“You said yourself that there are serial killers as young as ten years old.”
“I did, didn’t I? Anyhow,” Jessica went on, “as you mentioned last time we talked, if Kathryn Church saw Zachary kill his sister, it seems farfetched. She was in another house altogether. Her view could have very easily been distorted, and she was very young at the time.”
“Maybe I can visit the house where they used to live and see what Kathryn’s view would have looked like. Where were the Tuckers living at the time? Do you know?”
“It’s right here. They were living at 3500 Canyon Road in Sacramento at the time of the incident, but after Zachary turned eighteen, they moved to Florida. After that, it gets fuzzy.”
“What do you mean?”
“On paper, it looks as if he disappeared off the face of the earth. I cannot find a Social Security number for this particular Zachary Tucker. That’d tell me a lot. As you know, a person is required to apply for an SSN when they start their first job. But it doesn’t appear as if his parents ever applied for Social Security numbers for their children. Before 1986, many people didn’t bother obtaining an SSN until somewhere between the ages of fourteen and sixteen. Perhaps Zachary Tucker never worked a day in his life. If that were the case, he could have stayed under the radar if he changed his name and got a driver’s license using his new name.”
“How about a picture of a young Zachary Tucker?”
“That’s where it gets even weirder. Five years ago, Patty and Phil Tucker were killed during a robbery. According to the reports, jewelry was taken, but the only person they could rely on for that information was Gillian Winslow. It looks like Zachary’s parents hired Winslow to take care of everything. Their will even stipulates that she’s to be Zachary’s trustee until the day he dies. She’s a psychologist. It seems strange that these people would hire a psychologist for their son and then put her in charge of everything. I don’t get it. I called Gillian Winslow’s office. Her secretary said she should be back to work next week.”
“Are you saying there is absolutely no paper trail or anything else for this man?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. We need to talk to Gillian Winslow. And that’s not all—it gets even more bizarre.”
“How so?”
“It was easy enough to find out what elementary school Zachary Tucker attended. Every classroom in every school I’ve ever heard of takes a class picture, and the school he attended was no exception.”
“But?”
“But somehow Zachary managed to miss picture day every single year from kindergarten through the eighth grade.”
“That is curious.”
“Unquestionably.”
“It sounds like our only hope is the psychologist.”
“That’s right.” There was a shuffling of papers on the other end before Jessica said, “Anything else on your mind?”
“As a matter of fact, there is. Brittany and I just returned from a Second Saturday Art Walk near Midtown.”
“I’m glad you had a chance to spend time together.”
“So am I. She’s definitely passionate about art. But the reason I’m bringing this up is because I learned a lot about symbolism used in artwork, and I think you’re going to find it all very interesting.”
“Go on.”
“This might sound like a crapshoot, but the objects in those pictures Kenneth Mitchell showed me might actually mean something when it comes to symbolism and art. According to Brittany, books, mirrors, you name it—even the fasces—all have special meaning.”
“Are you suggesting the killer we’re looking for could be an artist?”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking . . . maybe a painter. It might be wise to zero in on the art world in general. He might be a curator or an art dealer.”
“This is good, Lizzy. I’ll talk to Mitchell.”
“Get your things packed and get back here so we can find this guy.”
“Will do,” Jessica said, “but there’s one more thing.”
Lizzy waited.
“Did you hear about the missing girl?”
“I believe so. Claire Kerley?”
“That’s right. Seventeen-year-old girl missing for quite a while now.”
“You’re thinking there’s some connection to the Strangler?”
“I think it’s a possibility, though Mitchell has his doubts. As far as we know, the Strangler’s never hid his victims before, and there’s no trace of this girl. Just based on the last three homicides, it’s clear the killer is acting randomly, but what if that’s his plan? To make it look random and throw everyone off the track with all the recent killings so he can grab a girl and keep her for a while before he kills her? He’s escalating all along, and that could be the next level.”
“He must know with all the budget cuts there aren’t enough investigators to go around.”
“Exactly. He’s spreading us thin investigating the rash of killings, which is why they called me in to help in the first place.”
“Anything I can do?”
“Just be careful, OK? If Jared was close to naming this guy, you could already be in his line of fire.”
“I haven’t noticed anyone watching me,” Lizzy said. “No hang-up phone calls.”
“If the Sacramento Strangler is the same guy who took the girl, then he’s not going to be hiding behind trees watching you.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
“No,” Jessica said. “It’s not. This killer is getting increasingly brazen. He wouldn’t be hiding at all. He would be watching you up close and personal. Just be careful. That’s all I’m asking.”
“I always am,” Lizzy said, although she didn’t like what she was hearing. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Lizzy disconnected the call as she pulled into the driveway of Kitally’s house.
Hayley was sitting on the curb, smoking a cigarette.
Lizzy got out of the car and headed that way. “I thought you were quitting.”
“I am.” She took another drag off the cigarette and then stamped it out in the gutter.
Lizzy took a seat next to her, and they both stared out into the woods across the street.
“Life is so fucked up.”
“It’s hell,” Lizzy agreed.
“People are stupid and selfish.”
“I hate people.”
“Sometimes I don’t know why I even bother getting out of bed.”
“Wasted energy, for sure.”
Hayley sighed. “Salma is back.”
“I heard.”
“What are we going to do with her?”
“It’s Kitally’s house. I guess it’s her problem.”
“Good point.”
“Has she named the baby yet?”
“No. I don’t think she’s going to, either. Is it a law?” Hayley asked. “Does everyone have to have a given name?”
“No idea.”
“I can’t imagine they would lock her up for not naming her kid.”
Lizzy shrugged. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”
Hayley snorted. “You are so right. They would lock Salma up, but not one of the many rapists running around town.”
Kitally drove up and pulled her car into the driveway next to Lizzy’s. She exited the car, hit the lock, and then joined them on the curb.
Kitally didn’t say a word, which was unusual. She looked worn-out.
Through an open window, they heard the sound of a baby’s cry.
It was going to be another long night.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Donna Smith, it turned out, was the name of the young woman they had seen on the video being sexually assaulted by Wayne Bennett. She lived with her family in a tiny apartment in West Sacramento. The apartment building was dingy. Garbage and cigarette butts littered the ground. The elderly woman who opened the apartment door and peeked out was a tiny thing. She had a deeply wrinkled face and dark eyes that peered just above the chain. Lizzy assumed she was Donna’s mother.