” Westfield said. He looked at the map again and then came back to the table and sat. “I’ll skip what he did to her. We all know about that.”
    “Maybe you better not skip it,” Julissa said. “What he does to the women is important. We should talk about it. Even if it’s unpleasant.”
    Mike Nakamura looked up from his laptop. “I agree.”
    “All right. Makes sense I guess.” Westfield looked out the window and then looked at Chris.
    “The autopsy was conducted by a U.S. Navy surgeon, on the Sasebo base. The investigation itself was done jointly by local Japanese detectives and military M.P.s. At the time, the Navy wouldn’t give me the full autopsy report. It wasn’t until ’98 that I got the whole thing. I had to hire a lawyer and file a Freedom of Information Act request. The surgeon didn’t come to a full conclusion as to cause of death. It could’ve been blood loss or blunt force trauma. A third possibility is she died of shock, which to my mind, is a nicer way of saying she died of pain. Either way, it’s certain she died in pain, if not from it.”
    Westfield swallowed and looked