“Reasonable,” Eli said.
“Any indication of a blood trail?”
“Luminol says blood was dribbled from the victim’s bedroom down the back stairs and trails off here in the kitchen.”
“When you spray that sink, see if it doesn’t light up like Christmas.”
Eli frowned. “You think the killer cleaned up after himself?”
“Or herself, I do.”
Eli frowned some more. “How does that play out? The victim and her guest drink tea, then go upstairs, the victim climbs in bed, and the killer stabs her repeatedly?”
“No,” Keith said, and led Eli through the living room and into the entry area. He opened the door. He took a close look at the front door latch.
“I don’t see anything, except maybe a bit of sticky residue,” Keith said. “But I bet you find evidence that this door latch was taped not to lock.”
Eli had a closer look. “Real possibility. You think a friendly cup of tea was followed by the guest leaving, but on exiting, making sure he... or she... could easily get back in?”
“That’s it. Or maybe it is, if you say so, after you’ve done your magic. Did you notice that wood-block knife set on the counter?”
“Noticed it, but so what?”
“One knife is missing. The largest one. Have you found a murder weapon?”
“No.”
“Well, that may identify it for you even if you don’t find it.”
A little hurt, Eli said, “I’d have noticed that eventually.”
“I’m sure you would,” Keith said, not wanting to rub it in. “Has the coroner been here?”
“No.” Eli shrugged. “You know Sundays. Want a look upstairs?”
“No,” Keith said. “But show me.”
At the top of the stairs, gesturing toward a room with an open door, Eli said, “Best guess is murder happened around midnight. Rigor has set in everywhere. Based on lividity, she died in bed, maybe asleep.”
The two CSIs working the room had not just their bodies covered in white plastic, but their faces and heads as well, and both wore their blue booties. One investigator seemed to be a man, the other a woman; both were white but that’s about all Keith could tell.
Eli stayed in the hall, but called out, “This is Detective Larson. He’s working with the Galena PD.”
The ghostly figures nodded and went back to work, gathering blood samples at the moment.
Keith stepped inside.
The lovely girl he’d seen last night was still lovely, her face anyway, but her chest bore a massive wealth of wounds, a black silk robe torn at every entry point, crusty black blood framing each wound. Even worse, the blood had sprayed the ceiling and it clung up there in ghastly streaks, with heavier areas looking like horrid black stucco.
He exited the bedroom.
He felt the tears well up. His daughter, so much younger than himself, with so much less experience, had held together, stayed cop, emotionless, professional. But he had to fight it. That young woman... that girl... his daughter’s classmate... all he could think of was, That could be her in there!
He shook it off, but first it had shaken him.
Eli led Keith down the front stairs, which took them near that front door again.
Keith said, “I believe this is a killer who has struck before. A classmate of the girl upstairs... a classmate of my daughter, Krista, that young chief of police outside... was murdered in Clearwater, Florida, last August. In much the same way. I’m going to contact the detective working the case, whose name is Hastings, so if you receive a call from somebody of that name in Florida, take it.”
Eli nodded. “We dealing with a serial, you think?”
“Yes and no. I think these are specific, not random murders. But the method...”
“Is madness,” Eli said. Sighed.
And headed back through the living room and dining room into the kitchen.
Outside, Keith told Krista he needed to make a call. She was still keeping an eye on things from the porch, in Booker’s company.
Walking down the sidewalk, somewhat away from the murder house, Keith looked for the number in the phone. Then he called it.
“Yeah, I remember you,” Hastings said. The sound of a basketball game on the TV, turned down a little, was nonetheless noticeable.
Keith said, “I hate to bother you on a Sunday.”
“Yeah, no problem, what is it?” All run together.
“That Sue Logan homicide you’re working...”
“Yeah, nothing new since we talked.”
“I have something new.”
“Oh?”
“A similar homicide. Young woman the same age as Logan. And a classmate of hers. Murdered. Stabbed repeatedly in the chest.”
“Like our victim...”
“Just like your victim. Could you send me the entire file on the case so far? I’ll give you my email, and—”
“Yeah, okay, but you said you’re retired or something. It’s your daughter? Who’s chief of police, there? Where?”
“Galena, Illinois. I am retired, but I’m consulting. They haven’t had a homicide in twenty years, but I worked my share on the other side of the river. In Dubuque.”
“Okay. I can do that. Need to clear it, but... pretty sure I can do that.”
Keith gave him the email address.
He had just slipped the cell phone back in his jacket pocket when he realized his daughter was approaching.
“Everything’s set out at the lodge,” she said.
“Good. We’ll take Booker along. Pick your best officer here on the scene and put them in charge. The forensics team is just starting.”
“You look pale, Pop.”
“Let’s get going before I embarrass you.”
“You don’t embarrass me.”
“If I hugged you like I want to, I would. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
They did.
Thirteen
Though she’d lived in Galena all her life, Krista never failed to marvel at the ride out to Lake View Lodge — by summer, a shimmering, rolling tapestry of green, in fall a sea of brown, gold, red, and shades between. Yet somehow the skeletal gray of countless trees reaching bony fingers skyward had its own singular, haunting beauty.
Krista was driving the department’s unmarked car, a dark blue Chevy Impala. Her father was behind her in the Toyota as they pulled up to the lodge, to start questioning reunion attendees.
She and Pop had gone home briefly for her to get into her uniform — she thought that was a must with what lay ahead — and her Pop thought it best to get himself in a fresh button-down shirt, tan sport coat, brown slacks, and brown-and-yellow tie himself. Then they headed to the station to make a quick stop.
On the way there, Pop had told her he was getting the files on the Sue Logan homicide from the Clearwater PD. Of course she’d immediately made the connection herself — even though she didn’t have details about Sue’s murder, what she did know tallied with Astrid’s. Two classmates slain so similarly was a coincidence she could hardly shrug off.
At the station, she’d unlocked the door at the Bench Street entrance and gone up to her office to get the keys to the Impala, then had another thought.
From a desk drawer she took her old badge, which said
GALENA POLICE
OFFICER K. LARSON
and went back down to the street, where her father was leaning against the Toyota.
She gave it to him, saying, “In case anyone asks for your identification.”
He took it with a nod and approving smile and pinned it in his wallet, where his Dubuque PD badge had once lived.