by Lee Goldberg, Scott Nicholson, J A Konrath, J Carson Black,
“We think he took her to McDonalds. Happy Meal, soft drink, Baskin Robbins after that. There were balloons in the room and a new teddy bear.”
Stranger and stranger. “Like a birthday celebration?”
“Like one. Her birthday wasn’t anywhere around that time. We think he made her last day a good one.”
Laura was aware how tightly she gripped the phone.
“That’s conjecture on our part, though.”
“He soft-smothered her?”
“We think he wanted to quote unquote ‘ease her into sleep.’”
“Was she molested?”
“Oh yeah. For days.”
“Days? He didn’t kill her right away?”
“We think he had her four days, maybe five.”
Jessica’s killer had kept her only a few hours tops, and raped her postmortem. Maybe this wasn’t the same guy. “Could I see the evidence list?”
“We’ll need a written request.”
“I’ll fax you one, but is there any way we can expedite this?”
“I’ll see what I can do. Go ahead and send your request. Make sure you ask for a detailed list. You’ll want to ask for photos of the dress, the digital camera—“
“What camera?”
“The one he sent her.”
“He sent her a camera?”
“Among other things.” He paused. “We think he got to her over the Internet.”
Twenty minutes later, Laura got the first fax: A photograph of Alison Burns’s dress.
According to the accompanying report, the dress pattern came from an Internet company called Inspirational Woman, which sold clothing designed for the “modest woman and girl.” Laura recognized it from Ted Olsen’s list. She looked it up online. The dress, called “Winsome,” was a lot like the one that had been used for Jessica Parris, but there were a few differences. Alison’s dress was plainer, but it had an apron that looked as if it were part of the dress itself.
She scrolled down through the patterns and found Jessica’s dress at the bottom: It was called “Charity."
This was good. This was really good.
It got better. The faxes came through at a maddeningly slow pace: A photograph of the camera Alison had received in the mail, two photos of jewelry that seemed sophisticated for a twelve-year-old. But the last picture was the best find of all.
Scribbled on top was a notation by Endicott, saying that the original photo had been printed up on an inkjet and taped to Alison’s mirror. This was a black-and-white photocopy, a poor one—but enough to give her a thrill.
The man was in his early twenties. Dark, handsome, wearing casual but expensive clothing. He stood before a clapboard house on stilts. Scribbled across the bottom, barely legible in the photocopy, was a note.
“Forever True, James.”
This was the guy the Riverside Sheriff’s Department believed had corresponded with Alison Burns via the Internet. Unfortunately, they had no more information since Alison Burns didn’t have a computer. Endicott believed she had been contacted by this man during her time on the computer at the public library.
Laura stared at the man, putting herself in Alison Burns’ shoes. He did not look like a child molester. He looked like a gorgeous, rich, young guy who could fit the bill in the Prince Charming department.
The kind of guy who could lure a precocious twelve-year-old.
Laura looked at the house. The fact that it was on stilts indicated ocean-front property—a beach house? The house was clapboard, a light color, and a saw palmetto grew near the steps. The Gulf Coast? And the man’s tanned beauty, the professional quality of the photograph—this could be a photo from a model’s portfolio.
She grabbed her notebook and jotted these new developments down.
Alison Burns - similars
Dress patterns – Inspirational Woman
Motor home seen at Brewery Gulch
Motor home seen near primary crime scene
Digital camera, jewelry sent to Alison/Internet connection (?)
CRZYGRL12
The man in the photo—beach house?
Serial killer, organized type
Differences between Jessica and Alison: period of time kept, age, manner of death
Postmortem vs. antemortem
There were serious differences. The age difference, the method used to kill the victims, the fact that Alison was kept and raped for days and Jessica was alive only a few hours and raped postmortem.
Jessica Parris’s pubic area had been shaved. The dress the killer brought was too small—the ME saying that Jessica was an immature fourteen-year-old. Laura wondered—could he have realized his mistake after he picked her up? And would the fact that she was older than he expected ruin it for him?
If it did, he might take it out on her. He might strangle her instead of “ease her into sleep,” as Endicott had described it.
Laura was even more impressed by the similarities. She had always felt that the answer to this problem was on the Internet.
If the guy who killed Jessica also killed Alison, it would be easy enough to eliminate Chuck Lehman. All they had to do was verify where he was at the time of Alison’s death.
If it was the same killer.
Despite her doubts about Lehman, Laura added him to her list.
Lehman’s friendship with Cary and Jessica
Lip Bullets lipstick found in bedroom
Vacuumed, change sheets?
Safeway card found nearby
Screenplay about kidnap and murder of young girl
Porn
Lehman lied about relationship with Cary.
It was like looking at two different pictures. A strong case could be made either way.
Frustrated, she closed the notebook and stared out at the desert beyond her window. The answer, she knew, was in the cyber world.
She picked up Jay Ramsey’s card and made the call.
24
Wrought iron gates set into a seven-foot-high stone wall marked the entrance to the Alamo Farm on Fort Lowell Road. The last time she’d been here, the stone wall was waist-high and there were no gates. The trees beyond the wall were the same, though mature mesquite and Arizona walnut. As lush and healthy as she remembered.
As she approached the speaker set into the pole underneath the security camera, Laura buzzed her window down, looking at the wall. She couldn’t tell where the old section left off and the new one began. She did notice the embedded glass across the top.
The speaker crackled. “May I see some ID?” a voice asked.
Laura held up her badge toward the camera. She heard a whirr inside the camera, didn’t know what that was about. She waited for what seemed like eons before the gates rolled back and she could drive through.
The moment the wheels of her 4Runner touched onto the property, Laura’s stomach clenched. She should have known all those memories would come back. Sitting cross-legged on the ground, waiting, the cold seeping up through the seat of her jeans, her eyelids getting heavy.
Starting to fall asleep and not wanting to, because she’d been here three nights in a row and just knew the mare would foal tonight.
The lane headed south toward the river between the over-arching trees. Laura realized the wall and the gate were window-dressing—the property had deteriorated. It looked downright shabby.
The sound of a car engine jarring her from sleep. It scared her. She was safe on the Ramsey property, at least she thought she was, but her parents didn’t know she was here and Julie Marr had been kidnapped not far from here.
Laura noticed that some of the trees on Alamo Farm suffered the same fate as others along the Rillito River; a lowering water table as the city grew put them in deep distress. Bare limbs stuck up through the green summer growth, and the mesquites were snarled with mistletoe. The irrigation ditch alongside the road, once brimming with water, was dry. She’d heard on the news that Betsy Ramsey was killed in a car accident a couple of years ago. Clearly, no one had u
sed the hunt course since then. It had dried up and blown away—the jump rails lying on the ground, their colors faded to the brown of the earth. A dusty halo of grass and high weeds poked up through the threadbare dirt.
The droning of the engine, coming closer.
Laura drove into an S turn bottoming out in a dark copse of mesquites and walnut trees. Now the lane ran parallel to Fort Lowell Road, going west. On one side was a windbreak of Aleppo pines, and on the other, a dry field. The white board fences remained, but the pastures where Thoroughbreds had once grazed were overgrown with more weeds.
Looking toward the end of the lane, she got a shock.
The stables were gone.
The big cottonwood tree—which gave the farm its name—remained, but the stables with their spacious box stalls and paddocks had been ripped out. Knocked down, bulldozed, scrap lumber stacked in a haphazard pile. Weeds growing up around a mountain of torn green asphalt shingles, splintered white wood, pipe fencing.
Gone.
1987
Headlights appeared at the far end of the lane and barreled up the road, cones of light illuminating the farm trees.
Wide awake now. And scared. Something about the violence of the way the visitors came, flooring the car up the dirt road. Heart thumping, Laura stood up and melted into the shadow of the cottonwood tree beside the mare’s stall, uncertain what to do.
The headlights turned in at the house. Car doors slammed.
Laura listened to the rustling of the night creatures, a cricket chirping. Voices drifted out of the house—angry and male. She couldn’t hear what they were saying.
Two loud cracks came close together—like an ax splitting firewood. Her disbelieving ears told her it was something else. The door banged open and she heard running footsteps. Car doors slammed. An engine roared to life.
The car slewed around in a fountain of dust, headlights pinning the mare in her stall before it rocketed back down the tunnel of trees.
Laura waited a few minutes, but they didn’t come back.
She crept up to the hedge dividing the barns from the side yard of the house, followed the path to the open gate and went through, heading for the back door. Partly open, the door was almost obscured by a cloud of bougainvillea until she was right on top of it. Remembering what she’d seen on TV, she pushed the door wider with her forearm, not her hands. So she wouldn’t leave fingerprints.
She thought about what the foreman, Rafael, had told her. Both Ramseys were out of town for the summer and their son was house-sitting during their absence.
The kitchen light was on. She tiptoed through the house. “Mr. Ramsey? Are you all right? It’s Laura Cardinal. Are you there?”
The carpet in the hallway was surprisingly old, plush and white, and still had vacuum marks. Footprints made deep impressions. She walked around them. The footprints led toward the last door at the end of the hall. Light spilled out from the open door.
Inside the room was a king-sized bed, the rich teal-green and white bedclothes piled up. Two mean-looking black iron dogs glowered at the foot of the bed.
It smelled funny in here. A burning smell.
It felt funny, too. Like the air had been sucked from the room. What she had thought were bedclothes now materialized into a pale torso and arm, hanging down off the bed, mostly covered by a pillow. On the carpet beneath was an irregular blotch, as if someone had stomped a raspberry Popsicle into the carpet:
Blood.
25
Not as much blood as you would think.
Laura remembered fumbling for the phone (even now she lamented the fingerprints she had probably covered up) and punching 911.
She didn’t touch him. Not because she had knowledge that moving him could make him worse, but because she didn’t want to touch him. As if death and dying would rub off on her.
All these crime scenes later, the best thing she had ever done in her life was not to do something.
Now Laura let the car idle and stared at the remains of Mrs. Ramsey’s stables.
She remembered the way it was: Everything in its place. The raked breezeway, the whitewashed tack room, the stable colors. Everything was in green or in a combination of yellow and green: the horse blankets, coolers, saddle blankets, buckets, leg wraps, even the rub rags. Everything. Yellow and green.
Now it looked as if the stables had been torn limb from limb like an animal. Ripped apart by a hungry beast and left to rot in the baking sun.
Sadness seeped down into a place she had thought was sealed up tight.
She was sorry she’d come.
She drove on, turning in at the house. The one-story California mission style home built in the twenties looked the same, except there were bars on the doors and ramps and railings for a wheelchair. The grounds were neatly trimmed, the lawn as green and groomed as a billiard table. Bougainvillea, hibiscus, bird of paradise, royal palm, and agave grew in profusion. Mission cactus forming a tall border around the lawn.
Beautiful.
The cars out front were different. Instead of Mercedes, BMWs, and Jay’s Range Rover, there was a large half-van half-SUV that Laura assumed Jay drove and an ancient Honda Civic.
This time she went to the front door.
She wondered what Ramsey looked like now. Seventeen years was a long time, and she knew just from what she’d read on the Internet last night that quadriplegics suffered from many side effects, many of them life-threatening. She had thought that being paralyzed meant you couldn’t walk, couldn’t move certain parts of the body. Thought of it as dead wood, but reading the articles made her realize that the body was still living tissue, and because it could not do what it was meant to do, there were grave repercussions.
What was he like now? She remembered him whacking a tennis ball, the sun shining on his blond hair, his lean, muscular body darkly tanned against his white shorts. The few times he looked at her, she thought she saw a spark of interest. Flattering herself that a college boy might be attracted to her.
Laura assumed that after all this time the quadriplegia would have taken its toll. Jay Ramsey was in his late thirties now. Galaz had told her he was a C6-7 quadriplegic, having suffered a break between the C6 vertebra and the C7. According to Galaz, Ramsey had pretty good control of most over his upper body, including use of his hands. His life expectancy wasn’t much shorter than the life expectancy for anyone.
She knew, though, that there were many dangers: dysreflexia, which could lead to stroke, respiratory problems, kidney and bladder problems, muscle spasms, skin breakdown, pneumonia. According to Galaz, Jay Ramsey’s disabilities had not stopped him from starting and building one of the top Internet security businesses in the country.
“He started out as a hacker,” Galaz told her. “Got himself into trouble with the wrong people. After the shooting, he straightened himself out and never looked back. Even if his family didn’t own J.J. Brown, he would have made it big-time. Unbelievable intellect.”
J.J. Brown was a discount department store with high-end products, much like the outlets today, started in the 1920s. The Ramseys had been the beneficiaries of that wealth ever since.
She rang the bell, thinking how much she didn’t want to be here. I’ll make an idiot of myself. I won’t know how to talk to him, I’ll stare …
She heard a stirring inside. The door opened and Laura was hit by a blast of refrigerated air. The man in the doorway wore a white knit shirt, chinos, and bedroom slippers. He reminded her of a plump, soft dove.
“Detective Cardinal?” he asked. He looked vaguely disappointed. What was a lifesaver supposed to look like? Superwoman? He pushed open the door and held it as she walked in. “Jay has been waiting—he’s quite excited. He’s in his study.”
Laura followed him into the hallway that led off the kitchen.
She prepared herself. With all the dangers, all the bad things that could happen—muscle spasms, cord pain, bedsores, bladder problems—she expected he would already be a ruin of a man.
>
Freddy opened the door to the room.
The sun spilled in shuttered stripes across the Berber carpet. Laura could barely see through the dust motes. A massive cherrywood desk, a large computer monitor, a horse statue from the Tang dynasty. And the shape in the wheelchair.
Hitting the ball backhand, flaxen hair catching the sun—
Her eyes adjusted to the light.
He looked exactly the same.
In a strange moment of déjà vu, she was a kid again with a crush on the privileged, older son of a wealthy family. Suddenly she was that tongue-tied girl, mouth dry and heart beating fast.
Jesus. You’re a grown woman. You have a boyfriend and everything. Grow up.
His hair was the same vibrant pale gold. His face would be angelic if it weren’t for the amusement in his eyes.
The same look he gave me when I was fourteen.
He had the same lean, handsome face, elegant nose, and penetrating blue-green eyes. He wore very expensive, but casual clothing, and it fit his lithe body well. Pushing forty, but he didn’t look it. It was as if he’d been frozen in amber.
Aware she was staring.
“Laura,” he said warmly. “It’s good to see you again.” Not the voice of a sick man.
She wondered if she could unstick her throat enough to talk; tried it. “Hello." What a scintillating wit.
A click and a buzz, as the motorized wheelchair came toward her.
“Freddy, you finally get to meet my guardian angel. The girl—the woman, who saved my life.” He came closer. “I told you she was pretty, didn’t I? But pretty doesn’t do you justice now.”
Up close, Laura saw that his youth was an illusion. There was a little dip of flesh beneath the chin. His complexion was uneven, the elasticity lost, and there was something brittle around the eyelids. His eyes were bright, but hard too—the driest part of him.
“You know, Laura, I don’t think I ever thanked you.”
Your mother did.
He was studying her—amused? Interested? Could he really be interested? Did quadriplegics have a sex drive? She had no idea.
