Mills understands the need to muscle in. “Plus, fibers found in the victims’ mouths suggest they were gagged to prevent screaming,” he explains. “Also the lab says their facial skin shows obvious signs of stretching and abrasion around the mouth.”
Preston clears his throat. “Or the guy simply approaches the women in a friendly way and tells them they ought to follow him to see the petroglyphs,” he explains. “You know, he coaxes them.”
Woods flinches. “Jesus Christ, you guys have next to nothing! And goddamnit, Chase, you’re supposed to come up with a profile and find a fucking suspect, not the other way around.” He lets out a deep, exasperated breath. “God!”
Silence rattles through the room in an unnerving way.
Mills senses a warmth rising from his chest, creeping up his neck.
Everyone tries to avoid eye contact with Woods, but no one is successful. He’s just sitting there daring them all to say something, anything, to have the balls to prove him wrong. The protracted misery just hangs there, the sergeant shaking his head.
Then Woods stands up and starts to circle them, a coach furious with the team. “And what about the cave drawings?” he growls. “Explain why this Willis guy has such a fascination with those fucking petroglyphs.”
“Look,” Chase says, “I think we have to understand how this guy is thinking.”
“No shit,” Woods mutters.
“It’s clear our killer is enjoying himself,” Chase tells him.
“Enjoying,” Woods says. Not a question. Just a statement.
And Mills wonders where the hell this is leading.
“Yes,” Chase continues. “The rage makes him do it. But once it’s done, he enjoys the accomplishment. Like he hasn’t accomplished much lately, and finally he can take credit for something.”
“Also consistent with a man like Willis who’s been unemployed for a while,” Mills interjects, as though the teamwork had been planned. Which, clearly, it hadn’t.
“Are you telling me unemployment leads to serial killing?” Woods asks.
“Of course not,” Mills replies. “You know exactly what I’m saying. If Chase’s theory about accomplishment is true, then it very well could apply in the Willis situation.”
“Hmm,” from Woods.
“Look,” Chase continues, “the profile I’m going with suggests the killer is enjoying all the attention. They usually do. This guy enjoys being in the news. That’s pretty standard, too. But I’m also getting the impression that he’s enjoying leading us on a wild goose chase. He doesn’t actually enjoy the act of murder as much as he does the game that he’s engineering.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” Woods says.
Neither am I, motherfucker, Mills wants to add.
Chase leans forward and squares his chin. “He doesn’t really like stabbing these girls. He doesn’t really like the blood and guts. But this hide-and-seek sort of thing is a game to him. It reminds him of being a little boy. He’s getting off on that.”
“But what about the artwork?” Woods asks.
“We know it doesn’t mean anything symbolically,” Chase replies.
“Says who?” Woods persists.
“Says a professor friend of mine at ASU, something I already discussed with Mills,” Chase replies curtly. “But I also talked at length to the people at Deer Valley.”
Surprised, Mills turns to his partner. “The Rock Art Center?”
“Yeah, Alex, the Rock Art Center. On Saturday. Spent a couple of hours there. They schooled me.”
Schooled you? Are you fucking kidding me? Mills shrugs him off but can’t shrug off the doomlike encroachment of the man’s shadow. This is not a guy who shares territory, Mills knows. “Well, what did you learn, Tim?”
Chase smiles. “Without giving too much away to them, I found out that the meaning of all these petroglyphs is either steeped in mystery, or completely meaningless. They might just be artwork. Or the result of boredom. You know, ancient civilization doodling, like Myers is doing right now in his notebook.”
Myers looks up red-faced. Chase laughs. Preston rolls his eyes.
“So the killer is an artist?” Woods asks. “You don’t find any messages in the drawings?”
“I don’t think so,” Chase replies. “They may mean something to the killer, himself. But they don’t mean anything in Indian lore, so to speak.”
Mills bristles. It’s time to take a whack at this fucker. “I don’t disagree with Chase, but I think he’s missing the point. If the guy is enjoying this, if he’s feeling a sense of accomplishment, you know, the need to take credit for something, then of course the artwork means something. It’s his signature. The guy sees the petroglyphs as signatures of an ancient civilization, proof of life, proof of accomplishment. He’s trying to make his own mark. It’s pretty fucking easy to understand.”
“What’s pretty fucking easy to understand,” Woods snaps, “is that you boys aren’t working together. There’s no alignment here. And I won’t stand for it.” He returns to his chair and sits. “That’s it. I have a meeting with the commander in an hour, and I need to prepare. Get out of here.”
Mills asks Chase to follow him back to his office. He closes the door. Chase is about to sit, but Mills remains standing. “I don’t like hearing your profile for the first time in front of the sergeant,” Mills says. “Why didn’t you call me this weekend? Or did you purposely go rogue?”
“I figured you were busy with your son, and all.” And then a patronizing grin. “I know how hard it must be.”
“You don’t have kids,” Mills says. “You don’t know shit.”
“Hey, buddy, what’s with all the anger?”
Mills stuffs his hands in his pockets. “You’re a fucking opportunist. But you probably already know that. That’s my profile of you. Buddy.”
Chase waves his hands in the air. “Come on, now, Mills. I know you’re under a lot of stress. I’m gonna just pretend I didn’t hear that.” Then the former FBI agent turns around and walks out.
The reference to Trevor reminds Mills to seek out his friend in Narcotics. Mills is on the third floor, walking down the linoleum hallway to the office of Jeremiah Drennon, when his phone rings. It rings loudly because the hallway is like a tunnel, and people passing by pause long enough to issue their chagrin because rings are frowned upon around here; there’s even a sign that says SILENCE YOUR CELLPHONES.
It’s Gus Parker.
“I have so much to tell you,” Gus says, “but I’m between patients so I can only give you the CliffsNotes.”
Mills listens as Gus describes his visions of fire and an anguished child.
“You’ve been seeing a lot of fire lately,” he says to Gus.
“Yeah. But this is no ordinary fire.”
Gus races through a story about a real fire in New England and the death of an artist named Theodore Smith. There’s something about a woman convicted of murder. The signal in the tunnel-like hallway of the third floor of the Phoenix PD is crappy at best, so Mills has to keep asking, “What? What’s that?”
“Can you hear me now?” Gus asks.
“Yeah.”
“Now I can’t hear you. Can you hear me now?”
“Jesus,” Mills snaps. “Meet me after work.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Gus insists. “I had another visit from Bridget. You got my message?”
Mills backs up to a window at the far end of the hallway. “Yeah. I called you back. Is your dog okay?”
“Barely,” Parker whispers. “I have to get back to work. Ivy woke up this morning stumbling all over herself. I dropped her off at the vet on my way in. They say she’ll be fine.”
“Good. And Bridget? You want a restraining order or something?”
Gus says, “Ask her about the networking she’s been doing for her dad.”
“What?”
“She’s his whore to success. I gotta go.”
Mills is standing there, the dead phone in his hand, a churn
in his stomach, bile in his throat. Man, they do not pay me enough. Seconds later he’s in Drennon’s office, exchanging a firm handshake and small talk. Drennon’s wife, Martina, is doing fine. So are the twins. They’re both studying abroad next semester. Anthropology for one, economics for the other.
“A huge hole in the wallet for me,” Drennon says with an exaggerated groan. He’s a bald guy with a goatee. And a huge smile that compensates for something.
“Oh, come on, Jerry, I can see it on your face. You’ve never been prouder.”
“And you holding up okay with your boy?”
“That’s sort of what I’m here to talk about,” Mills says. “I got a good tip.” He tells Drennon that it might be worth his while to visit with Trevor’s coach.
“Hadley? Dick Hadley?” The narc is incredulous.
“Yeah.”
“Wow. He’s a legend.” He pauses and then asks, “Who told you this?”
“I said it was a tip.”
Drennon shakes his head. “C’mon, Mills, you know better.”
“Look, when an athlete gets arrested for selling drugs, why is it so unusual for you to go out and talk to his coach?”
Drennon doesn’t answer.
“I’m telling you, Jerry. This comes from a good source.”
“Does it? Or does this come from your kid? Naming names without having to do it in court?”
Mills takes a deep swallow, understands the narc’s concern, and realizes how this must look. “No, that’s not it. I just promised my source I wouldn’t mention his name. I’m not asking you to go raid the school. I’m just sayin’ go talk to Hadley. You don’t have to railroad the guy. Go talk to the principal, some of the teachers, as well. Make it look informational, that’s all.”
Drennon checks his watch. “I gotta run to a meeting, Alex. But thanks for the tip. I’ll let you know.”
Climbing the stairwell back to his office, Mills has a firm understanding that Jeremiah Drennon didn’t have to run, or walk, or go anywhere. But he has no fucking clue if the guy will actually go to the high school and ask anyone anything.
26
“You wanted to see me?”
Bridget Mulroney stands at the threshold to his office.
“Yeah. Come in. Shut the door.”
She sits and crosses her legs. The upper foot dangles a white stiletto.
A plane heaving out of Sky Harbor rumbles overhead. Bridget is wearing a purple blouse, modestly buttoned, with just a dash of cleavage revealed. Her hair is swept up in a crazy bouffant, shockingly red. She’s been generous, if not theatrical with the eyeliner.
“You broke into his house twice,” Mills says. “And you thought it wouldn’t get back to me?”
She leans forward. “I can explain. Really I can.”
He leans to meet her halfway. “Don’t bother, Bridget. Gus told me everything.”
Her face freezes. “Everything?”
“Enough to get you arrested.”
She shrinks back and sobs. Her top button pops open; underneath she’s wearing a lavender camisole. Her shoulders are shuddering.
“Not here, Bridget. Please. Keep it together.”
“I’m going to get fired.”
He reaches across the desk and grabs her hand. She’s startled and stops sobbing. “You should get fired. But I didn’t say anything about that.”
“You’re not going to report me?”
“I didn’t say that either. But it’s not like you need this job.”
She’s gulping back tears again. “No, no, you don’t get it,” she begs. “Why do you think I’m working? Why do you think I’m working a crappy job like this? Not because I want to, that’s for sure.”
“Then why not stay at home or work for Daddy?”
Suddenly, she’s in his face. “I thought Gus Parker told you everything,” she growls.
That’s right, Mills thinks. Gus said something about Bridget whoring for her father. “Almost everything.”
And then Bridget describes how, since the age of sixteen, she has helped her father grow his construction empire by spicing bids with sex. Mills is stunned, just stunned.
“I don’t know if I can believe you,” he says. “That’s just disgusting.”
She’s choking back more tears. “Please. Please believe me.”
Another plane. This one rattles the window. “Why don’t you do something about it?”
“Like what? Call the sheriff? I fucked the sheriff!”
“Oh God.” Mills wants to retch.
“I know. I know. Hard to believe. But it’s true. I swear,” she pleads. “Ask your friend Gus.” She points to her crotch. “He took one look at me down there and saw everything. I confessed everything when he used his psychic powers on me.”
Mills sits there shaking his head. “I think you’re fucking nuts, Bridget. But I want to help you.”
Suddenly, her head snaps around. She’s looking behind her, left to right, probably wondering who’s witnessing her meltdown through the glass fishbowl of Mills’s office. Everyone is. But the people out there are decent enough to turn back to their computers with mock indifference as soon as she catches them rubbernecking. “I can’t get fired. I need this crappy job so I can support myself. Don’t you understand that? If I don’t have an income I have to rely on my father.”
Mills puts his hands in the air as if he’s stopping traffic. “No you don’t. You can get real work and stick with real work like the rest of us.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do here,” she cries. “I don’t want to be dependent on him. But once he croaks, I inherit the business and I’ll be set.”
“But he abused you. Your father abused you. That’s a crime.”
“I know.”
“And he rigged the bidding process. And you helped. And that’s a crime, too.”
“I know.”
“And all these assholes who slept with you, they’re all guilty of crimes, as well.”
“Again, Alex, you’re not telling me something I don’t already know.”
“I think the attorney general would be very interested.”
Immediately she bolts from the chair and grips the desk. She’s leaning almost horizontally across it and pulls Mills by the shirt. “You can’t do that.”
“Get your hands off me, Bridget, and sit the fuck down.”
She complies and begins to sob again.
“Why shouldn’t I go to the AG with this?”
“Because,” she wails, “they’ll kill me.”
“Who? Who will kill you?”
She says nothing.
“You think your father will kill you?”
“No. He’ll hire someone.”
There’s a knock on the door. It’s Chase. He waves him off. Chase doesn’t move.
“No way,” Mills says fiercely to Bridget, his jaw clenched. “A father doesn’t do that. This is bullshit. You’re making this shit up.”
“Ask your friend Gus Parker. I told you, Alex. He knows everything.”
He rises from his chair. “Look, if this is true, we’re doing something about it. For now go back to work.”
Then he opens the door as wide as it will open and ushers Bridget Mulroney from his office. He exhales deeply, really fucking wiped out. “What is it?” he asks Chase, who’s looming.
“We got a body,” Chase says. “At White Tanks.”
White Tanks sits on the western edge of Maricopa County. The mountains are bold and mostly bald, its ridges serrated against the sky; there’s a certain quiet drama between man and nature here: the urge to conquer is marginally quelled by the instinct to worship. Hikers hike devoutly. Families gather like pilgrims. The gardens of saguaro and patches of white granite suggest a rugged place of worship. Grace resonates.
This is the place where Alex Mills would bring Trevor as a child and make up a story about exploring an uninhabited world. And when they’d spot a petroglyph, which are as ubiquitous here as they are anywhere, he’d tell
his boy the drawings were messages from other planets. Directions to outer space! Invitations to visit! Clues to different languages! Then he and Trevor would make up gibberish speech and talk like that for maybe half an hour, sort of understanding everything as they canvassed one of the easier trails. He’d forgotten all about those trips, the way his son would take in the scene with greedy curiosity, with relentless wonder. White Tanks is such a haul; who has time anymore?
Apparently the media does.
They’re already here.
“How they’d get here before us?” Mills asks when they see the vans lined up at the visitors’ lot.
“Probably a tip. Hot story,” Chase says.
“It was a rhetorical question, dude.”
“Rhetorical or not, if people saw a body here, they probably started posting pictures to Facebook.”
“Let’s hope not.”
Myers is in a separate car with Preston. He rolls up beside them and opens his window. “We got officers from Buckeye and Goodyear scrambling to clear the trails of hikers.”
“They better not remove my witnesses,” Chase thunders.
“Our witnesses,” Mills reminds him. On and off throughout the day he’s also wanted to say, Okay, dude, take the damn case; I don’t give a shit, but then he’ll think, No, someone needs to prove to this jarhead that there’s a hierarchy here, and it might as well be me. Mostly he’s been ambivalent, wishing for moments here and there that he’d been a zoologist.
Chase gets out of the car, and the other detectives follow, Mills last so he can gather his cool.
“The sheriff’s office is closing the park down. And the reporters are being kept in the parking lot,” Preston says. “A deputy’s waiting for us on the Waterfall Trail.”
Exactly the trail Mills would explore with his son. Waterfall is a short hike. Only about half a mile to Petroglyph Plaza, and then maybe another half mile to the waterfall, which is generally a misnomer. It only flows after an exceptionally heavy rain.
“About forty feet or so beyond the petroglyphs,” Preston tells them as they pass the trailhead.
“Of course,” Mills says.
It’s 3:20 p.m. The sun is high and hot and blinding. A dry desert wind blows in blustery circles.
Desert Remains Page 26
