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Boone led me to one corner of the unit where the file cabinets stood. He opened the top drawer and pulled out a thick manila envelope, tucking it under his arm.

“There were civil suits,” Boone said. “Derrek owned a farmhouse on seventeen acres of prime hunting land in southern Ohio. He had a few other empty plots of land throughout the state. Everything was auctioned off. The bastard ended up being worth almost two million dollars. The Harley under that tarp was his as well. But he put the title in my name just before he was arrested the first time. I didn’t know. I got a call from a lawyer about it a few months after Derrek died.”

“Who got the proceeds of everything else?” I asked.

“Most of it got eaten up by attorney fees for the plaintiffs. They were all family members of some of Derrek’s victims. They left me his personal effects. Most of that stuff was still in his possession in prison. Raven and I live in a small apartment above the design shop in downtown Chelsea. I inherited everything my grandpa left, too. Used the proceeds from the sale of his house to start up my own firm.”

“He’d be proud of you,” I said. “If it isn’t too presumptuous of me to say that.”

“No, thank you. I know he would. My point is, I didn’t have any place to put it all. So when Derrek’s stuff got delivered in boxes, I already had this place. I thought about burning it all. I’ve never really looked at any of it. I’ve never ridden a Harley. I should sell it. But I’m afraid of what might happen to it if I do.”

“What do you mean?”

“A lawyer once told me the measly things I do have of Derrek’s could fetch hundreds of thousands of dollars if I auctioned them off to the ghouls who collect things like that. A chance to own a Harley that once belonged to an infamous serial killer is apparently priceless.”

“That’s awful,” I agreed.

“The thought of it winding up in one of those grisly museums like where they keep the Bonnie and Clyde death car ... no, thanks. Even if I sold it and donated the money to a worthy cause, I still can’t stomach the thing ending up where somebody could gawk at it. So here it sits. And I have no clue what to do with it.”

“You could destroy it,” I said.

He came to me and held out the thick envelope he was carrying. “Then there’s these. This is what they sent me from prison. His personal effects. Or some of them, anyway. These are supposed to be letters he received while in custody. I’ve never opened it. I have no interest in reading them. I just stuffed them in that file drawer and there they sat. Going on seven years.” I watched as he tore open the package and handed it to me.

I used my fingers to spread the torn end of the package. It contained letters, just like Boone was told. Hundreds of them. Next to the file cabinet was a small metal workbench, likely belonging to Boone’s paternal grandfather.

I set the package down and pulled out one smaller envelope. It was postmarked from San Diego. I carefully pulled out the letter it contained.

Dad had received hundreds just like this one over the years. Crazed fans. Macabre requests for souvenirs from some of his more notorious murder cases.

Derrek Sidney’s prison mail seemed to fall into two categories. Hate mail and disgustingly fawning fan mail. As I opened a small sampling of the other letters, a few contained nude photos of both men and women who professed their love for him.

“You said you wanted to figure out whether Derrek had someone helping him. Maybe something in there can help answer your question.”

I was stunned. The package I held would be worth a lot of money too if Boone ever wanted to sell it. The idea disgusted me for the same reason it did Boone.

“Law enforcement would have already gone through this,” I said. “Sidney’s mail would have been closely monitored.”

“I know that. Still, maybe you could find something they didn’t.”

While I knew the odds of that were highly unlikely, I had access to something the cops didn’t. I had Derrek Sidney’s only surviving victim working with me. And I had E. Thomas Gale.

“May I take these?” I asked.

“I wish you would,” he said. “As long as you promise they won’t leave your care. And that you’ll never publish them. I want the originals back. How about by the end of next week? After you’re done with them. I want to burn them myself.”

“You have my word. Boone, thank you. I know what a leap of faith this is for you.”

“I can’t undo what Derrek did. But if I can bring even a small amount of peace to Geneva Bell, I don’t think I have a choice. So yes. I’m trusting you.”

“Of course,” I said.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for. And I hope it’s the last I ever have to think about Derrek Sidney.”

I wished that could be true for Boone. But I think we both knew that was an impossible dream. And a living nightmare.

Chapter

Twenty