But he decided once again not to let his imagination get the better of his good sense.
Bishop stepped out onto the porch and zipped his jacket. The gray sky looked heavier and more threatening by the minute. It was just after noon; if the storm held off another hour they'd be lucky.
He was aware of the activity behind him, of Shepherd and Edwards, the muted sounds of voices and Brady Shaw's cameras, but he had gained all he expected to from the scene. Which wasn't all that much.
He looked down at the plastic evidence bag in his hands and studied the Bible through it. Old, dog-eared, and quite distinctive, he had recognized it the moment he'd seen it on Liz Hallowell's nightstand.
Under his breath, he muttered, "Just how stupid do you think I am?" Then he shook his head and tucked the bag inside his jacket.
The door behind him was shoved open wider and Sandy Lynch rushed past him. Bishop didn't have to catch a fleeting glimpse of her pallor or panicked expression to know she was about to lose her breakfast. She stumbled through the snow to just beyond the closest parked vehicle, which happened to be the hearse that would take away Liz's body, and disappeared behind it.
Poor kid. If she still wanted to be any kind of cop when this was over, it would be a miracle.
She came back to the porch a few minutes later and flushed a little under Bishop's sympathetic gaze. Jerkily, she said, "They turned her and I saw her face. I didn't think — but then the doctors were talking about it and — and — God!"
Both to inform and to give her time to compose herself, Bishop said, "You know, when kittens reach adulthood, their mother sees them as just other cats. She's done her job, her babies are grown — and they aren't her babies anymore. Maternal ties last only as long as necessary. That's a very practical idea in nature."
Sandy frowned. "But — but it ate some of her! I heard Dr. Shepherd say she'd had that cat for years, how could it do that? Was it so ravenous that—"
Bishop shook his head. "It had nothing to do with being ravenous and everything to do with being a cat. Experienced pathologists and cops will tell you it's more common than you might think. Die alone in your home with the family dog, and he'll wait until he's absolutely starving to death before he considers you a meal. Die alone with a pet cat, and he won't even wait until you're cold. Once dead, you stop being you and become just. . . flesh. It's his nature to be opportunistic; if there's food, he'll try it. Even if the food is the hand that fed him for years."
Sandy's face worked for a moment, and she finally muttered, "Oh, yuck. And I have a cat."
With a faint smile, Bishop said, "I like them myself. In spite of understanding them."
"I think," Sandy said, "I'll start closing my bedroom door at night. Misty can sleep on the couch."
Bishop didn't bother to remind her that given her age she was unlikely to die peacefully in her bed, at least during the probable lifetime of her cat. Instead, he merely nodded. "Probably not a bad idea,if only for your own peace of mind. For what it's worth, you don't have to worry that your cat is watching you and thinking of you as supper, Deputy Lynch. As long as you're a living being, she would never see you as a meal."
"Just don't stop breathing?"
"Something like that."
Sandy gazed past him at the doorway and drew a deep breath. "Right. And, for now, do my job. You don't have to say it."
"I think you're doing fine in a very difficult situation. Don't be so hard on yourself."
Obviously surprised, she flushed again and then ducked her head in acknowledgment as she went back into the house.
Tony passed her in the doorway and joined Bishop on the porch. "They just called to say the tow truck made it back to the Sheriff's Department with no trouble," he reported. "Her car'll be secured in the garage there, so we can take our time and go over it bumper to bumper."
Bishop nodded. "It took the direct route, right down Main Street?"
"As ordered. Brutal way for some of her friends to find out about Miss Hallowell. Calls are already coming in."
"Yeah. But I want this bastard to know we've found his latest kill."
Tony looked at him curiously. "And do you want him to think he's fooled us, at least for the moment?"
"If it'll buy us a little time, why not? If he thinks there's even half a chance somebody else could be convicted of his crimes, I'm willing to bet he'll sit tight and wait to see what happens."
"Pretty blatant, leaving that Bible," Tony mused.
"He hasn't shown much talent for subtlety, that's for sure. I don't know, maybe he's just trying to confuse things as much as possible. Killing someone who doesn't fit the previous victim profile and leaving evidence pointing to Marsh could be his way of slowing us down, distracting us."
"Is that what you think?"
Slowly, Bishop said, "I think he made his first serious mistake. I think he killed Liz because he was afraid of her, because he heard a garbled version of what happened yesterday, and acted on impulse to remove what he perceived as a threat. And it was only when he'd killed her that he realized he had to disguise his intent."
"Why?"
"So we wouldn't know he was afraid. He had to know that the only reason for him to kill Liz was an obvious one. Fear. When he saw that, he had to try to frame somebody else for the murder. Even if we believed Marsh committed only this crime, at least we wouldn't think the real killer was afraid."
"He didn't want us to think he was sexually interested in his victims, and he doesn't want us to think he's afraid of anything." Tony shook his head. "I guess homicidal maniacs are screwed up by definition, but this guy takes the prize."
"No kidding." Half consciously, Bishop turned to look toward the road.
"Miranda's coming?" Tony guessed.
"Yeah."
"I thought the transmitter was up and running again," Tony murmured. "So you two are sort of... linked?"
"You could say that." Bishop glanced at him, noted the professional as well as personal curiosity, and sighed. "It's like a corridor with a door at either end. With the doors open, we can communicate telepathically almost as easily as you and I are talking now."
"And with the doors closed?"
"There's just... an awareness. A sensitivity to mood, other emotions. Nearness."
"Ah." Tony nodded. "Mind me asking if the doors are open or closed right now?"
Bishop hesitated, then shrugged. "My side is open. Hers is closed."
"Could you open her door?" Tony asked.
"Probably. But it would be ... a forceful act. An invasion of privacy. We all need our privacy sometimes."
"Jeez," Tony said seriously, "you just know communication between the sexes is a bitch when even telepaths with a direct line to each other have problems talking."
Bishop had to smile, even though he felt little amusement. "Like every other part of the human condition, Tony, it just makes things more complicated — not less."
"I guess so." Tony saw Miranda's Jeep turn into the ' driveway. "In any case, I certainly don't envy her the last hour or so, telling Alex about this."
"No. It wasn't pleasant."
As Miranda walked toward the porch, her face drawn and still, Tony murmured something about helping the doctors and retreated into the house.
"How's Alex?" Bishop asked her.
Miranda made no move to go inside. "Lousy," she said, not mincing words. "I left him at the office with Carl and a bottle of scotch. That song about not knowing what you've got till it's gone keeps running through my mind. Thinking he was still in love with his dead wife was such a habit, Alex never realized until today that he was falling in love with Liz." She sighed, then added immediately, "Do we have any preliminary reports?"