by Meg Gardiner
“We still haven’t identified Starshine69,” he said.
Martinez had a phone to his ear. He was wearing the ugliest bowling shirt ever conceived. She thought the puke-yellow lightning bolts might cause seizures.
“On hold,” he said. “Zodiac Match is running us through the hoops.”
Caitlin said, “You searching for that name on sites other than Zodiac Match?”
“Twitter, Tinder . . . you’d be surprised how many people use ‘Starshine69’ as their screen name.”
Shanklin jammed her thumbs beneath her belt. “I wouldn’t be.”
They all gave her the side-eye. Shanklin turned her head and gave it back, ponytail swinging tightly.
“What? Know your public. This is California,” she said.
Caitlin handed Guthrie the printouts of Ackerman’s messages. “He arranged to meet her at Silver Creek Park. That has to be the primary crime scene.”
“Good chance.”
He headed to his office. Martinez remained on hold.
Caitlin said, “Other dating sites? Astrology chat rooms? E-mail addresses at major companies starting with ‘Starshine69 at such and such’?”
Martinez nodded. Gave her a look: Don’t backseat drive.
She backed off. For five seconds. “Other variations with ‘Starshine’ in the name?”
Martinez raised an eyebrow and pulled up Facebook. “Caucasian female. Midthirties.” He examined Starshine69’s Zodiac Match photo. “Brown eyes, brown hair. Guessing her weight’s one forty-five?”
“One sixty,” Caitlin said. “She’s got muscle under there.”
“One sixty. Presuming that this isn’t a catfish . . .”
Martinez typed, and paused.
The profile photo showed a round-faced white woman with brown eyes and brown hair, midthirties, posed coquettishly.
StarshineKitten (Stacy Crawford).
A red straight pin showed her hometown as Daly City, California.
Martinez was already pulling her address from the DMV.
* * *
Stacy Crawford’s apartment building overlooked a freeway interchange in Daly City, south of San Francisco. Caitlin and Martinez climbed the stairs behind a uniformed Daly City officer and the apartment super. Crawford wasn’t answering her phone, and her car wasn’t in the building’s parking lot. They walked along a breezeway to her unit.
The Daly City cop rapped on the door. “Police. Is anybody home?”
Nobody answered. On the freeway, traffic droned past. The cop pounded again.
After thirty seconds of silence, he gave the super the go-ahead. Caitlin tamped down her anxiety.
The super pulled out a clinking key ring and opened the door. “Ms. Stacy, knock, knock.”
The three cops followed the super into a small apartment, dimmed to greenish light by the closed curtains. The kitchen counter was covered with dirty dishes. It was dead silent.
Caitlin’s anxiety spread. Martinez looked around the living room.
At the back of a hallway, a door opened.
“What the fuck?”
They turned. Outside the bathroom, naked, wet hair wrapped in a towel turban, stood Stacy Crawford. She made no move to cover her pink and well-tattooed flesh.
“Get out of my apartment.”
Caitlin and Martinez raised their badges. The Daly City cop let his right hand linger near his telescoping baton.
Martinez said, “Ma’am, you may want to put on some clothes. We need to talk to you about Stuart Ackerman.”
Crawford set her hands on her hips. “Who?”
Caitlin said, “Wild Sagittarius.”
Crawford frowned. “What about him?”
“He’s dead.”
She dropped to the floor.
* * *
Five minutes later, dressed, sitting on the sofa in the greenish light, Stacy Crawford dabbed at her eyes. Her face was splotchy from crying.
“My car broke down on the way to Silver Creek Park. Then my phone battery crapped out. It took me two hours to get the car towed, three before I could call my sister from the garage for a ride home. I never made it to the rendezvous.” She looked back and forth between the cops. “You didn’t come here to tell me Sagittarius is dead, did you? Oh, my God, you came here because you thought I was dead.”
“We wanted to make sure you’re okay,” Martinez said. The warmth of his voice couldn’t disguise the cold truth.
“You’re sure about this. The man shot up with arrows. That was Sagittarius?”
“We’re positive.”
“Oh, God. Did he suffer?”
Martinez said, “I’m sorry, ma’am.”
Tears ballooned and fell onto her cheeks.
Caitlin said, “You never replied to the messages he sent from the park, asking where you were.”
“No—because he sent that final message, slamming me.”
“What message? Sent when?”
“After I got home Saturday night I logged in to explain why I didn’t show.” She got her phone. “This was waiting for me.”
Wild Sagittarius 23 [Saturday 11:47PM] Bitch.
Caitlin and Martinez exchanged a look. That message wasn’t in Stuart Ackerman’s SENT folder. Somebody had deleted it.
“I was royally pissed. Then I saw that online video, about the crazy stuff that happened up at Silver Creek Park last night. I thought, what a weird coincidence, and . . .” She stopped, lips parted, and pointed at Caitlin. “You’re the one on the video.”
Caitlin wished her fifteen minutes was up.
Stacy wrung her hands. “Do you think our date had something to do with what happened to Sagittarius—to . . . Stuart?”
“We’re retracing his steps on Saturday night,” Martinez said.
The Daly City officer stood near the door, arms crossed. “You didn’t know his name?”
She looked at him like, What the hell? “Screen names only. That’s how Zodiac Match works. It’s part of the magic.”
“Had you met Mr. Ackerman before?” Martinez said.
“No. First date.” She shivered. “Really? The Prophet killed him? Really?”
Caitlin said, “Really.”
She put a hand to her forehead. “If my car hadn’t broken down, I would have been at the park. Oh, my God, I’m lucky, aren’t I?”
Caitlin said, “Ms. Crawford, when you signed up for Zodiac Match, did you give them any personal information?”
“Dating preferences.” Her eyes grew wary. “But everything’s consensual. It’s play.”
“What is?”
“IK.” When they didn’t respond, she expanded. “On my profile? IK. Impact kink.” She looked at them like they were naive. “Slapping, scratching, biting, hitting with a crop. Tamakeri if the guy asks. You know—the Japanese fetish? For getting kicked in the balls?”
“You and Wild Sagittarius made a date for violent sex?” Caitlin said.
“Rough body play. Consensual S and M. Primal energy. Dynamic empowerment.” She spread her hands. “Fight club.”
Caitlin thought of the line in the Prophet’s note. Violence sought violence.
She said, “Did you provide Zodiac Match with any other personal information?”
“Like what? My e-mail.” Her brown eyes widened. “Like my address and phone number? No. Never. No. But . . .”
“What?”
“But I linked my Zodiac Match profile to my other social media accounts, and those do have my phone number and address. Oh, God.” She stood up. “The Prophet. What if he knows where I live?”
17
Brooding, Caitlin and Martinez jogged silently down the stairs outside Stacy Crawford’s apartment. Despite the sunshine, the sky seemed to bear down with portentous weight. They started across the asphalt to their vehic
le and a lemon-yellow Volkswagen Beetle squealed past them into the parking lot.
At the wheel was a young woman who looked just like Stacy. A second later, Stacy ran down the stairs with a duffel bag over her shoulder, barefoot, shoes in her hand. She sprinted toward the car, shouting, “Out, out, let me drive.”
Martinez said, “Can’t blame her.”
“Not at all.”
Stacy flung her duffel in the car. Martinez pulled the brim of his hat low on his forehead.
Caitlin said, “I’m not commenting on impact kink. Ever.”
“Good plan.” But he said, “Empowerment. This is what the Prophet does to that idea.”
Caitlin hoped Stacy would be safe. The way she scrambled behind the wheel told her plenty about the fear the Prophet provoked.
It was spreading like an oil slick.
They got in their car and Martinez pulled out in the Beetle’s exhaust. He readjusted his hat. “I don’t think Stuart Ackerman sent those final messages to Stacy.”
“The Prophet did,” she said.
“Yeah. Did he get possession of Ackerman’s phone? Or hack his account?”
“I don’t know. But the Prophet’s the one who called Stacy a bitch. Because he was angry she didn’t turn up for her own murder.”
* * *
When Caitlin and Martinez arrived at the station, a man was sitting on a bench in the hall outside the war room. He was Caitlin’s age, heavyset, African American, wearing khakis and a Best Buy employee shirt. His broad shoulders looked laden. His eyes were warm but weary, with a low, scudding darkness.
Unless they worked there, people didn’t enjoy visiting a police station. For most citizens, this was some version of hell. The man checked out the badge hooked on her belt, and the gun on Martinez’s hip.
“Excuse me. You’re homicide detectives?” he said.
Martinez had a laid-back demeanor, but a presence. “May we help you?”
“Gerald James. I have an appointment with Sergeant Guthrie.”
It took Caitlin a second. James. He was the husband of Melody James. The woman the Prophet killed and left in the cornfield.
She extended her hand. “Mr. James, I’m Detective Hendrix. I’m sorry for your loss.”
His jaw tightened. He pressed his lips together but they quivered anyway.
Talking to next of kin was one of the most painful things she did in this job. Be upfront, she’d learned. Be direct.
Compartmentalize it. Bar their grief, so it doesn’t burrow into you.
But Gerald James stood up, and the physical aura of loss rolled off him in waves. She saw again the lively face of his wife in her driver’s license photo, and the destruction visited on her by the Prophet.
James was so close to the ragged edge that he looked like he was about to fly apart. “I’m here for an update on the investigation.”
“Let me get Sergeant Guthrie.”
“I’ll get him,” Martinez said, and headed down the hall.
She’d wanted Martinez to wait with James. But she gestured at the bench.
James shook his head. “I can’t sit anymore. I need to know. All of it. What happened to her.” He stared unblinking. “I don’t care how ugly it is. And I’m not talking about her seeing another man. I don’t care about that. I care about her. I have to know.”
“Sergeant Guthrie will tell you what he can.”
“I’ve talked to him already. Told him everything I know. What I need now is to hear everything the police know. I just want you all to tell me. Imagining’s worse than knowing.” He crossed his arms and began to rock back and forth. “Were you there? Where they found her?”
“Yes.”
His gaze sharpened and latched on to her. “They wouldn’t let me see her. I got to the scene after the first cops did. He . . . he called me. At home . . .” A breath. “And I wanted to get out there so fast, but I had to call my mom to babysit, so I phoned nine-one-one and got out to that field after you all did, and . . .” He looked at her. “They kept me out, sent me home in a patrol car. Then called me to come to the morgue . . .”
The word morgue seemed to loosen his hinges. Caitlin could sense the bolts rattling, the engine overheating.
“It’s okay,” she said.
He felt like he’d failed his wife. He hadn’t even been able to reach the cornfield before the prying machine of law enforcement arrived and began treating Melody as an object to be processed.
His lip quivered again. “I wasn’t there with her.” James gulped a breath and got it back. “I was with her when our daughter was born. But I wasn’t there at the end.”
Caitlin’s stomach tightened.
“I need to know,” James said. “I need to walk with her through those last moments.”
No, you don’t.
“If I don’t know, she’ll always be alone. I can’t let it be that way. I can’t let her last hours be . . . the property of the Prophet. I have to take that away from him.”
Caitlin took his hand. It was warm and rough and he squeezed hard against her fingers.
“He took her,” James whispered. “But I can’t let him have her.”
Caitlin held on to his hand. Her eyes were burning.
“Help her,” James said. “Help me.”
“I will.” She gripped his hand, hard.
A figure appeared at the end of the hall. Guthrie’s voice.
“Mr. James. Please. Come back to my office.”
Gerald James held on to Caitlin’s hand.
“You have my word,” she said.
James’s hand slipped from hers and he headed down the hall.
Caitlin stood there. Phones were ringing. Traffic outside went by in a glare of sunlight. Her hand was warm where James had gripped it. She curled her fingers into a fist, clutching the heat. Then she walked to the war room.
* * *
On her desk was a phone message slip from Deralynn Hobbs. It said: Crows.
She hesitated only briefly before returning Deralynn’s call. She owed her. “Thank you for warning me about the camera in the car.”
“Oh, you’re welcome.” The relief in Deralynn’s bubbly voice was palpable.
“Your message.”
“I don’t mean to hassle you. It’s just, the symbolism unsettles me. Crows, plural—they’re a murder.”
And baboons are a troop. “I’ll keep my eyes open.” For a cackle of hyenas. And a mob of kangaroos. “Don’t worry about the crows.”
But as she said it, Caitlin looked across the room at the wall where crime scene photos were tacked up. Crows were not the only animals connected to the Prophet’s crime scenes.
The bodies of the first couple killed were found mauled by dogs. April 12, 1996. The dogs, three fighting dogs stolen from a shelter, were found at the crime scene, butchered and tied together at the neck.
Stuart Ackerman had been left floating facedown in a water trough, surrounded by spooked horses. Wild Sagittarius, the Centaur.
She remembered what Mack had said the previous night: that an UNSUB’s first crime is often the most revealing.
“What do you think of the wasps at the first crime scene?” she said.
Deralynn inhaled. “That scene is the one that freaks me out.”
“Why?”
“The location, the time of day, the nerve it took to stage the scene when it was merely dusk, not dark. The patience and exactitude . . . there’s a tree line forty-five yards from the equipment shack where Giselle was found, but the killer had to have made his approach in the open. The wasp nest—that was a feat of both engineering and bravery. Or insanity.”
Caitlin tapped her fingers on her desk. What she was thinking probably violated department protocol. But Guthrie had asked her to deal with Deralynn.
“What are you doing this ev
ening?” she said.
18
The light was failing when Caitlin pulled the departmental car to the curb across the street from Peñasquitos Park in San Leandro. The neighborhood’s ranch homes and apartment buildings were battened down for a chilly March evening. The sky hung, painted indigo. The hills beyond the park, green and dotted with live oaks, caught the last glow of the sun. She and Deralynn got out. Going to the park to view the crime scene turned them solemn.
And Deralynn Hobbs was not a solemn person.
Caitlin had picked her up at her house in San Ramon, where bikes lay on the lawn, a homemade skateboard ramp dominated the driveway, and dozens of green plastic army men dotted the front walk. When she arrived, Deralynn was waiting on the front porch, wearing lime-green jeans and a bedazzled sweatshirt, talking excitedly to a man Caitlin took to be her husband. In his late thirties, he wore a checked button-down shirt and a patient, bemused expression.
“Detective. Walter Hobbs.” He smiled at Caitlin but shook her hand awkwardly, seemingly unsure what to make of his wife’s expedition.
Two boys bolted from the backyard, firing Nerf guns at each other, and ran laughing up the street. Deralynn blew kisses at their backs. She stood on tiptoe to kiss her husband, said, “Bye, pumpkin,” and bounded to Caitlin’s car. She was a casting-call PTA mom, bubbling with excitement at a field trip to the site of a serial killer’s first murder.
But now Deralynn was silent as she crossed the street at Caitlin’s side. At the park entrance, flags hung heavily, hasps clattering against the flagpole in the wind. Caitlin slowed to get her bearings.
Deralynn looked up at her. “This your first time here?”
“Yes.”
Caitlin knew all about Peñasquitos Park. It was a place that seemed freighted with bad magic. A site to avoid. Until now.
She had a file folder with maps, photos, crime scene reconstructions. She’d built a mental three-hundred-and-sixty-degree map without ever setting foot on this spot. But now that she stood at the park entrance, she needed a minute to mentally prepare to place herself inside it.
