Roadside Crosses

who’d survived. The photo was more formal than the others—the pretty girl looking off to the side, smilingblandly. Dance turned the thin, glossy rectangle of paper over and noted a portion of a picture of a sports team on the other side. Travis had cut the picture out of a yearbook.
    Had he asked Caitlin for a picture and been refused? Or had he been too shy even to ask?
    The agents searched for a half hour but found no clues as to where Travis might be, no phone numbers, email addresses or friends’ names. He kept no address book or calendar.
    Dance wanted to see what was on his laptop. She opened the lid. It was in hibernate mode and booted up immediately. She wasn’t surprised when it asked for a password. Dance asked the boy’s father, “Do you have any idea what the code is?”
    “Like he’d tell us.” He gestured at the computer. “Now, that’s the problem right there, you know. That’s what went wrong, playing all those games. All the violence. They shoot people and cut them up, do all kinds of shit.”
    Sonia seemed to reach a breaking point. “Well, you played soldier when you were growing up, I know you did. All boys play games like that. It doesn’t mean they turn into killers!”
    “That was a different time,” he muttered. “It was better, healthier. We only played killing Indians and Viet Cong. Not normal people.”
    Carrying the laptop, notebooks, strongbox and hundreds of pages of printouts and notes and pictures, Dance and Carraneo walked to the door.
    “Did you ever think about one thing?” Sonia asked.
    Dance paused, turned.
    “That even if he did it, went after those girls, that maybe it wasn’t his fault. All those terrible things that they said about him just pushed him over the edge. They attacked him, with those words, those hateful words. And my Travis never said a single word against any one of them.” She controlled her tears. “ He ’s the victim here.”

Chapter 16
    ON THE HIGHWAY to Salinas, not far from beautiful Laguna Seca racecourse, Kathryn Dance braked her unmarked Ford to a halt in front of a construction worker holding a portable stop sign. Two large bulldozers slowly traversed the highway in front of her, shooting ruddy dust into the air.
    She was on the phone with Deputy David Reinhold, the young officer who’d delivered Tammy Foster’s computer to her and Boling. Rey Carraneo had sped to the MCSO Crime Scene Unit in Salinas and dropped Travis’s Dell off for processing into evidence.
    “I’ve logged it in,” Reinhold told her. “And run it for prints and other trace. Oh, and it probably wasn’t necessary, Agent Dance, but I ran a nitrate swab for explosives too.”
    Computers were occasionally booby-trapped—not as IED weapons, but to destroy compromising data contained in the files.
    “Good, Deputy.”
    The officer certainly had initiative. She recalled his quick blue eyes and his smart decision to pull out the battery of Tammy’s computer.
    “Some of the prints are Travis’s,” the young deputysaid. “But there are others too. I ran them. A half dozen were from Samuel Brigham.”
    “The boy’s brother.”
    “Right. And a few others. No match in AIFIS. But I can tell you they’re larger, probably male.”
    Dance wondered if the boy’s father had tried to get inside.
    Reinhold said, “I’m happy to try to crack into the system, if you want. I’ve taken some courses.”
    “Appreciate it, but I’m having Jonathan Boling—you met him in my office—handle that.”
    “Sure, Agent Dance. Whatever you’d like. Where are you?”
    “I’m out now, but you can have it delivered to the CBI. Have Agent Scanlon take custody. He’ll sign the card and receipt.”
    “I’ll do it right now, Kathryn.”
    They disconnected and she looked around impatiently, waiting for the construction flagman to allow her through. She was surprised to see the area dug up so completely—dozens of trucks and road-grading equipment were tearing apart the ground. She’d driven here just last week and the work hadn’t yet begun.
    This was the big highway project that Chilton had written about in the blog, the shortcut to Highway 101, in the thread titled “Yellow Brick Road,” suggesting gold—and wondering if somebody was profiting illegally on the project.
    She noted that the equipment belonged to Clint Avery Construction, one of the largest companies on the Peninsula. The workers here were large men, working hard, sweaty. They were mostly white,