The coffeemaker, at least, was new.
Miranda didn't bother to apologize for the inadequacies of her department; since Dr. Edwards had brought her own equipment along, and both Bishop and Harte arrived this morning with the latest thing in laptop computers, she figured they'd expected small-town deficiencies from the get-go.
And if they didn't like it, tough.
She got them settled in the room with all the files on the investigation, assigned a regrettably awed and nervous young deputy to fetch and carry for them, and retreated to her office to handle the morning's duties.
She called the morgue first and was told by Dr. Edwards that the postmortem on Lynet Grainger was well under way.
"By the way, I've studied Dr. Shepherd's report on the post he performed on Kerry Ingram, and I don't believe there'll be any need to exhume the body."
Kerry was the only victim whose body had been released to the family for burial, and Miranda was intensely grateful that she probably wouldn't have to return to those grieving relatives and ask to dig up their little girl for another session on the autopsy table.
"Dr. Shepherd was quite thorough," Edwards said cheerfully, "and careful in preserving the slides and tissue samples, so there should be no trouble in verifying his findings."
In the background, Peter Shepherd could be heard to say that he appreciated that.
Miranda was relieved yet again by that little aside. Not that she'd expected trouble from him since calling in a more experienced forensics expert had been his suggestion — but you just never knew about professionals, especially doctors. So jealous of their authority.
"Thank you, Doctor," she said to Edwards. "If there's anything you need, please call me here at the office."
"I will, Sheriff, thanks. I should have a written report for you by the end of the day."
Miranda hung up, then turned to the stack of messages that had come in already this morning. She spent considerable time returning calls and soothing, as best she could, the fears and worries of the people who had voted her into office.
Not that there was much she could really say to reassure anyone.
She did try, though, listening patiently to suggestions ranging from a dusk-to-dawn curfew of everyone in town under the age of eighteen to the calling in of the National Guard, and offering her own brand of calm confidence.
They would catch the killer, she was certain of it.
She told no one what else she was certain of — that more teenagers would have to die first. Unless she found a way to frustrate fate.
That was possible. She had done it once before, after all.
By eleven o'clock, Miranda couldn't listen to one more anxious voice, so she went back to the conference room to escape the ceaseless ringing of her telephone.
At least, that's what she told herself.
Bishop and Harte had been busy. Files were lying open or stacked neatly on the conference table, alongside legal pads covered with notes. Their laptops and the old desktop were humming, and an even older printer was laboring in the corner to produce a hard copy of somebody's request.
The big bulletin board on the wall had been divided into three sections, one for each victim, and all the photos of the bodies at the crime scenes were tacked up, along with autopsy reports. Agent Harte was writing a time line on the blackboard, printing in block letters the names and ages of the victims, when and where they'd disappeared, and when and where the bodies had been found.
Bishop, who was half sitting on one end of the conference table and watching Harte, greeted Miranda by saying, "You saw the time pattern, of course."
Miranda wasn't especially flattered that he expected her to see the obvious. "You mean that the disappearances were almost exactly two months apart? Of course. Any ideas as to why that particular amount of time?"
"I wouldn't want to hazard an opinion until we find all the commonalities between the victims and start developing a reasonable profile of the killer."
That made sense and was what Miranda had expected. Still, she had to make a comment. "He does seem to be killing them quicker each time."
Bishop consulted the legal pad beside him. "Your M.E. estimates the Ramsay boy was killed as much as six weeks after he disappeared, the Ingram girl less than four weeks. And since Lynet Grainger disappeared only a few days ago, we know she was killed in a matter of hours."
Tony Harte stepped back to view his work. "So we have several possibilities. He might have drastically stepped up his timetable for some reason important to him and his ritual. He might have discovered soon after he grabbed her that the Grainger girl didn't fit his requirements as he'd expected, and therefore killed her in rage. Killing her quickly might have been part of his ritual, a new step. Or there was something different about Grainger, something that made him treat her unlike the other victims."
Miranda thought those were pretty good possibilities.
"So we don't know if we have two months before he grabs another kid."
Harte shook his head soberly. "Ask me, he could grab another one today or tomorrow. Then again, he could also wait two months or six — or move to a new hunting ground. We don't know enough yet."
Since she was alone with the agents, she said pointblank, "Did any of you pick up anything last night after I left?" She looked at Harte but it was Bishop who answered.
"Tony thinks the killer knew the girl, probably quite well. He got a strong sense of regret, even sadness."
Miranda regarded the agent with genuine interest. "So that's your other specialty, huh? You pick up emotional vibes?"
He laughed softly. "That's as good a definition as any, I guess."
Miranda sat in a chair at the opposite end of the conference table from Bishop. "What about Dr. Edwards? What's her non-medical specialty?"
"Similar to mine. Only she picks up bits of information rather than feelings, hard facts. Tunes in to the physical vibes, I guess you'd say. We lump both abilities under the heading of 'adept.' "
"I see. And did she pick up any physical vibes out at the well last night?"
"None to speak of. She thinks he lingered only long enough to dump the body. I agree." It was his turn to look at her with interest. "And I must say, it's a nice change to deal with local law enforcement without having to find alternate explanations for how we gather some of our information."
"If you use unconventional methods," Miranda said, "you've got to expect that sort of suspicion and disbelief."
"But not from you."
"No. Not from me." She smiled faintly. "And don't try to tell me you don't know why."
"Because you're pretty good at picking up vibes yourself?"
"Picking up vibes isn't really my strong suit. It's what Bishop used to call an ancillary ability," she said, keeping her gaze fixed on Harte. "Like his spider-sense, only not nearly so focused."
"Ah. One of the rare psychics possessing more than a single skill. And your primary ability?"
"Once upon a time, it was precognition. But I burned that one out pretty thoroughly years ago. The . . . visions ... are few and far between these days."
Harte's spaniel-brown eyes widened, and he looked at Bishop with something like wonder.
"My God," he said softly. "Three separate abilities?"
"Four," Bishop said. "Aside from being adept, pre-cognitive, and able to project a shield, she's also a pretty fair touch telepath. On our scale . . . probably eighth degree."
"Wow," Harte said, again very softly.
Miranda wasn't entirely sure she liked Bishop's frankness, but knew only too well that she herself had opened the door. It just felt odd to be discussing it so openly after so many years of careful silence.