Before Jeffrey headed to the station house, he called the New York office to check in and to let his partners know that he was unofficially looking into something with Lydia. As Jeff walked the perimeter of Lydia’s house, making a security check, he spoke to Jacob Hanley on his cellular phone.
“You want us to send some guys down?’’ asked Hanley.
“I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway. I’m not convinced there’s anything going on here.’’
“Well, it does sound a little weird. And have you ever known her to be wrong?’’
“That’s the only reason I’m here at all.’’
“Yeah, right.’’
“What’s that supposed to mean?’’
“I wish you two would just get it over with.’’
“Mind your own business, Hanley.’’
“I mean, you need to just take control of the situation. Force her to realize that she loves you, man. Give her an ultimatum.’’
“I think you’ve been watching too much daytime television. Fuck off, Hanley.’’
“Don’t get your panties in a twist. Meanwhile, why don’t I run a few checks up here for you…What were those names again?’’
“Do that. Make yourself useful, for once.’’ He gave Hanley the names and hung up. Believe me, he thought, no one would like to get it over with more than I would.
As far as the security of Lydia’s home went, he was happy except for the fact that the breaker box was outside the house. It was in a locked, weatherproof yellow case, but if the power for the alarm system was located in there, it wasn’t ideal. He wasn’t overly concerned, though, because the system, he knew, was designed to default to alarm. In other words, if the power went out, a signal still went to the local police. But he would need to check with Lydia about the setup later.
He got into Lydia’s Kompressor and headed to the station. He thought about calling ahead to let Morrow know he was coming but decided to keep the element of surprise on his side. One could never be sure how local law enforcement would react to private investigators, particularly ones without actual clients. Jeffrey wanted the facts as they existed, not narrated or colored by someone else’s agenda – whatever that may be. He expected Morrow to be wary of him after their last meeting in St. Louis. Jeffrey had been sure that was the end of Morrow’s career, whether he deserved it or not. Jeffrey wondered if Morrow was still drinking.
He walked into the small precinct house and was greeted by a burly, redheaded desk sergeant who eyed him suspiciously.
“I’m Jeffrey Mark,’’ he said, flashing his private investigator’s identification out of habit. “I’m here to see Chief Simon Morrow.’’
The desk sergeant never took his eyes off him as he picked up the phone and dialed.
“There’s some private investigator here to see you, Chief.’’ He paused. “Okay.’’ He said to Jeffrey, “What is this regarding?’’
“Just tell him Lydia Strong asked me to talk to him about Lucky.’’
The sergeant repeated the information into the phone and paused before putting the receiver back in the cradle. “Have a seat. He’ll be right with you.’’
“Thanks, I’ll stand.’’
When Morrow walked out from a door behind the desk, he did a double take as he recognized Jeffrey. But he recovered nicely and offered his hand. Jeffrey took it and felt that his grip was strong but somewhat clammy. He thought Morrow was sober; his eyes were clear and his breath smelled of peppermint and coffee. But he was definitely guarded, looking Jeffrey up and down uneasily.
“Agent Mark, what can I do for you?’’
“I’m not with the FBI anymore, Chief. I have my own investigation firm now.’’
“Then what brings you to New Mexico?’’
“I was wondering if you have a few minutes to talk to me about your missing-persons cases.’’
“What’s your interest?’’
“Let’s just say I know a thing or two about missing persons and would like to offer my help.’’
Jeffrey was a man’s man, most often liked and trusted right away. His manner was understated, respectful. But his handshake was steel, and his eyes revealed a hard edge other men immediately recognized. He was amiable, but not to be fucked with.
“Well, I don’t know how much there is to look into.’’
“Really? Well, you have four missing people, one of them presumed dead. Is this normal for your jurisdiction? Or maybe some of these people have turned up safe and sound. Or maybe all you have in the barrio is a prostitute killing.’’
Jeffrey’s not-so-subtle reference to Morrow’s unpleasant past caused him to flush. He felt his cheeks burning. Morrow remembered that Jeffrey had treated him with respect in St. Louis, but brought him down just the same. In fact, their first meeting had been eerily similar to this one. Morrow had knots in his stomach.
“Come with me,’’ said Morrow, leading Jeffrey to his office.
Seated, Jeffrey waited while the chief got him some coffee. The office was a mess, files stacked in every corner, a half-empty cup of coffee and a stale Danish on the desk, an ashtray piled high with cigarette butts. The blinds over the windows behind the desk were covered in a thick layer of dust and hung unevenly. The white walls were gray with age. A typewriter sat by the desk on a rickety old table. Jeffrey rose to look at it; he hadn’t seen one quite like it in years. This thing must be an antique, he thought as he fingered the round black keys. It wasn’t even electric.
As he was inspecting the typewriter, he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye. It was a photograph, a picture of a mutilated German shepherd. The dog had been sliced open from stem to stern. Its body cavity looked to have been partially gutted and the ribs had been sawed off.
He looked up to see Simon Morrow standing in the doorway, a cup of coffee in each hand.
“Lucky, I presume,’’ Jeffrey said, raising the photograph with a slight smile.
“Yes,’’ Morrow answered, clearing his throat. He handed Jeffrey a cup and seated himself behind his desk, the old chair creaking beneath his weight.
“I have to admit, Morrow,’’ Jeffrey began, “when Lydia Strong told me of her suspicions about some of the recent events down here, I was skeptical that there was anything to worry about. The crimes seemed rather random, petty. The missing persons seemed like typical runaways. But looking at the facts, an arson, the mutilated corpse of the dog, four people missing now – one of them presumed dead if the paper is to be believed – I’m starting to wonder. Some would say these are classic indicators of a maniac on the loose
– possibly even a serial killer.’’
“Maybe. But nothing until the murder, or supposed murder, this morning really clinched it for me. Look at it from my perspective. As far as the arson goes, out here, there are a lot of old structures, like the barn, that are burned down by kids making mischief or by people trying to defraud insurance companies.
“The seventeen-year-old girl who went missing has run away from various foster families three times. The missing couple – well, people take off. It was suspicious, they took nothing with them, but that’s not a crime. Besides, I figured if something had happened, the husband probably killed his wife, hid her body, and ran off. He’d been beating her for years. We’ve brought him in at least a dozen times over the last five years.
“But around three a.m., when we got the call from Maria Lopez’s apartment building, I started making connections. I mean, four people missing in a town this small – it means something. I’m just not sure what. I’m not sure I’m ready to say there’s a serial killer out there. That’s why I haven’t called the FBI. I don’t want to involve them unless I have to.’’
“What about the surgical-supply warehouse and the dog?’’
“The supply house seemed strange. I mean, whoever did that stole enough stuff to set up a small hospital. And it seemed even stranger still when the dog turned up.’’ He motioned to the picture still in Jeffrey’s hand. “But there was no evidence connecting those events. Either thing could’ve been kids, pranksters.’’
“You must have some pretty sick kids in this town.’’
“Hey, don’t you read the news? Kids in a rural area are restless, looking for kicks. More and more there’s a lot of methamphetamine around – that’s some dangerous shit, turns normal people homicidal. I guess Nintendo doesn’t cut it anymore.’’
They laughed. Like people laugh at a funeral, uncomfortably, hushed.
“So what are you thinking now, Chief?’’
“I don’t know. I’ve got detectives and Forensics from State at the crime scene right now. They’ll be here by noon with whatever they’ve gathered. I just don’t know. After what I saw this morning, I’m starting to think something very ugly may be going on. But I’m really reluctant to call in the feds. Things always get messier when they’re around. No offense.’’
“None taken. I know what you mean; it’s part of the reason I left to start my own firm. Too much bullshit from the top. I started to worry more about public relations than about doing my job,’’ he said, partly to put Morrow at ease, to create a sense of camaraderie, and partly because it was the truth. “I think you can avoid calling them in. After all, the only reason to do so would be if you can’t solve the case yourself, if there is one.’’
“That’s true.’’
“Whatever your opinion of Lydia and of me, you must be aware of our track record. If you let me take a look at your files and let me know what the guys from State find at the scene…If there really is a serial offender, maybe we can give you a hand. The feds never have to be involved until it’s over. Until your department has solved the case. We’re ghosts, me and Lydia, you never even have to let anyone know we were here.’’
“Why are you interested in this?’’
“Let’s just say I’m doing a favor for a friend. And in doing so, I could do a favor for you and your department. It wouldn’t be the first time since I started my firm that I’ve worked with the police – confidentially, of course. Otherwise I have a good contact in the Behavioral Sciences Department who I’m sure would be happy to give his opinion if I called.’’
Chief Morrow rubbed his balding head. He honestly couldn’t tell if he was being offered a helping hand of if he was being threatened. Was Jeffrey saying, Let us in or I’ll call the FBI myself? Whether it was a threat or not, if Morrow could avoid involving the FBI, even if it meant working with Lydia Strong, he would be happy. He was smart enough to know that trouble was brewing and neither he, nor anyone in his department, had ever handled a serial case. Hell, he had to go through the state police department to gain access to VICAP and the other FBI databases.
“I’ll send everything over to you later today. Where are you staying?’’
“With Lydia. Do you know where her house is?’’
He nodded his head.
“In the meantime,’’ Jeffrey said, “make sure no one else talks to the press. There’s already too much information out there.’’
“One of the cops guarding the scene leaked the Lopez story to his girlfriend, who is apparently a reporter trying to make a name for herself at the local paper. He’s being reprimanded. But they don’t know everything.’’
“Like what?’’
“This, for starters,’’ he said, handing Jeffrey an evidence bag that contained a hand-carved wooden crucifix. “At each of their homes, I found one of these, different shapes and sizes. It might not mean anything, though. People are pretty religious around here.’’
“Left there by the perpetrator, or as part of the victims’ belongings?’’
“Part of their belongings.’’
“What else?’’
“Lucky, the dog. The paper mentioned that the dog’s organs had been removed. Well, we found most of them in a pile by the body. It looked like whoever was performing the ‘surgery’ was interrupted when the blind man came out into the church garden.’’
“‘Most of them’? What didn’t you find?’’
“The heart.’’
Lydia expected boxes of files to be carried in by the cop that arrived at her house later that afternoon. But instead there were just four moderately thick manila envelopes. The lives of Shawna Fox, Christine and Harold Wallace, and Maria Lopez had been reduced to a few piles of documents. What kind of life, Lydia wondered, leaves only a paper trail in its wake?
There were voices inside the files, though. Voices with stories to tell, with secrets to reveal. Voices that had been silenced. Lydia regarded the files and paused before opening the one on top, as if it were the lid to Pandora’s box. She looked over at Jeffrey, who was sitting on her couch, feet up on the coffee table, reading through his notes from Morrow’s noon meeting as if he were reading the newspaper, cool, disinterested. She envied him. She was about to step through a portal to another time and place, about to take a journey into some dark and unknown world, while he could remain here on earth, a beacon for her safe return.
“Let’s make the boards,’’ Jeffrey said, putting down the notes. “I can’t think straight without them.’’
Lydia slipped three 4-by 10-foot pieces of corkboard from behind the bookshelves and Jeffrey pulled easels from the closet to the right of her desk. They set them up in front of the plate-glass window-wall. They wrote the names of each victim on index cards and made columns for each on one board. On the other they pinned a map of the area. And on the third they pinned newspaper articles, clustered together by subject.
“Let’s see what we have here,’’ said Lydia, opening the first file.
Shawna Fox had been trouble for just about everyone she met: her teachers, her foster parents, her counselors. She was a discipline problem, a poor student, a runaway. A ward of the state since her parents had died when she was five, Shawna was a child who had never known a happy home. She had been arrested three times – once for driving drunk without a license in a car stolen from her boyfriend when she was fourteen; once for selling marijuana to another minor; and once for prostitution in Albuquerque.
A psychologist’s evaluation read: “Shawna is reticent, unemotional and yet prone to violent outbursts. She seems to have no remorse for anything she has done. Is not able to see that her behavior is self-destructive. When asked why she behaves the way she does, she replied, ‘I do what I have to do to stay alive.’ She would not elaborate. More than likely the victim of abuse from one or more of her foster parents. A tragic case, seems that there’s little hope for a turnaround.’’
Unlike the last three times Shawna ran away, the final time she took nothing with her and stole neither money nor possessions from her foster parents. An ongoing investigation turned up no leads. An anonymous tipster told police he had seen a lone girl walking on the highway toward Albuquerque. When he had pulled over to ask her if she needed help, she ran into the desert. He drove on. It was dark so he could not be sure if she matched the description he read in the paper.
The police also had had a visit from Shawna’s boyfriend, Greg Matthews, an eighteen-year-old dropout who worked at his father’s gas station. He insisted that Shawna never would have run away without telling him; that she loved him and was going to marry him. Greg had had a rap sheet of his own as a juvenile, but had been clean since working with his father for over two years. He had been investigated as a possible link to Shawna’s disappearance but no evidence of any foul play was uncovered. He provided a color photograph of Shawna, a close-up of her pixielike face, framed by short-cropped boyish blond hair. She had sparkling green eyes, and a pug nose, pierced with a small gold hoop. She wore a bright smile and a look in her eyes that told Lydia she was in love with whoever had snapped the photo, presumably Greg. Photographs of living people now dead always made Lydia angry. They were cold, eerie reminders of how easily life was lost, how vividly alive people remain in the memories of those who loved them, and how grief is the slick-walled, bottomless abyss between those places.
A month after her disappearance, Shawna was still missing. There were no leads.
“So why are we assuming that this girl didn’t just run away again?’’ asked Jeffrey.
“One: She didn’t take anything with her like before; she had a habit of stealing from her foster parents before taking flight. But this time, nothing of theirs and not even her own belongings. Two:
She had a boyfriend who clearly loved her. Show me one damaged teenage girl who runs away from love, probably more love than she’s ever had.’’
“What makes you think he loved her? Maybe he beat her. Maybe he killed her.’’
“Maybe, but it says here he visited the police station three different times to check on progress, insisting that she wouldn’t have run away.’’
“A lot of serial killers insinuate themselves into an investigation.’’
“He’s too young to be a serial killer. And he doesn’t fit the typical profile. Not smart enough, not antisocial enough.’’
They pinned Shawna’s picture on the board, and below it they placed index cards listing everything they knew for a fact to be true about her, vital statistics, date last seen, address. On the map board they placed a red pushpin at her last known address.
Christine and Harold Wallace had had a troubled marriage, according to a state-appointed abuse counselor. Both frequently unemployed, both recovering methamphetamine addicts, their life together had not been an easy one. Pulling each other back and forth into and out of addiction, their relationship had been violent, ranging from a slap in the face to a brutal beating which left Christine in the hospital for three weeks, to a stab wound that just missed Harold’s vital organs.
In the ten years they had been together, only three years had seen both of them out of prison or rehabilitation clinics at the same time. But at the time they went missing, they both had been off drugs for a year, both were holding down work-fare jobs cleaning the park in the middle of town, and there had been no incidence of abuse in more than eight months. Christine was studying for her GED.
When they did not show up for work that first day, their supervisor did not call it in to the welfare board. He liked them and didn’t want them to get kicked out of the program that had been helping them move forward in their lives. But after the second day, he had to call it in. When counselors went to the Wallaces’ home in the barrio, a small two-room house, they found the door standing open. All their possessions remained; no evidence of struggle or forced entry. They were simply gone. Calls to each of their parents revealed that both had been estranged from their families for over ten years. No one was interested that they were missing and could offer no information.
The last entry the social worker made in her file, a week before they disappeared, read: “I am so pleased with Christine and Harold’s progress. They are both working, drug-free, and seem to be healing their relationship. During our last session, they were holding hands.’’
The only pictures available of Christine and Harold were their respective mug shots. Though no one expects mug shots to be flattering photographs, it was clear that neither Christine or Harold were particularly attractive people. Both were painfully thin from years of drug addiction, with scraggly, longish hair, Christine blond and Harold brown. Harold had small brown eyes, a beakish nose and thin lips, protruding cheekbones, and one missing front tooth. Christine had a similarly gaunt face, but with big blue eyes that were moist and sad, and full pouting lips. She might have been pretty once, but years of abuse and self-neglect had ravaged her face and she just looked broken.
“So again, why are we assuming that these people are not holed up in a crackhouse somewhere?’’ asked Jeffrey.
“Again, because they took nothing with them. Their bank accounts have not been touched since they disappeared. They really did seem to be back on track.’’
“So then we are assuming that our alleged serial killer killed or abducted both husband and wife from their home. There’s no precedent for that.’’
“Son of Sam.’’
“David Berkowitz killed couples in their cars with a gun and ran away. He didn’t break into people’s homes, incapacitate or kill both of them and then remove them somehow from the scene – leaving no evidence. That’s a huge undertaking, highly organized and taking tremendous motivation. Whatever this guy wants, he wants it bad enough to take outrageous risks and perform complicated assaults and abductions. He must have unquestioning faith in his agenda to have such a high-maintenance signature.’’
“So if you were going to kill or abduct a couple how would you do it?’’
“I would stalk them to determine when they were the most vulnerable. Wait for the perfect opportunity, neutralize the greater threat, and then overpower the weaker. Man first, woman second, under normal circumstances. I would have a van or truck parked close to the point of assault because dead or unconscious people are very heavy.’’
“So you’d have to be smart, organized, and fairly big and strong.’’
“I’d say so.’’
“Well, I guess that rules you out as a suspect.’’
“Very funny.’’
Maria Lopez had been picked up twice for prostitution. But she hadn’t walked the streets in years and was a waitress at a local restaurant called Blue Moon Cafe. Last night, she had left work at eleven p.m. dressed to go out. She went to Smokey’s Sports Bar on Highway 434 that she frequented more or less nightly. She left with a man named Mike Urquia, who the police had picked up that afternoon and was being questioned as Lydia and Jeffrey spoke.
Hair, fibers, blood samples, and fingerprints had been collected at the Lopez scene and sent to the state lab for analysis. But it would take at least twenty-four hours for any results to come back. Even then most of what had been found would only be useful to eliminate or confirm suspects. Unless they got very lucky, for example, a carpet fiber that came from a very rare rug, only sold in a certain location…something like that. Or in the best case scenario, the offender had a prior record and the prints could be matched to someone already entered in the FBI database. DNA results could take months, not like on television where they came back in hours.
“So it may be that Mike’s our man,’’ said Jeffrey.
“I don’t think so.’’
“Why?’’
“I just don’t.’’
“Well, okay, then. Maybe you should get a job with Psychic Helpers.’’ “For starters, he’s Hispanic. There aren’t too many Hispanic serial killers.’’
“Richard Ramirez.’’
“It’s not him.’’ Lydia was firm, and Jeffrey had only been playing devil’s advocate.
She placed the final index cards on the board and the final red pin on the map.
She stood back and looked at them, wondering what it was they had in common. The problem child. The abuser. The abused. The prostitute. She could catch the scent of these lives, but their life force, their personal essence remained elusive.
“It’s hard to really get a sense of these people. Whoever gave the cops their information was distant, on the outside looking in, neighbors, bosses, social workers. No intimates, no friends except for Shawna Fox’s boyfriend, and no families. It’s almost like there’s no one to say who they really were.’’
“It’s a start,’’ he answered pragmatically.
She paused, leaning forward on the desk, picking up a crystal paperweight and holding it up to the sun streaming in the southern window. Rainbow flecks of light danced on the wall behind her.
“I wonder…’’ She drifted away, staring into the facets of the object in her hands.
“What?’’ He hated it when she started a sentence and then let it float off into space, leaving him waiting for the finished thought.
“I wonder if the lack of information is something in and of itself. Not even an incompetent like Morrow would fail to interview people close to the victims – especially a juvenile.’’
“So, what are you saying?’’
“I’m saying maybe there was no one close enough to give a true picture of these people. Maybe that’s significant.’’ She walked over to him and sat close to him on the couch. She pulled her feet up beneath her and let her legs rest on his thigh. She looked up at him. “We’re going to need to do some digging on our own. Nobody leaves this world without showing someone their truest heart.’’
Her gray eyes stared past him at the boards then, her body leaning into his. She could feel his strong quadriceps beneath the soft rust-colored corduroy pants he wore, could smell the faint musk of his cologne.
Really? Who have you shown your truest heart to? He put his arm around her and rested his chin on her head.
“In fact,’’ she mused, “it’s really the only thing that connects them.’’
“What is?’’
“That no one seemed to care when they were gone. That and poverty.’’
“And religion.’’
He handed her the picture of the crucifix that Simon Morrow had showed him. He had told her about the crucifixes when he recounted his conversation with Chief Morrow, but her jaw dropped when she looked at the picture. The crucifix was large, made of a highly varnished red wood – the Christ figure intricately detailed. The feet were neatly folded over one another, nailed viciously to the cross, a single drop of blood falling like a tear. The knees were bent together to one side in a feminine, almost demure manner, like a curtsey. The rib cage and collarbone strained against taut flesh and the neck was arched in agony and the face uplifted, contorted in an expression of profound pain and anger. It was just so human, so emotional, just like the statue of the Virgin Mary in the garden at the Church of the Holy Name.
“What’s wrong?’’ Jeffrey asked, peering at her over his Armani eyeglass frames.
“I’m so stupid,’’ she said. “I didn’t even think of it when you mentioned the crucifixes. When I went to the church before I picked you up at the airport yesterday, I saw a statue of the Virgin Mary and Baby Jesus. It was remarkable for its humanism and Juno said that his uncle had sculpted it. He mentioned that his uncle carved wood crucifixes and sold them to parishioners. Looking at this picture…it must be the same person, the same artist.’’
She walked over to the map. “All these people, they all live within five miles of it. The church is the connection.’’ She was excited but not really surprised. She felt the pieces start shifting into place like the squares on a Rubik’s Cube, though the puzzle wasn’t close to being solved.
“Wait a minute. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We still don’t know for sure that these people have been murdered.’’
“Jesus, Jeffrey, what do I need to convince you?’’
“A body for starters. Any body. Have you lost all perspective on this, Lydia? We’re nowhere yet.’’
She sank into the chair across from him, as distant as she was close a moment earlier.
“I need evidence. We can’t conduct a murder investigation without a body,’’ he continued.
“Spare me the FBI rhetoric,’’ she said sharply.
“It’s not rhetoric, Lydia. We have four missing people…one of them probably violently murdered, I’ll give you that. If their crucifixes all came from your church, then okay, that’s weird. I’ll give you that, too. But there are no bodies, no actual proof of anything. I’m not with you on this. Do you want there to be a serial killer running around? Are you going to be happy if it turns out you’re right?’’
“Of course I’m not going to be happy. I also don’t want to be sitting on my hands while he’s picking his next victim. I thought this is why you left the FBI in the first place. Because you didn’t want to always play by the rules that sometimes allow people to be killed in the name of protecting civil rights.
“Remember when families had to wait twenty-four hours before reporting a child missing? Remember when women had to wait to be assaulted or killed before anyone did anything about their stalkers? Serial killers don’t always advertise. We’re not hurting anyone by looking into this. We may be killing someone if we don’t.’’
It was an old argument that never ceased to infuriate him. Lydia had a knack for pressing his buttons and making him more angry than anyone else he had ever known. One moment they could be as close as it was possible for two people to be. Then, in a heartbeat, they were spitting fire.
Suddenly she jumped up and ran from the room. In the distance he could hear the phone ringing. He sat and stared at the sunset, the sky painted in brilliant pastels, the sun dipping below the mountains in the west. He became aware of a powerful, irrational feeling of jealousy that she had gone to the church yesterday and again today. Why did she go there? To see the blind man? The one she dreamt about?
A moment later she was standing in the door.
“Well, you got your wish,’’ she said smug and smiling bitterly. “They found Maria Lopez’s body.’’