She's right. Partnerships in murder are not uncommon. My team and I have chased more than one twisted coffee klatch.
"No visible evidence of sexual violation," Barry notes, "but that doesn't mean much. We won't know for sure until the medical examiner gets a good look at the bodies."
"Have them check the boy first," I say.
Barry raises a single eyebrow at me.
"He wasn't gutted." I point to Michael's body. "And he's clean. I think the killer washed him, postmortem. It looks like he combed his hair. It might not have been sexual--but there was something going on there. Less anger at Michael, for whatever reason."
"Gotcha," Barry says, jotting in his notepad.
I gaze around the room, at the streaks of blood on the walls and ceilings. In some places it seems splashed, like an artist had tossed a can of paint onto a blank canvas. But there are intricacies as well. Curls and symbols. Streaks. The most obvious thing about it is that it is everywhere.
"The blood is key to him," I murmur. "And the disembowelment. There's no evidence of torture on any of the victims, and they were bled out prior to being cut open. Their pain wasn't important to him. He wanted what was inside. Especially the blood."
"Why?" Barry asks.
"I can't say. There's too many possible paradigms when it comes to blood. Blood is life, you can drink blood, you can use blood to tell the future--take your pick. But it's important." I shake my head.
"Strange."
"What?"
"Everything I've seen so far points to a disorganized offender. The mutilation, the blood painting. Disorganized offenders are chaotic. They have trouble planning and they get caught up in the moment. They lose control."
"So?"
"So how is it that the boy wasn't gutted and Sarah is still alive? It doesn't fit."
Barry gives me a considering look. Shrugs.
"Let's go see her room," he says. "Maybe there'll be some answers there."
11
"WOW," CALLIE REMARKS.
The reason for this soft exclamation is twofold.
First, and most obvious, the words written on the blank wall next to the bed.
"Is that blood?" Barry asks.
"Yes," Callie confirms.
The letters are large. The slashes that form them are angry, each one a mark of hate and rage.
THIS PLACE = PAIN
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Barry gripes.
"I don't know," I reply. "But it was important to him."
Just like the blood and the disembowelment.
"Interesting that he wrote it in Sarah's bedroom, don't you think?"
Callie asks.
"Yeah, yeah, puzzle puzzle cauldron bubble," Barry grumbles.
"Why can't they ever write anything useful. Like: 'Hi, my name is John Smith, you can find me at 222 Oak Street. I confess.' "
The second reason for Callie's "wow" can be found in the decor. The memory of standing in Alexa's room earlier today comes to me by comparison. Sarah's room is about as far from froufrou girly-girl as you can get.
The carpet is black. The drapes on the windows are black and they're pulled shut. The bed, a queen-sized four-poster, isn't black--
but the pillowcases, sheets, and comforter on it are. It all contrasts with the white of the walls.
The room itself is a good-sized room for a child. It's about half as big as the standard-sized "kids' room" in most homes, perhaps ten by fifteen. Even with the large bed, a dresser, a small computer desk, a bookshelf, and an end table with drawers next to the bed, space remains in the center of the room to move around in. The extra space doesn't help. The room feels stark and isolated.
"I'm no expert," Barry says, "but it looks to me like this kid has problems. And I'm not just talking about a bunch of dead people in her house."
I examine the wooden end table next to the bed. It's about the height and width of a barstool. A black alarm clock sits on top of it. Its three small drawers are what interest me the most.
"Can we get someone in here to fingerprint this?" I ask Barry.
"Now, I mean?"
He shrugs. "I guess. Why?"
I relate the end of my conversation with Sarah. When I finish, Barry looks uncomfortable.
"You shouldn't have made that promise, Smoky," he says. "I can't let you take the diary. Period. You know that."
I look at him, startled. He's right, I do know it. It goes against the chain of evidence, and at least a dozen other forensic rules, the violation of which would probably send John Simmons into some kind of apoplectic seizure.
"Let's get Johnny up here," Callie says. "I have an idea on how to handle this."
Simmons looks around Sarah Kingsley's bedroom. "So, Calpurnia. Explain to me what it is you're trying to accomplish here."
"Obviously, Johnny, Smoky can't take the diary. My idea was to make a copy via photographs of each page."
"You want my photographer to spend time--now--taking a picture of every page in the girl's diary?"
"Yes."
"Why should I give this a particular priority?"
"Because you can, honey-love, and because it's necessary."
"Fine, then," he says, turning away and heading toward the door.
"I'll send Dan up."
I stare after him, bemused at his instantaneous and complete capitulation.
"How was that so easy?" Barry asks.
"The magic word was 'necessary,' " Callie says. "Johnny won't tolerate wasted motion on his crime scene. But if something is needed from his team to clear a case, he'll work them for days." She gives us a wry smile. "I speak from experience."
The diary is black, of course. Smooth black leather and small. It's not masculine or feminine. It's functional.
Blushing Dan the Photographer Man is here, camera ready.
"What we want is an image of each page, in sequence, large enough to be printed out on letter-sized paper and read."
Dan nods. "You want to photocopy the diary with the camera."
"Exactly right," Callie says.
Dan blushes, again. He coughs. This proximity to Callie seems to be overwhelming him. "No--uh--problem," he manages to stammer out. "I have a spare one gigabyte memory card I can use and let you take with you."
"All we need then, is someone to prop it open." She holds up her hands, showing the surgical gloves she's already slipped on. "That would be me."
Dan calms down once he's back and safe behind his camera lens. Barry and I watch as he shoots. The room is quiet, punctuated by the sound of the camera firing and by Dan murmuring for Callie to turn the pages when needed.
I glimpse Sarah's handwriting and at last see a hint of femininity. It's precise without being prissy. A smooth, exacting cursive, written in-- surprise--black ink.
There's a lot of it. Page after page after page. I find myself wondering what a girl who surrounds herself with the color black writes about. I find myself wondering if I want to know.
This is a lifelong battle for me: the struggle to "unknow" things. I am aware of the beauty of life, when it exists. But I'm also never un- aware of how terrible life can become, or how monstrous. Happiness, in my estimate, would be an easier state to achieve if I didn't have to reconcile these opposing forces, if I never had to ask the question:
"How can I be happy when I know, right now, at this very moment, that someone else is experiencing something terrible?"
I remember flying into Los Angeles at night with Matt and Alexa. We were coming home from a vacation. Alexa had the window seat and as we'd come down through the clouds, she'd gasped.
"Look, Mommy!"
I'd leaned over and looked through the window. I'd seen Los Angeles below, outlined in a sea of lights that stretched from horizon to horizon.