And he had said, “Sort of. It’s not serious. Not yet anyway.”
She locked the door of the restaurant and headed toward the employee parking lot. Not yet anyway seemed to echo in the sound of her footsteps on the concrete as she walked to the far corner where she always parked. She dropped her bag into the back of her green car on top of the pile of wedding magazines there, but kept the knives with her up front, along with her sketch pad, something she had started doing recently. It helped her feel composed, in control.
Only she did not feel in control now. Not yet, anyway. She reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a fresh box of her favorite candies. Sitting with the doors locked and her seat belt on, she unwrapped the chocolate flavored squares and put them in her mouth, chewing each one eighteen times.
Three weeks earlier, when Harry told her she had too many issues, she had figured out a way to solve that problem. She would confront her issues, she decided, say good-bye to them. And then she would say good-bye to Harry.
The clock in the dashboard clicked. She glanced at it and saw that it was one in the morning. That meant Dr. Waters would still be at work for at least three hours.
She knew what she had to do. Putting the remaining two squares of Ex-Lax in her mouth, she gently touched the knife case on the seat next to her, and started the car. The tears began as she drove out of the parking lot onto the street outside. Raining down, blurring her vision. Please, she wanted to stop the car and scream at the pedestrians in the crosswalk when she braked for a yellow light. Please someone stop me.
But no one did. The light changed. The car raced forward.
CHAPTER 15
The ringing of the phone woke Windy Tuesday morning. Her mind unconsciously ran through its normal diagnostic exercise—Cate was in bed, her parents were—
The case.
She was wide awake by the time she picked up on the third ring. The hands on her Big Bird alarm clock said it was just before five A.M.
“Hello?”
“Windy? Ash. I’m sorry to call so early.”
“There’s been another murder, hasn’t there?”
“Yes. I know you’re not on duty right now but I thought—”
“Where is the crime scene? I’m on my way as soon as I pull on some clothes.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. I already sent a car to pick you up. It’s going to be a crush and I want you there as soon as possible. They should be at your house in about five minutes.”
“Where’s the exterminator?”
“We still have him in custody.”
So he was innocent. At least of this killing. And of the Johnsons’ if the evidence said they were done by the same person. “Oh, brother.”
“You read my mind.”
The street in front of the Sun-Crest was swarmed with police cars and cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape and orange cones, press vans parked right up against the tape. While cameramen unfurled their snaking cords, a local anchorman dropped Visine into his eyes and an anchorwoman touched up her lipstick. It was like a carnival, complete with flashing lights and an air of expectation.
“Welcome to hell,” Ash said, coming over to Windy as she wrestled equipment out of the trunk of the criminalistics sedan.
“How did the press get on this so fast?”
They ducked under the crime scene tape together. “I can’t even think about that right now but if I had to guess I’d say that either we have a leak, or the mayor was in bed with his press secretary when the news came across the police scanner. Neither is very appealing. And not your problem. I’ve set up a command post over there, in front of the pawn shop, but you’ve got complete authority at the scene. The place is all yours until you tell us otherwise.”
A patrolman approached Windy then and said, “I’m sorry, miss, this is a restricted area. You’ll have to go back behind the yellow line.”
Ash could understand the man’s mistake. In her baggy overalls with a white tank top peeking out, cardigan, orange Adidas, and her hair held up with a pencil, Windy looked about sixteen. Like a cool sixteen-year-old.
Glancing at Ash now, rolling her eyes more like a frustrated sixteen-year-old, asking, “You were saying?” Windy flashed her badge, held up the Crime Scene Investigations vest she hadn’t put on yet, and had the patrolman nearly wetting his pants trying to apologize. Before he’d gotten past the second “My orders said—” she cut him off, assured him she knew he was just doing his job, and ducked under the tape with a lack of rancor that told Ash this happened to her pretty often.
They were met at the foot of the stairs by a young criminalist Windy had been introduced to the previous week but hadn’t worked with yet. He was medium height, lanky, his red hair was cut short but his sideburns were left long, with a red goatee and round, wire-rimmed glasses. Larry, that was his name. Larry had been sitting on the bottom stair but stood as they came up, his tense posture saying he was annoyed.
“We’ve got a hell of a problem in there, ma’am.” Larry wiped his hands on his jeans and Windy made a mental note to take a sample of the dirt from the stairs to evaluate against particles found at the crime scene. Sometimes technicians destroyed more evidence than they found. “The victim’s husband, Mr.—”
“Doctor,” Ash corrected. “Doctor Waters.”
“Yeah, well, whoever, he won’t budge. I haven’t been up there yet myself, got a uniform guarding the perimeter, but the patrol guys who got here first say he’s refusing to leave the apartment. Wouldn’t even move when the photographer went in to get the preliminary pics. And he’s making a mess of the crime scene. Sitting right in the middle of it, if you can believe it.”
He flushed from anger, and the way he was looking at her, Windy could tell Larry expected sympathy. She said, “I don’t blame him for not wanting to leave. As soon as he walks out that door he has to admit it’s real, that it’s happened, that there is no going back, that his life, his home, will never be the same. And I suspect that is only the beginning of what he is dealing with.”
He squinted at her, clearly having no idea what the hell she was talking about, then put his hands on his hips and said, “Be that as it may, ma’am, we can’t do anything until he’s relocated.” Letting her know he did not like the way this was going.
“Of course. I’ll talk to him.”
Ash had watched their exchange but hadn’t interfered, which Windy appreciated. Now he said to her, “I’ll talk to Doctor Waters, if you want. That’s not really your provenance.” Speaking with the families of murder victims was one of the most difficult jobs a cop did. As head of the Violent Crimes Task Force, Ash did it a lot, but it never got easier. He would rather have been shot at than tell a mother her child was dead.
“That’s okay,” Windy said. “I’ll do it. I’d rather. Fewer people in the crime scene.”
Ash nodded. “If you need anything, send someone out. I’ve got two photographers shooting the crowd and I asked the news guys to film them, although it looks like they are more interested in you.”
Windy followed his gaze, saw a television camera pointed in her direction, and had to resist the urge to make a stupid face.
She looked instead at Larry, trying hard not to feel dislike, only partially successful. He would be the technician who complained that a rape victim was uncooperative because she didn’t want to take off her underwear in front of him. “You stay down here until Dr. Waters leaves. When he’s gone, I’ll do a quick walk-through of the apartment, then have you come in with a crime scene kit and camera. We will do the preliminary together, slowly, make a sketch. I’ve already put Ned Blight in charge of the rest of the team, and he’ll bring them in when we’re ready. Got it?”
Larry looked stunned. It was obvious he wasn’t used to having his boss hanging around at the crime scene and he sure he didn’t like it. “Yeah, I guess but wouldn’t it make—” he started to answer, but he was talking to Windy’s back.
Windy gave her name to the patro
lwoman stationed outside the door of apartment five to write on the log, while she pulled on the blue sterile shoe covers.
“How many people have been through?” she asked.
“Two patrol officers and a photographer, ma’am,” the woman told her, calling her “ma’am” even though they were probably the same age.
Three people since the 911 call. Damn. She could only hope the others hadn’t done too much damage. “No medics?”
“It wasn’t necessary, ma’am.” Giving Windy her first hint of what she was going to see.
“Thank you, officer. Please stay here and keep track of anyone else entering or leaving.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Windy ran through the names of the victims again. She always made herself learn them, because names made bodies more real, and that made her do a better job. Then she took a deep breath, knocked, got no answer, tried the knob, and found it unlocked.
The room she entered, the living room, was dark, blinds down, the only light coming from the open door of the kitchen behind it. The air was heavy with the smell of wet iron filings—the smell of blood—and beneath it, the scent of Lysol. The wallpaper had large paisleys printed on it and the wall-to-wall carpet looked like a medium beige. In front of her was a wooden coffee table, and beyond that, against the wall, a dark colored velour couch with four people on it. Three of them had no heads. The fourth, seated next to what had to be the body of his wife, was Maximillian Waters. He perched on the edge of the sofa, elbows on his thighs, his head resting in his palms. His shoulders were trembling.
For a split second all her years of experience deserted her and Windy wanted to turn and run away. She knew that what she was seeing was only the tip of the “much worse” iceberg.
The bodies of two little girls, Minette and Martine, sat next to each other, thighs touching, their heads on either side of them. They were holding hands. Their mother, Claudia, sat slightly apart from her girls, one arm extending toward them along the back of the couch. Her legs, crossed at the ankles, were covered in blood. There was no sign of her head.
Windy approached the couch, stopping about three feet away to study something on the carpet, and said, “Dr. Waters.”
He didn’t move at first but the trembling subsided. He took two deep breaths and looked up. He said, “Her wedding ring is gone.”
Windy saw that his wife’s hand was in his lap. She nodded, thinking to herself, My God, the woman’s head is missing and he is focusing on her ring. Quickly replacing that with the thought that him being able to move his wife’s hand meant rigor mortis had not set in yet so the bodies were relatively fresh.
“That seems to be one of the things this killer does. Take wedding bands.”
“It was gold plated. Not even solid gold,” he said, as if that made it more inexplicable. “And much too small for anyone but a child. She has very delicate fingers. Look.” He held up the hand.
Windy moved next to him. “May I?” She gestured to the chair that was at right angles to the sofa he was sitting on. He nodded.
“Dr. Waters, my name is Chicago Thomas. I’m from the police criminalistics bureau. I can’t pretend to know what you are going through, but I am immensely sorry for your loss.”
He was not listening, caught in the bubble of his own grief. “I should never have taken that extra shift at the hospital.”
“I don’t think that would have made a difference.”
He went on, not hearing her. “They are twins, you know, the girls. Every time I have to work late, they pack me a lunch box. They insist on making me a sandwich all by themselves. They are such good girls. Claudia and I, we wanted to do something really special for them for their seventh birthday in December so we thought we would take them to Disneyland. Combined Christmas and birthday present. So I’ve been taking overtime. On the weekends, you know, you make more money. That is why I was working. To go to Disneyland. For their birthdays. They are twins, you know. When I work late they make—made—oh God—” He stumbled over the tense and plunged headlong back into the well of pain. Windy knew how that felt. How sometimes just words could stab you.
He stopped talking and started shaking again. In the kitchen, a faucet dripped. After a while, Windy reached out a hand toward his shoulder.
“We have reason to think that your family was not chosen at random.” It was not strictly true but some part of her was starting to believe it. “If you had been here last night, the killer would have waited until you went away another time.”
The shaking continued.
“There was no way for you to stop this. But there is a way you can help us get whoever did this.”
The shaking slowed. After another long pause Windy said, “I would like to bring my crime scene team in to collect evidence. The more information I can pick up from your house, the faster we can catch this killer.”
Maximillian Waters did not look up, but she could tell he was listening now. His eyes had moved to her feet, where the orange tops of her shoes poked out of the protective covers.
She said gently, “We will be able to work more quickly if we are alone in the apartment.”
He did not move.
“When my team is done, the police may have some questions for you. If you don’t feel up to answering them, that is okay, just tell them.”
“I’ll answer,” Maximillian Waters said. His eyes came to Windy now. “Claudia would have liked your shoes.”
“Thank you.”
He nodded once, stood and went to the front door. He paused there and turned abruptly back toward the couch.
One last look at his family. That was what he was taking, Windy knew, as time stood still and he stared at them. She would have done anything to spare him the haunting that image was going to give him forever.
“Good-bye,” he said, to her or them, unclear. Then he pushed through the screen door and went outside.
Looking at the place he had vacated Windy was able to see that the velour couch was not actually dark colored. It was beige. But it was almost entirely saturated with blood.
CHAPTER 16
Larry was waiting impatiently outside the door of the apartment when Windy opened it a few minutes later. He came in, loping the crime scene kit, saying, “That took long—” but the words died. Changed to “Oh God.”
“Don’t,” Windy cautioned as he was about to set the kit down on the carpet so he could cover his mouth as he retched. Larry stared at her, wiping his mouth on his shoulder, his already pale skin colorless now. Windy pointed to the middle of the floor. “I want you to do a dust lift for footprints around this whole area,” she said, drawing a rectangle in the air above a piece of carpet with her finger. “And I want photographs and measurements of these.” She pointed at two slight indentations in the wall-to-wall carpeting at the center of the area she’d indicated, indentations Larry had almost stepped on. When he did not move, Windy said, “Now.”
“Right. Okay,” Larry said, steadying himself, and got to work.
Focusing all your attention on work was the only way to stay sane with a scene like this, Windy knew, and she focused with pinpoint precision. She had spotted the two shallow, round indentations in the wall-to-wall carpet when she had come in, and was pretty sure she knew what they matched, but Larry needed something to do, something to help him pull himself together. The electrostatic lift was useful for bringing patterns like tire treads or footprints to the surface even when there were none visible. The plastic sheet they used worked like a magnet to attract invisible particles of dirt and dust preserving the pattern it was deposited in. “Like dusting for fingerprints in reverse,” one of the patrolmen she’d worked with in Virginia described it pretty accurately. Chances were that on a carpet like this one, it would bring up too much to be useful, but it was worth a try, and it was a technique that required more concentration than precision—perfect for helping an unnerved young criminalist regain his equilibrium after being faced with one of the most atrocious murder scenes
Windy had ever seen.
“I’m going to do a walk-through while you do this,” she told Larry, who didn’t even look up as she clicked on the small cassette recorder she carried with her at crime scenes. She gave the time and date, and started walking the perimeter of the room, trying to visualize what had happened. Trying to put herself in the killer’s shoes.
She checked the doors and windows. “My point of entry appears to be through front door, not forced. Living room is not primary crime scene—I moved the bodies there post mortem.”
There were doors opening off the room on either side, one side going to a hallway and the kitchen, the other covered with amber beads leading to the master bedroom. Windy went to the bedroom first, following a trail of bloody footprints that led out of that room, but no blood spatter.
The shades were drawn and the bedside light was off, but the sheets on one side of the queen-size bed were creased, and The Bloody Chamber by Angela Carter lay open on the unrumpled side like an uncanny title for the scene, as if Mrs. Waters had been reading in bed and, interrupted, set it down to answer the door. Windy looked at the reading light and saw the shade was cracked, and there was a spot of something dark on it. There had been a struggle, the lamp had been knocked over.
Lifting the lamp, Windy saw that the space beneath it, like the rest of the bedside table, was covered with drops of blood, showing the lamp had been replaced after Mrs. Waters was killed, that the murderer had done some cleaning up. There was also a visibly clean place on the surface of the night table, roughly the shape of an octagon and, Windy was willing to bet, corresponding in shape and size with the clean place on Mrs. Johnson’s dressing table.
Which meant the mark at the first murder was not accidental. The killer had brought something with him to both places. Something he liked to have close by when he killed the women.
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