by Jo Robertson
But more important, he thought, what started her looking for a case like this anyway, with such broad parameters? A case way outside her jurisdiction? And if she were correct, what connection could there possibly be between two teenage girls murdered, possibly murdered he amended mentally, in the same county, in a nearly twenty-year span of time?
“It’s true that a missing article of the same type of clothing isn’t enough of a similarity,” Myers said. “It isn’t uncommon for a killer to remove his victim’s underwear, but – ”
“But what?”
“The killings occurred here. In Bigler County. Doesn’t that have to mean something?”
Slater shrugged. “It’s a wild card considering the length of time between the two events and taking in the evidence as a whole. Hell, it’s probably no more than random coincidence.”
At the stubborn look on Myers’ face, Slater added, “What else? There’s more, right? You saw something during the autopsy.”
Myers stood and paced the room, her fingers interlocked behind her back. “I didn’t recognize it at first. It didn’t mean anything to me when I saw it in the report.”
He couldn’t keep the impatience from his voice. “What are you talking about?”
“The autopsy report for the Stuckey girl mentions some kind of scrap on her inner thigh.” She waved toward the manila folder lying on the desk in front of Slater. “I didn’t think anything of it until I saw the mark on the Johnston girl.”
“The sideways eight?”
She nodded. “In Mary Stuckey’s case, everyone assumed it was caused by battering from the water.”
Slater flipped the file open and pulled out the medical examiner’s report on Mary Stuckey. “And now?”
“Now I think it’s the infinity sign, altered by water and insect deterioration.”
Slater rubbed his jaw. “All right,” he conceded. “I can run this by the Sheriff. See if it’s something he wants to take a look at. Marconi’s been in the department since the seventies. And he’s in his office right now.”
“No!” The look on Myers’ face broadcast pure alarm.
“No?” Slater lifted his eyebrows. “What else aren’t you telling me, Doc?”
“I just think – I think we should keep this between ourselves for the time being.”
“You don’t think the rest of the team should know.” He framed the words as a statement, not a question. He damn well wasn’t used to keeping his team in the dark on their cases.
“If the Stuckey girl’s death wasn’t accidental, if it was murder, then maybe we’re talking about a twenty-year-old cover up.” At the look on his face, she quickly added, “At the least, incompetence.”
Slater glowered at her. “Hell, Myers, you do like to stir up a storm.”
He shook his head in disgust and stomped back to his desk, leaving the case folder behind. He needed to get away from her before he let loose his irritation. Why should he trust Myers? She hadn’t proved herself as a law enforcement officer, hell, hadn’t even proved her competence as a doctor, forensic or medical. And there was something about her that grated him, even while he was grudgingly fascinated by it.
Entitlement, he realized. She exuded an air of assurance that everyone would trust her and do her bidding without question.
What she proposed was preposterous, of course. He’d known the men in the sheriff’s office, some of them, for the whole ten years he’d been here. They were like a second family, and Marconi, well, maybe he wasn’t the best sheriff or the smartest investigator, but to suggest the man would deliberately sabotage a case? How could he believe any one of them was involved in covering up the murder of a teenage girl? It was nuts.
He threw himself into his chair, linked his fingers behind his head, and tipped his chair backwards where he could get a good view of Myers in her office. She stared back at him, those huge eyes unwavering.
God, he hoped she was wrong.
Chapter Eight
At mid-morning, Slater and Bauer re-interviewed Marilyn Johnston, Jennifer’s mother. Slater wanted to see the parents at the same time because having all family members together allowed him to study the family dynamics, but Kenneth Johnston was tied up in a board meeting, and their son wasn’t due home from school until after his 11:00 lunch period.
The two detectives drove to the victim’s home at Granite Pointe, a gated community that lay at the outskirts of the city proper. They stopped to identify themselves at the gate and waited while a cadaverously thin guard checked their names against a list on his clip-board.
“Go right on through, sir,” the uniformed man directed. “The Johnstons are on Briarwood Court. Turn left at the first street, that’s Oak, then down two blocks and right onto Briarwood, 1604. Have a good day, sir.”
“A little heavy on the formality for my taste,” Slater remarked as Matt Bauer eased the car through the barrier.
“Rich folks don’t want the wrong kinda kids poppin’ wheelies on their streets, I guess.”
“You couldn’t even squeeze a skateboard through those gates.”
“Did you know these homes start at three and a half million?” Bauer said. “I hear tell Eddie Murphy has a house out here.”
“Nah.”
“I keep thinking I’m gonna run into him in the mall.”
“You’re something else, Bauer. I’m sure Murphy doesn’t shop at the mall. Probably has somebody shop for him.” Slater pointed ahead. “Turn right here. Let’s park half a block down and see who we run across before we get to the front door.”
Mrs. Johnston answered the door on the third ring, ushering the two detectives into an elaborate tapestry and brass-decorated living area. She waved them toward an arrangement of uncomfortable-looking, straight-backed chairs, covered in rich golden patterns and flanked by rosewood end tables. She rang the maid for refreshments.
They accepted the woman’s offer of coffee because she seemed to need something to do with her pale, fluttery hands. Slater and Bauer perched at the edges of the fragile-looking chairs, delicate porcelain cups and saucers balanced on their knees. Bauer’s fidgety paws clutched his blue-poseyed teacup as if he were terrified he’d drop the damn thing.
“We just have a few more questions,” Slater said, referring to his notebook.
Grief froze Mrs. Johnston’s wan features into a death mask. “I don’t know what more I can tell you. It’s a horrible thing to say, but I’m just – relieved it’s all over.”
“We’ll try not to keep you too long, ma’am,” Slater said, carefully watching the woman’s face. “We hoped to speak to your husband today.”
The woman’s face hardened. “Kenneth had a meeting he wouldn’t miss.”
Slater noted that Marilyn Johnston said “wouldn’t” instead of “couldn’t.” Resentful?
“Jennifer walked home from school last Wednesday, the afternoon she disappeared,” Bauer said. “Did she usually do that? I mean, it seems like a long way to walk.”
“I usually pick her up, but on Wednesdays I have my spa appointment, and she’s supposed to take the bus.” Mrs. Johnston shrugged apologetically. “She asked for a car for her sixteenth birthday, and then again this year for her seventeenth. Kenneth refused. Her grades weren’t good enough.” She studied the polish on her nails and lifted her shoulders in the same helpless way. “Jenny despised riding the bus.”
“Why is that?”
“She felt she was too grownup to ride the bus with the younger kids. She said it wasn’t cool. And the bus students were so, well – unsavory.”
“How so?”
“They were loud, rude, vulgar. Never stayed seated. I’m really not surprised. Most of the bus students live in Crowne Heights.”
“And Crowne Heights is – ?” Slater knew very well that Crowne Heights, in spite of its fancy title, contained apartments and low-income housing, and that the community had been pushing the school board to realign school boundaries to exclude that area from the high school Jennifer atte
nded. But he wanted to hear Marilyn Johnston’s description.
“You know,” she answered. “Crowne Heights, where those government-sponsored apartments are? Those students are just different from the kind Jennifer associates with. We wanted her to attend private school, but she refused. She said all her friends were in public school.”
She wrinkled her nose as if something smelled bad.
“I see,” Slater said. It sounded to him like Jennifer was the only Johnston who’d had her head screwed on right.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that element,” she continued. “Jennifer’s just been raised to be more refined.”
Having spent most of his high school days riding the bus, tugging on Bo Bo Gravenski’s brown ponytail, and blowing spit wads at Dilly Hinchey, Slater was sure he wouldn’t have met with Mrs. Johnston’s approval either. He looked at his notes to mask his irritation. “Did Jennifer have trouble with any particular students?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Johnston’s perfect brow furrowed, but she quickly erased the frown as if afraid the crease would become permanent. “Well, there was this one boy. Hmm, what was his name? David, Dennis, Dwayne, that’s correct, Dwayne Severson.” The woman lowered her voice as if afraid someone would overhear. “He’s black, you know.”
Slater and Bauer exchanged glances.
“What about Dwayne?”
Marilyn Johnston sighed. “He asked her to the junior prom last year. Of course, she refused.”
“Of course,” Slater repeated. “Is this boy a senior now?”
“Actually, I think he dropped out last year. Not surprising and it confirmed our initial opinion.”
Bauer cleared his throat. “You weren’t able to pick Jennifer up last Wednesday. Did she have friends she could get a ride with?”
Mrs. Johnston raised her shoulders in unspoken appeal. “It’s so hard to keep track of young people nowadays.”
“Did you notice any strange cars that week or anyone hanging around, anyone you didn’t know?” Slater asked.
“I hardly think a strange car would get past Rogers. That’s what we pay him for.”
“Rogers?”
“The security guard. He passed you through the gate.”
“Maybe at school,” Bauer suggested. “Did Jennifer mention anything unusual at school?”
Mrs. Johnston shook her head.
“What about her behavior?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did she seem worried, or say or do anything out of the ordinary?”
Mrs. Johnston shrugged again. “She’s a typical teenager. Sometimes she can be quite difficult. Especially with her father.”
The helpless attitude was wearing Slater down. He suspected the mother wouldn’t have noticed anything unusual about her daughter if it’d jumped out and bit her ass. Most of their questions were the same they’d asked right after the girl vanished, so he hadn’t expected any new information. Now that the case was a homicide, however, he wanted to nail down the family’s alibis.
“One last thing, Mrs. Johnston. Do you know where your husband was last Wednesday?”
“Kenneth plays golf on Wednesdays. He has a standard tee time with three of his friends.”
When Bauer told Mrs. Johnston they’d need those names, her lips tightened, but she remained silent. Slater bet he’d hear about this later, especially when he saw whose names were on the list.
Bauer jotted down Kenneth Johnston’s work number. With men like Johnston you didn’t just barge in without an appointment, though Slater would’ve preferred to come at the man unexpectedly.
Jennifer’s brother came home from school a few minutes later. Danny Johnston was a fifteen-year-old, skinny kid with a soft, baby face, and eyes that darted everywhere but toward the detectives. While he didn’t add any more information, Slater wondered if he’d be more forthcoming without the mother hovering over him.
After a wasted few minutes, Bauer and Slater left, glad to quit the oppressive delicacy of the Johnston home. They walked to the bottom of the circular drive and made their way to the parked car. They passed no one, and the neighborhood felt like a ghost town. Slater wondered if both parents of these fancy homes worked to make the mortgage payment. Probably not. This kind of community was made up of people with very old money. The kind of income people didn’t work to get. The kind they inherited.
“What kind of mother lets her kid walk home that far from school?” Bauer complained, easing the car onto the asphalt.
“The kind that’s too busy going to day spas and pedicure appointments to notice.”
“With that kind of money they could’ve sent a taxi or hired a limo, for Pete’s sake.”
Slater could tell the whole interview had disturbed Bauer’s sense of how serious parents should take the rearing of their children.
“If Jennifer walked home every Wednesday,” Bauer continued, “someone could easily tail her from school, know her routine, and lay in wait for her.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” Slater said. “He wouldn’t actually have to get inside these hallowed grounds. He’d just have to watch her and follow her home from school.”
“You think this is a random thing?”
“Probably, but I want to eliminate the father before I consider it a stranger abduction-murder.” Slater ticked off the items in his mind. “We also need to talk to her friends at school again. Make sure nothing hinkey was going on there. Let’s track down the Severson kid and interview the brother without his parents. Kid brothers are notorious for knowing what their older sisters are into.”
Slater passed a hand over his eyes and rubbed down his cheeks. He hated to admit it, but Myers might be right. There could be a serial killer running loose in Bigler County.
#
Bauer dropped Slater off at the front steps of the courthouse while he parked the car. Slater took the cement steps two at a time and swung through the double doors that opened into the courthouse foyer. He needed to divide interviews among his team members, review the autopsy report, and more important, have another conversation with Dr. Kate Myers.
The Bigler County Sheriff’s Office, located in the county seat of Placer Hills, was a calming presence to the residents of the surrounding neighborhoods and served the area ranging southwest to Sacramento County and northward to the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range and the Nevada state border. The gently sloping hills of Ralston Park lay directly across the street from the courthouse.
As with his apartment on the other side of the park, Slater was engaged in a strange love affair with the old courthouse and the community. He’d started to feel at home during the ten-plus years he’d lived here since he’d left San Francisco.
He thought of his loss in that beautiful city, and a familiar wave of anger and helplessness washed over him. He pushed it away. Bury the past, he warned himself.
As he swung through the front doors, he passed Sergeant John Sanderson perched high on a stool behind the imposing desk that greeted all entrants to the precinct. Completely bald, the sergeant’s head shone like thick molasses, and his glistening face was slick and moist as a baby’s behind. A tiny gold earring decorated his left lobe, a matching glint sparking off his front tooth when he smiled. Sanderson smiled a lot.
The sergeant greeted Slater as he passed through the security metal detector. “Slater, my man. Later than usual, ain’t you?”
“We’re working the big case. You heard?”
“Yeah, what a damn shame. Pretty teenager like that. Makes you lose faith in humankind.”
“Have you seen Dr. Myers?”
Sanderson lifted what would have been an eyebrow, had he not lost every strand of hair on his face from a bout of malaria during Vietnam. The dark, impressive wrinkle of skin above his eyes that served as a brow edged higher as he leaned over the huge banister and beckoned Slater closer.
His voice was a gravelly whisper. “Why you interested in that skinny white gal? What you nee
ds is a sister, more meat on her bones.”
“Sandy, has the fact that I’m also white escaped you?”
“No, man, believe me.” Sanderson tapped one thick fist against his chest. “You got more soul than any brother I know.”
Slater grinned, amused as always that the jot of black blood coursing through his veins from his great-grandmother both damned him and exonerated him, depending on the company. He didn’t advertise his racial background because he didn’t consider it important. He never thought of himself in any terms but as a man and a police officer.
But not telling Julie had been a mistake that she’d never forgiven. In her mind, her lily-white, southern upbringing had been corrupted by marriage to a man who had that single drop of blood, the standard southern slave-owners had used years ago to judge a slave’s value.
He’d learned too late that Julie had the same standard.
“Doctor Myers just headed for the S.I.D. squad room,” Sanderson continued, “all dressed up in a pretty white suit.”
“Don’t be too hard on her. You know what they say about a beautiful woman competing in a man’s world.”
“It didn’t usta be like that,” Sanderson complained. “In the day women knew what they place was.”
Slater laughed and continued toward the squad room as Ray Borem came down the stairs. Borem’s thick lips twisted in what was meant to be a congenial smile, but ended as a smirk. Short and paunchy, he sported a head shaved smooth as a cue ball, but unlike Sanderson, he looked like a wanna-be skinhead.
“Slater, you lucky bastard. That Doc Myers is one hot babe, know what I mean?” Borem licked a stubby finger and pressed it outward. “Pssst. Hot!”
Slater tapped down the irritation he felt. From what he’d seen, Myers knew how to handle herself around an asshole like Borem. Fortunately, the man wasn’t on Slater’s team. He was part of Special Operations, which, because of the decline in drug-related activities in the county, had too much time on their hands. Way too much time in Slater’s mind. Borem headed down the stairs before entering the open door of the S.I.D.
