One person.
If the Black Wigs were responsible for the death of Nick Calderon, then why would only one of them be seen coming and going?
Geezer had also mentioned that the person appeared to have been wearing lipstick. Nobody would have made note of that unless it stood out. He also told her that the black wig fell to the intruder’s shoulders.
Sawyer skimmed through articles about the Black Wigs written by other sources. Lipstick was never mentioned. Not once. The wigs, though, were talked about many times as being short—cut close to the ears.
There it was again. A tingle. More of a niggling. Could they be dealing with a copycat?
Anything was possible, especially considering the rippling effect the Black Wigs appeared to be having on young females around the country.
She grabbed a new manila file and wrote “Nick Calderon” on the tab. Using the notes she’d taken on her phone, she found a fresh pad of paper and wrote down the residence where Linda Calderon said her ex-husband had lived during much of his childhood: Children’s Home of Sacramento.
The next few hours were spent scouring the internet.
Nick Calderon had been abandoned at a young age. A troubled child, he’d kicked and bitten his way through the foster system until he’d eventually ended up at the Children’s Home of Sacramento.
An article she found on the school talked about how a professor of public policy had tried to close down residential homes in Sacramento altogether, since she and others believed strongly in the government-funded foster system in the hope that the children would eventually be reunited with their families. But the other side of the coin was that not all children had families that would take them back. And not all children were emotionally, physically, or mentally equipped to deal with a smaller family unit. That’s where a government-funded residential treatment facility in Sacramento came into the picture. The children were put in an environment where they were provided family meals. Many children, boys and girls, came to consider others at the facility to be like siblings.
Next, Sawyer checked Facebook. Nick Calderon had an updated profile. From the looks of it, he’d been fairly active on social media right up to his death. He was an insurance salesman. He also liked to hunt. There was a picture of him with two other men, taken last year. They all wore what looked to Sawyer like standard camouflage duck-hunting gear.
The guy standing in the middle was the tallest and thinnest of the three. His face was half-hidden beneath the bill of his hat. The guy on the far right had a large belly and a full beard.
Sawyer moved on, scrolling through inappropriate memes and silly jokes. She kept skimming until she got to a black-and-white Polaroid picture: three boys standing side by side in front of a nondescript, two-story building that was half-brick, half-stucco. The sign next to the boys read CHILDREN’S HOME OF SACRAMENTO. The names Bruce, Nick, and Felix had been scrawled across the bottom in permanent black marker with the year 1992 written beneath the names.
She looked through Nick’s list of friends. No Bruce or Felix. No last names mentioned on any posts, leaving her no choice but to concentrate on learning more about the home, which also had been a school. No fewer than seven links popped up on her screen. There had been a fire at the school. The historic building had burned to the ground in less than twenty minutes. Oil, gasoline, and other supplies kept in the basement had fueled the fire. Another link to the school showed various black-and-white photos, groups of kids huddled together like they do every year at most grammar schools. There was a picture of a woman pushing a young girl on a tire swing in front of the building; another picture had been taken in the dining room, which consisted of one long table that seated twenty children at once. At the end of the table was a woman. She was standing. Hands on hips, she wore an apron and a smile.
Hoping to learn more about the kids and staff who once resided there, Sawyer called the Sacramento County Clerk’s Office. After being directed to the Department of Social Services and then to Foster Care Services, and receiving little help, she skimmed through the articles again until she found a name. Nancy Lay was listed as a staff member at the children’s home. Sawyer put the woman’s name into a database. Bingo. Nancy Lay was eighty-nine and lived in Auburn.
She called the number listed. Nobody answered, so she left her name and number and asked Nancy Lay to please give her a call back. After she hung up, she called again and left her email, just in case. Next, she printed off the black-and-white photos for her file.
“Sawyer! There you are.”
Sawyer spun her chair around, surprised to see Lexi Holmes filling the entrance to her cubicle. Sawyer had been working as a crime reporter for only a few months. Lexi had been reporting crime for nearly two decades, but you wouldn’t know it since she didn’t look forty-one. Lexi was small-boned and stylish, her dark hair pulled back tight into a bun at her nape. Her eyes were the color of nutmeg, and her high cheekbones looked as if they had been chiseled from marble. If Lexi ever showed up to work in jeans and a T-shirt, Sawyer wasn’t sure she would recognize her.
Admittedly Sawyer hardly knew the woman, but she didn’t trust her. Nor did she like her very much. At every editorial meeting, Lexi and the others made certain Sawyer was left covering stories about minor crimes—petty theft, intent to sell drugs, disturbing the peace. Sawyer knew she wasn’t being fair; the truth of the matter was that sometimes there just wasn’t enough real crime to go around. “What do you need, Lexi?”
“I need you to help a girl out. I’d like you to give me everything you have on the Black Wigs story.”
“Um, that would be a big no.”
“Excuse me?”
Sawyer smiled despite the nerves swirling around in her stomach. “You had your chance. A few weeks ago, you and David wanted nothing to do with the Black Wigs story. I said no.”
“Maybe this will change your mind.” Lexi stepped forward and plopped a manila file on Sawyer’s desk.
Sawyer swiveled around so that she was facing her desk and opened the file. It was a copy of the police report for the Nick Calderon case. She skimmed the basics—victim’s name, date and time, address, ethnicity, birth date, marital status—then quickly moved on to the narrative section. No witnesses or suspects at this time. The police had retrieved a recording from the neighbor’s security camera. The dog, a male, medium size with brown fur, according to the neighbors, was missing.
Sawyer shut the file. “How could you possibly get a copy of that police report so soon?”
Lexi’s eyes did a half roll. “Every decent reporter I know in this building has multiple sources at almost every government agency at their disposal. You don’t?”
“Those aren’t called sources. A copy of a police report from an ongoing case is considered a ‘leaked document.’”
Lexi snorted. “I would consider this report to be nonattributable. As long as I don’t attribute any of the information in the report to the police, no foul.”
Sawyer narrowed her eyes. “I’ve been working with you and the others for months, and this is the first time you’ve said more than two words to me. What do you really want?”
“I’ve been watching you. If you ask me, you’re an investigator, not a reporter. And I want to help you take this group down.”