Secrets to the Grave

by Tami Hoag

“He didn’t bring the knife with him,” he said, pointing to a wooden block of knives on the counter. “The big one is missing.”

  “That’s a lot of overkill for a crime of opportunity,” Mendez said.

  Leone hummed a low note. “Any signs of a robbery?”

  “I made a quick pass through the house. There’s no sign of forced entry. A couple of rooms have been tossed, but I don’t know why. There’s some expensive-looking jewelry on her dresser. It doesn’t look like anything in the way of electronics was taken.”

  “Drugs?”

  “No paraphernalia. The house is too clean for a junkie. I don’t make it for drugs. It doesn’t feel that way.”

  “No,” Leone agreed. “This was personal. No question. We’re looking at maybe thirty or forty stab wounds.”

  The screen door opened and Cal Dixon stepped into the scene. Dixon was fifty-four, silver-haired, and fit. His uniform always looked freshly pressed. He turned his piercing blue eyes first to the victim, then to Leone and Mendez. His expression was grim and washed pale.

  “What the hell is the world coming to?”

  “First murder in a year, boss,” Mendez said, as if that were a bright spot in their lives.

  Dixon came over to stand with them, hands jammed at his waist. He pointedly did not look down at what remained of Marissa Fordham.

  “Dispatch had a nine-one-one call yesterday,” he said. “Early morning. A child’s voice saying that daddy had hurt mommy. That was it. No address. No name. The phone went dead and that was that.

  “The supervisor came to me, but what could I do? I can’t have every house in the area searched on the off chance there might have been a crime committed.”

  “I read Orange County has the enhanced nine-one-one system,” Mendez said. “All the info comes up on the screen with the call. Name and address.”

  “That costs big bucks,” Dixon said. “I’ve filled out the paperwork for a grant, but who knows how long that will take.”

  Once again, progress progressed at a painful crawl toward Oak Knoll, California. Mendez kept abreast of the latest technology being developed for law enforcement, yet tantalizingly out of reach—particularly for smaller agencies. They didn’t have the budget or the clout.

  He glanced down at the corpse of Marissa Fordham, two days into the decaying process, smelling like an open sewer on a hot summer day. “Too late for her.”

  3

  Vince excused himself from the kitchen, made a beeline for the designated tree, and threw up. He had looked at every kind of horror during his career with the Bureau. His life’s work was the study of murderers. He had spent three years traveling the country from one maximum-security prison to the next, interviewing men who had committed some of the most horrific crimes in the history of mankind as the Bureau gathered information and ammunition to aid in the hunt of human predators. He had stood over crime scenes, one bloodier and more depraved than the next. He’d seen so many bodies in so many states of decay, he had learned long ago not to attach that visual to any emotion other than disgust for the crime.

  It wasn’t the visual that got to him.

  It was the bullet in his head.

  He’d been living with it now for a year and a half, and had grown familiar with the tricks it liked to play on him. The pain ebbed and flowed. Sometimes it was like a thunderstorm contained in his skull. Sometimes it was a dragon sleeping just under the surface.

  There were no medical texts in which a list could be found of side effects to having a .22 caliber bullet in one’s head. Seeing as the great majority of people didn’t survive the experience of being shot at nearly point-blank range, anecdotal information was hard to come by. Vince’s own doctors usually had only one thing to say when he would tell them about his symptoms: huh.

  One of the stranger side effects was the sudden heightening of senses. Sometimes his vision would become so acute, color so saturated, the light so bright, his eyeballs would ache. Sometimes the smallest sounds would be so amplified in his head he would cringe. Sometimes—now—his sense of smell became so sensitive, every molecule of scent seemed swollen, so full he could literally taste them.

  It wasn’t the visual that got to him today. It was the smell.

  Like any dead creature, the body of Marissa Fordham had begun its inglorious process of decomposition. Nature was without mercy or modesty. There were no exceptions to the rules. The business of death was dealt with in a no-nonsense, practical matter. Once the heart ceased to pump blood, systems shut down and chemical changes began the process of reducing the highest being on the food chain to food for other creatures.

  It didn’t take long. Especially in the warm weather they’d been experiencing. Absent a soul, the eyes glaze over and flatten, the skin loses color, the body’s temperature begins to drop. As if summoned, the blowflies come, laying their eggs in the wounds and orifices. A couple of hours after the last breath, rigor mortis begins in the jaw and neck, slowly spreading through the body. Bacteria rampaging through the abdomen cause gases to form, causing bloating, and the smell begins to gain strength.

  It was the smell that got him today.

  Vince dug a pack of Doublemint gum out of his pocket, unwrapped two sticks, and began to chew the taste of vomit out of his mouth.

  He felt a little weak, a little dizzy. He had no time for either. To clear his head he thought about his bride of five months burrowing under the covers of their bed as he had dressed to leave for this crime scene. A warm sense of calm washed over him and he smiled a little at what a lucky son of a bitch he really was.

  “You want to talk to the neighbor?”

  Mendez had come out the kitchen door. He took a deep breath of the cool morning air, clearing his head of the stench of violent death. The yard around the house was scattered with pots of geraniums and marigolds and garden herbs. Vince took a deep breath of his own.

  Mid-thirties, sharp and ambitious, Mendez had been a good candidate for the Bureau. That had been half of Vince’s goal when he had first come to Oak Knoll to help with the See-No-Evil murders the year before—to recruit Mendez. With some further education and experience, he would have made it to the Investigative Support Unit—the field side of Behavioral Sciences. He had shown a strong interest and talent for the job during his time at the National Academy. But See-No-Evil had consumed the young detective—as it had Vince. Mendez was still working it, trying to help the DA build as tight a case as possible against the man who had murdered at least three local women—and in Vince’s opinion, probably more.

  “Yeah, sure,” he said. “Where is he?”

  They went around to the front of the house where Bill Hicks sat on a porch bench, forearms resting on his thighs as he talked to the man who had called in the crime. Tall, lanky, red-haired, Hicks was a cowboy in his free time. He was good in an interview, had an easygoing way about him that helped take the edge off in an otherwise tense situation.

  Hicks looked up and allowed himself a lazy smile. “Hey, Vince. Good to see you. How’s married life?”

  Vince took a seat on an old painted metal chair. “Great. How you doing, Bill?”

  “No complaints.” Hicks tipped his head in the direction of the neighbor. “Vince, this is Mr. Zahn. Mr. Zahn, unfortunately, made the discovery this morning.”

  Vince reached out to the man sitting beside Hicks on the bench. Zahn stared at his hand for a moment before looking up. His face was strangely blank.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in a hushed, breathy voice. He clasped his hands together on his lap but couldn’t keep them still, wringing one over the other again and again. “I don’t shake hands. I’m ... a ... I have a problem with that. I’m terribly sorry.”

  Zahn was maybe in his late thirties or early forties, but prematurely gray. His hair stood out around his head like a soft cloud. His face was long and narrow with sharp angles, his eyes wide, pale, translucent green, and vacant in the way of someone looking inward at a terrible memory.

  “My
condolences on your loss,” Vince offered softly. “I assume Ms. Fordham was a friend—you stopping by so early and all.”

  “Yes,” Zahn said. “Marissa and I were friends.”

  “Why so early?” Mendez asked. He stood, leaning back against a post, his arms crossed.

  Too blunt, Vince thought. This was where his protégé lacked finesse. Zahn was already nervous. He almost flinched at the tone of the detective’s voice.

  “I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” Zahn said. “Marissa is always up early. She likes the early light.”

  “You’ve been friends for a long time?” Vince asked.

  “As long as she’s been here. As long as I’ve been here. Four years?” he asked, as if Vince would know.

  “Maybe you can help us then, Mr. Zahn,” Vince suggested. “What can you tell us about Ms. Fordham? Was she married? Divorced?”

  “Single. She was single.”

  “What about her little girl?”

  “Haley. Please tell me Haley isn’t dead,” Zahn pleaded. “I couldn’t stand it if Haley was injured or dead.”

  “She’s been taken to the hospital,” Vince assured him. “She isn’t dead.”

  “Oh my God. Thank God.”

  “What about Haley’s father? Is he ever around?”

  “I don’t know him. I don’t know who he is. Marissa was very private.”

  “Do you know if she has any family in the area?”

  “Oh, no.” He shook his head. “They were estranged. She never spoke of them.”

  “Do you know where she was from?”

  “The East Coast, I think. From a good family, I’m sure.”

  “Mr. Zahn—”

  “Call me Zander, please. Alex-zander. I’ve always gone by Zander. That’s what people call me. Please call me that.”

  “All right. Zander. I’m Vince. This is Tony,” he said, hooking a thumb in the direction of Mendez. “You already know Bill.”

  “Vince and Tony,” Zahn murmured, wringing his hands. “Vince and Tony.”

  “Do you know if Ms. Fordham was having trouble with anyone?” Mendez asked. “Had anyone been bothering her lately? Was she afraid of anyone?”

  “Marissa was never afraid. She didn’t believe in fear. She embraced life. Every day. She had the most courageous spirit I’ve ever known.”

  When he spoke of his deceased friend Zahn’s face took on a beatific, rapturous glow, as if he had seen an angel.

  “Do you know of anyone who might have posed a threat to her?” Mendez asked.

  “Detractors of her art,” Zahn said. “Detractors of her art threatened her creativity.”

  “I meant more of a physical threat,” Mendez corrected himself.

  Points for patience on that one, Vince thought. Zahn couldn’t seem to give a straight answer. The guy was socially off, his manner of speaking peculiar and often repetitive. He didn’t like to make eye contact, but once he made it, he went into a stare. A fascinating study if they hadn’t needed answers to jump-start a murder investigation.

  Zahn looked away. “No,” he said, but Vince thought he didn’t mean it.

  “Marissa was an artist?” Vince asked.

  “Oh, yes. You didn’t know her? She was quite well-known. I’m surprised you didn’t know of her.”

  “I’m new to the area,” Vince explained.

  Zahn nodded. “Quite well-known. She was.”

  “What do you do for a living, Zander?”

  He seemed to think about his answer before saying, “I’m an artist as well. My life is my art.”

  “You like the early morning light too,” Vince said, smiling like an old friend.

  “Yes. I also meditate. I meditate very early. And then I come to see Marissa and Haley. We drink mimosas. Not Haley, of course,” he hastened to add. “Marissa is an excellent mother.”

  “But this morning no mimosas,” Vince said. “Tell us your story, Zander. How you came here, what you saw along the way.”

  “My story,” Zahn said, rolling the concept around in his labyrinth mind. He liked it. “I meditated until five twenty-three and then I walked here.”

  “Where do you live?” Mendez asked.

  “Over the hill. Off Dyer Canyon Road.”

  “That’s a long walk.”

  “I enjoy walking.”

  “Did you see anything out of the ordinary as you approached the house?” Mendez asked.

  “Not at all. It was quite dark.”

  “What happened when you got here?”

  “I went to the kitchen door. It was open, as always. I called out to Marissa. There was no coffee on. I couldn’t smell the coffee, but something else ... And then I saw them.”

  Zahn stood up so abruptly they all startled.

  “I’m finished telling my story now. I can’t tell this story,” he said, agitated, rubbing his palms hard against his thighs, as if trying to wipe off something greasy. “I’ll be leaving now. I have to go. This is very disturbing. I’m so disturbed by this.”

  Vince rose slowly from his chair and put a hand out toward Zahn, as if to steady him, but very careful not to touch him.

  “It’s all right, Zander. You’ve had a terrible shock,” he said quietly. “Someone here can drive you home. We’ll talk more another time.”

  “I’m very disturbed,” Zahn said. “I would prefer to walk, thank you. Good-bye.”

  They watched him cross the yard on his way to the path he had come on. He walked very quickly, his arms straight down at his sides as if bound to him.

  “He’s disturbed,” Vince said.

  Mendez rolled his eyes. “I’ll say.”

  4

  “How are you doing today, Dennis?”

  “I hate this fucking place. Everybody here is a fucking nut job.”

  Anne ignored the profanity designed to get a rise out of her. Dennis Farman was a disturbed little boy. He stared at her now as she sat across from him at the white Melamine table in the visitor’s room. He was a slightly odd-looking boy with his shock of red-orange hair and ears set a little too low on his head. His small blue eyes held either anger or emptiness, depending on his mood. Seldom anything in between.

  He was twelve now. Anne had met him at the start of the school year in 1985 when she had been teaching fifth grade at Oak Knoll Elementary.

  She had known from the first day Dennis would be trouble. She had been forewarned by his fourth-grade teacher. Having been held back in the third grade, Dennis was a little bigger than the rest of the boys in her class, and he had the look of a bully—which he was. But she’d had no idea at the time just how disturbed Dennis Farman was.

  “Are you hating anyone in particular today?”

  He jutted his chin out at her. “Yeah. You.”

  “Why do you hate me?” she asked evenly. “I’m the only person who comes here to see you.”

  “You get to leave,” he said, fidgeting on his chair. “I don’t. I have to stay here with the freaks.”

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  “Why?” he asked bluntly. “You think I’m a freak.”

  “I never said that.”

  Anne never considered herself naïve. She had firsthand knowledge that not every child grew up in an ideal environment. But no one had suspected the horror Dennis’s life had been. He had been physically and emotionally abused, and had been made an orphan a year ago by the murder of his mother and the suicide of his father, a deputy sheriff.

  Just hours before his father’s suicide, Dennis had stabbed a class-mate, a little boy who had been his only friend. The boy, Cody Roache, had survived. It remained to be seen if Dennis would survive to live any kind of life.

  Vince said no. In his experience, children as broken as Dennis Farman were beyond fixing. Anne wanted to hope that wasn’t true.

  Maybe she was a little naïve after all.

  Hopeful, she preferred to call it.

  The judicial system didn’t know what to do with Dennis. He was considered to be too youn
g to go to a juvenile facility, let alone prison, even though he was guilty of assault at the very least, and a case could certainly have been made for attempted murder. He had no relatives willing to take responsibility for him. No families in the foster care system would take him.

  The temporary solution had been to house him in the county mental hospital. Partly her fault, Anne thought. She had been the one fighting to keep him out of the juvenile system by arguing that he was sick and needed help.

  She had quit teaching to finish her degree in child psychology in part because of Dennis Farman. She had taken the training course to become a court-appointed special advocate for children specifically because of Dennis. Someone had to act as his voice in the court system and try to explain to him what was going on.

  Troubled as he was, guilty as he was, he was still a little boy lost with no one in his corner. Anne had stood up and taken the job.

  It wasn’t that she wanted the job. It wasn’t that she held any affection for Dennis Farman, personally. He was inherently unlikeable. The crime he had committed was shocking and terrible. It wasn’t even that she believed he could be salvaged or saved. She simply couldn’t stand by and watch a child be cut adrift for the rest of his life.

  Vince wasn’t particularly happy about it. He worried she would only be disappointed at the futility of her battle and would, in the end, be heartbroken. Since her husband was one of the world’s leading experts on the criminal mind, it was difficult to argue with him on the subject. Anne had known only one homicidal child.

  There was no doubt Dennis exhibited classic signs of being a sociopath with no ability to empathize with others. He was filled with rage at the rough hand life had dealt him. Anne suspected he had attacked Cody to make someone else hurt as much as he did. And to further complicate and twist his profile, Dennis had been harboring dark, sexually tinted fantasies for a long time—especially troubling in a child so young.

  “You think I’m a freak. I know you do. Everybody does. Everybody hates me.”

  “I don’t hate you, Dennis. Nobody hates you. Everybody hates what you did to Cody.”

  He scowled and looked down at the table, pretending to draw on it with his thumb. Anne wondered what he was imagining. She would never forget the day she had discovered Dennis’s notebook masterpiece depicting naked women with knives in their chests. It was the first time she had ever really understood the concept of a person’s blood running cold.