Anne went through the story of the kids finding the body in the park, Tommy having actually fallen directly on the grave.
Janet Crane’s eyes showed a lot of white again. “Oh my God!”
She turned abruptly and walked into a Better Homes and Gardens living room, the heels of her pink pumps click-clacking on the tile. She perched herself on the edge of a sofa cushion. Her eyes darted around the room as if looking for help.
“I think Tommy is a little in shock,” Anne said. “He’s hardly said anything since it happened.”
“I-I-I don’t know what to do,” his mother announced. “Should I call a doctor?”
“He doesn’t seem to be physically injured, but you may want to get him some counseling.”
“Why didn’t someone call me?” she asked, trying to work up some indignation. She seemed more comfortable with anger than with concern. “Why didn’t Principal Garnett call? Why isn’t he here?”
“Mr. Garnett was out today.”
Tommy came to the doorway. His face and arms were clean, showing off the scrapes and scratches that had resulted from his tumble. He had wet and combed his brown hair as neatly as he could considering a couple of cowlicks. But his clothes were still dirty, and there was a tear in the knee of his jeans. Anne wondered if he would be allowed to sit on the furniture.
“Tommy!” his mother said, going to him. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea what happened.”
Anne watched her touch her son hesitantly, as if she were afraid of catching something from him as she examined his wounds.
Through the front window Anne watched a sleek, dark Jaguar pull into the drive beside her little red Volkswagen. Peter Crane got out and walked toward the house.
He was a handsome man, medium height, lean, well-dressed in dark slacks, a shirt and tie. He called out cheerfully as he came in the front door.
Sara Morgan hadn’t managed to catch him at the office, Anne thought.
Tommy turned abruptly away from his mother and went to his dad, hugging him around the waist. Peter Crane looked a little confused. His wife went into the foyer and told him what had happened.
Anne watched the shock cross his face.
“It was a terrible thing to see,” she said, moving into the doorway.
“Miss Navarre brought Tommy home,” Janet Crane said.
“You were there?” he asked.
“I went to the park as soon as I heard what had happened.”
“Oh my God,” he said.
“I’m going to go call Mr. England,” his wife said. “To let him know why Tommy didn’t make it to his lesson.”
She walked away and disappeared into the interior of the home, heels clacking.
“Things like this don’t happen here,” he said.
Anne had been born and raised in Oak Knoll, a town of twenty thousand (twenty-three when the college kids were in residence). It was a civilized, upscale town nearly two hours removed from Los Angeles. Home to a prestigious private college, the population tended to consist of well-educated professional people, academics, artists. Crime here ran along the lines of small-time drug deals, petty theft, and vandalism, not murder, not women buried in the park.
“Do they know who the woman is? Do they know what happened to her?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Anne said. “I don’t know what to think.”
He sighed and shook his head. “Well, thank you, Miss Navarre, for bringing Tommy home. We appreciate your dedication to the kids.”
“If I can help in any way, please don’t hesitate to call,” Anne said. “You have my number.”
She leaned down to Tommy’s level. “That goes for you, too, Tommy. You can call me anytime if you need to talk about what happened. Try to get some rest tonight.”
Her mother’s cure for everything: rest. Bad day at school? Get some rest. Dumped by a boyfriend? Get some rest. Dying of cancer? Get some rest.
In all her life Anne had to say rest had never solved anything. It was just something to say when there was nothing adequate to take its place, something to do when unconsciousness was the best option available.
As she backed out of the driveway and turned for home, she hoped Tommy would have better luck with the concept than she ever had.
5
“This is the third victim in two years.”
“It’s the second.”
“In our jurisdiction. The second vic was in the next county, but it’s the same perp. Same MO, same signature.”
“Signature?” Frank Farman said. “Where’s his signature? Maybe he left his address and phone number too.”
Sheriff’s Detective Tony Mendez clenched his jaw for a beat. Farman, chief deputy, was old-school and resented the hell out of him for being one of the new faces of law enforcement—young, college educated, a minority, eager to embrace all the new technology the future promised.
“Why don’t we consult a crystal ball?” Farman suggested. “No need for any legwork at all.”
“That’s enough, Frank.”
Cal Dixon, fifty-three, fit, silver-haired, uniform starched and pressed, had been county sheriff for three years. He had a long solid career with the LA County Sheriff’s Department before he had moved north to the quieter setting of Oak Knoll. He had campaigned for the office on a promise of progressive change. Tony Mendez was an example of his promise in practice.
Mendez was thirty-six, smart, dedicated, and ambitious. He had jumped at the chance to attend the FBI’s National Academy, an eleven-week course for senior and accomplished law enforcement personnel—not only from around the United States, but from around the world. Classes ranged from sex crimes to hostage negotiations to criminal psychology. Attendees went away not only with an advanced education, but with valuable contacts as well.
Dixon had seen sending Mendez as an investment that would pay off for his department in more ways than one. Mendez was happy to prove him right.
“MO is how he did it,” Mendez said. “The signature is his own thing, something extra he does for his own reasons.”
He pointed at the head of the dead woman as deputies and crime scene investigators worked around her, searching for anything that might resemble evidence. “Eyes glued shut. Mouth glued shut. See no evil, speak no evil. He didn’t have to do that to kill her. That’s what gets him off.”
“That’s all very interesting,” Farman said. “But how does that help us catch the bad guy?”
He wasn’t being sarcastic. Mendez knew there were still plenty of cops who doubted the usefulness of criminal profiling. Mendez had studied enough cases to feel differently.
They stood in Oakwoods Park. The sun was gone. There was a crisp chill in the October air. The area around the shallow grave was illuminated by bright portable work lamps. The stark light made the scene seem all the more surreal and macabre.
The body hadn’t been buried there for long. Maybe a day at the most. If the corpse had been there for very long, it would have sustained more damage from animals and insects. If not for the gash on her cheek and the ants crawling on her face, the young woman would have looked like she was sleeping peacefully—undoubtedly a far cry from the reality of her death, Mendez thought.
He believed they would find she had been strangled, tortured, and sexually assaulted. Just like the two victims who had come before her.
He had worked the first homicide—Julie Paulson—eighteen months ago, still unsolved. The victim had been found at a campground five miles out of town, eyes and lips glued shut. There had been multiple ligature marks on her wrists and ankles, some older than others, indicating she had been held somewhere over a period of time.