Guiltily, Joanna shoved the panties into her blazer pocket. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“You’re welcome,” Carol Strong replied.
They sat in silence for a moment watching and listening while Butch Dixon charmed a weary Jenny with an old shaggy-dog story that was nonetheless brand-new to her. She laughed delightedly at the punch line.
“You said eight other pairs?” Joanna asked eventually.
Carol nodded. “There’s an index of sorts taped to the bottom of the box,” she said quietly. “It contains names and dates. Matching codes have been inked into the labels of each pair of panties. I guess he must have been afraid the toll might one day go so high that he’d forget which panties belonged to which victim.”
Joanna swallowed hard. “Eight. How could there be so many?”
“Scary, isn’t it,” Carol said. “Number six was Serena Grijalva. Seven was Rhonda Weaver Norton. Leann Jessup is listed as number eight, except she didn’t die. Once we finish examining all the trace evidence, I’m pretty sure we’ll find that Dave Thompson didn’t commit suicide.”
“Larry killed him, too? Why?”
“I think so. This morning, before I went looking for Madeline Bellerman, I went by the hospital to see Leann Jessup. I ended up talking to her friend, Kimberly George.”
“Her ex-lover, you mean.”
“Current, not ex,” Carol returned. “Kimberly told me that after she saw you on the news with Leann, she realized she was wrong, that she wanted to get back together.”
“When she saw the two of us?” Joanna echoed. “But I’m not—”
“I know,” Carol said. “Don’t worry about it. I told Kimberly that this morning. But on Wednesday evening, Kim evidently stopped by Leann’s room on the APOA campus to see if they could patch things up. I don’t know how explicit their reconciliation was, but I think Larry Dysart saw what was happening. He saw one more chance to add to his collection, this time with a deceased Dave Thompson holding the bag.
“I’d like to think that it wouldn’t have worked, that we would have been smarter than that. And I think Larry was beginning to fall apart. That’s what happens to guys like that. They convince themselves that they’re all-powerful and that the cops are too stupid to figure it out. They kill at shorter and shorter intervals until finally their fuses blow.”
Another long silence fell between the two women. “Who were the others?” Joanna asked finally. “Were they all from around here?”
Carol shook her head. “I believe we’ll find they’re from other parts of the country and that the murders took place over a number of years. Larry Dysart knocked around some, working pickup jobs here and there. We’re currently checking with other jurisdictions where he either lived or traveled. Only one other case—number five—for sure happened anywhere around here. When that victim died, her death was listed as natural causes. You’ll never guess who that one was.”
“Who?” Joanna asked, wanting to know and yet feeling a sense of dread as she waited for Carol’s answer.
“Emily Dysart Morgan,” she said. “Larry’s mother. She was an Alzheimer’s patient right here in Peoria. She disappeared from a nursing home during a rainstorm in the dead of summer four years ago. Everyone assumed she had died of natural causes and had been washed down the Agua Fria. Her body was never found. Until today.”
“Today?”
Carol Strong nodded, her mouth grim. “Today wasn’t the first time Larry used Tommy Tompkins’s vapor-barrier-wrapped bomb shelter. With Jenny and Ceci, it didn’t work, thank God, but with Larry’s mother, I’d say it did.”
Butch Dixon came around the bar. “Are you off duty now?” he asked Carol Strong.
“Yes.”
“What can I get you to drink, then? It’s on the house.”
“Whiskey,” Carol Strong said. “Jack Daniel’s straight up.”
By Sunday afternoon, as the Bradys were packing up to go back to Bisbee, Joanna already knew that the remainder of her APOA session would be postponed until after the first of the year. “So why can’t you come home today?” Jenny insisted.
“Because I need to pick up my stuff from the dorm,” Joanna answered. “And that won’t be available until tomorrow morning. Not only that, Dave Thompson’s funeral is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. I should go to that.”
“All right,” Jenny said. “But I wish you were coming with us today.”
“So do I,” Joanna said.
The next morning, Joanna had to pack twice—first to check out of the hotel and next to leave the dorm. Even so, the process didn’t take long. After closing up her own APOA room, Joanna helped Lorelie Jessup pack up Leann’s things.
“Will Leann be coming to the funeral this afternoon?” Joanna asked.
Lorelie shook her head. “She wanted to, but the doctor says no. It’s still too early for her to leave the hospital.”
“That’s probably just as well.”
At noon, Joanna stood on the steps of the Maricopa County Courthouse, watching from among the crowd while a newly released Jorge Grijalva emerged with his children. As the television cameras rolled, Joanna tried to slip away, but Ceci had spotted her. She dragged the man she knew as her father over to where Joanna was standing.
“Thank you,” Jorge said.
“You’re welcome,” Joanna answered. “Will the kids be going back to Bisbee with you?”
Jorge shook his head. “Not right now. They’re in school. They’ll stay with their other grandparents, at least until the end of the year. It’ll all work out.”
“Yes,” Joanna said. “I’m sure it will.”
Four hours later, Joanna was part of a large contingent of police officers, both in and out of uniform, who gathered respectfully in Glendale Memorial Park for Dave Thompson’s graveside funeral service. Listening to the minister’s laudatory eulogy, Joanna found herself wondering what the truth was about Dave Thompson. On the one hand, some of the cigarette stubs from the tunnel behind the mirrored walls were the same brand Dave Thompson smoked. But no one—Butch Dixon included—had ever seen Dave smoking inside.
Had he been the one in the tunnel or not? If Larry Dysart had been smart enough to plant evidence in Jorge’s pickup, he might also have planted the incriminating cigarette stubs. But there was no way to know for sure. Not ever.
Toward the end of the service, Joanna watched the mourners. There was an elderly couple—probably Dave’s parents—and then two children—a boy and a girl—who were evidently Dave’s kids.
The program provided by the mortuary listed among Dave’s survivors his children, Irene Danielle and David James Thompson. The girl looked to be a year or so older than Jenny, while the boy was maybe a year or so older than that.
The funeral was over and Joanna was almost ready to leave when she saw the boy standing off by himself. Despite the warm afternoon sunshine he stood with his shoulders hunched as if to ward off the cold. He looked so lost and miserable that Joanna couldn’t walk past without speaking to him.
“David?” she asked tentatively.
He turned toward her, his face screwed up with anguish. “Yes?” he said, and then quickly looked away.
Studying him, Joanna found that David James Thompson resembled his father. He couldn’t have been more than twelve, but he was almost as tall as Joanna. His sport coat, although relatively new, seemed to be several months too small. His tie was uneven and poorly knotted. Searching for something comforting to say, Joanna felt the lump grow in her throat. Tying ties properly is something boys usually learn from their fathers.
“I’m Joanna Brady,” she said, holding out her hand. “I was one of your father’s students at the APOA.”