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some friends were there four years before, they heard a baby crying. I found it interesting that this report matched the story that Nathan O’Malley had told us.
    I picked up the phone and called the reporter, Max Cline. The two of us went way back, and I knew he’d give me the information I needed. He answered on the first ring.
    “Cline here.”
    “Max, it’s CeeCee Gallagher.”
    “CeeCee! Hey, glad you called! You got something for me on this murder?”
    “Not yet. I actually need something from you. I was just reading your article in the paper on the murder and one of those excerpts jumped out at me—the one from Brian. I want to look at his whole story, Max. Can you tell me where the website is?”
    “It’s not a website, CeeCee. It came from a chat room.”
    “How’d you get it?” I prodded.
    “Interestingly enough, one of the girls who works here took part in a chat room discussion on Mary Jane’s Grave. The website was called Grave Addiction I think, and it was up maybe three years ago. She likes that spooky stuff, so she printed out the chat room transcript that day and hung on to it.”
    “So only the people who’d logged on to the chat room that day would’ve heard these stories?”
    “I guess, unless the other people saved it, too. But I’d say it’s unlikely. Why? It sounds like you’re onto something. Give me a hint. I need it for a story I’m writing.”
    “Not yet, Max, but you’ll be the first to know when the time comes.”
    It was highly doubtful that Nathan O’Malley had logged into the chat room three or four years ago. At the time, he would have been only twelve or thirteen years old. But as far as I was concerned, it still didn’t matter.
    Stories like that, once heard, are passed around for years. I was sure Nathan had heard the crying- baby story from somebody, but why he felt the need to throw it in after the murder I had yet to figure out. I would definitely have to talk to those kids again.
    I spent the next hour on the phone with the highway patrol trying to find out if they still had the fatal accident report Coop had told me about. The guys assured me that if they found it, they’d fax it to me at once.
    I knew it would still be some time for the preliminary lab results to come in, so I thought I’d go see the accident survivor in person. Coop had given me his name and I was getting antsy, sitting around feeling useless.
    Now thirty-one years old, Gary Fenner was a sales manager at a local car dealership. I didn’t call ahead for fear he’d hang up on me. After all, it was probably one of the worst experiences of his life and one he likely wouldn’t want to talk about.
    It didn’t take me long to track him down to the new car lot. According to the salesman who greeted me at the front door, Gary was showing a young couple a sleek new SUV. He pointed to a tall, gangly, borderline homely guy whose nose took up most of his face. I walked over to him and pretended to look at a red Honda Accord. I always did like red cars, even though statistically they cry out, “Give me a ticket!”
    “Good afternoon, ma’am. Anything special you’re looking for?”
    “Are you Gary Fenner?” I asked, even though I figured it had to be him.
    “Yes, ma’am. Are you here on a referral?”
    “Actually, no. I’m Sergeant Gallagher with the Richland Metro Police Department.” I handed him my card. “I need to ask you a few questions. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
    He paled, his friendly smile replaced by apprehension. “Can you tell me what this is about, Sergeant? I’m working.” He looked around nervously.
    I explained what I wanted to talk about and watched his face go two shades lighter. I felt bad about making him talk about his past experience. It had to be hard for him. But it had to be done.
    “I read about the murder today. I don’t know how I can help you.” He looked somber. “I don’t know how my accident could be of any help to you at all.”
    My