“Again, a lot of speculation, I see. What about the lipstick and the message he left? Where did he get the lipstick, anyway?”
“From Marsha’s purse-we know that for a fact. Her purse was found, opened, lying on the end table on the other side of the sofa. That was one of the first indications that the killer wasn’t interested in taking anything because all of Marsha’s credit cards and money-around $150.00 in cash-was untouched. Dave confirmed that the lipstick was hers and that she always carried it in her purse.”
“Is that where Marsha normally kept her purse?” Sam inquired.
“I knew you were going to ask that. The answer is no, it isn’t, and yes, I’ve already asked Dave where she usually kept it-no doubt your next question. She usually kept it on the dining room table. Now, go ahead and say what I think you’re going to say.”
Sam was undaunted by Roger’s brashness. “That definitely strengthens my theory, doesn’t it? The dining room table is completely out of sight from the living room and the kitchen. The killer would never have spent precious time searching for a tube of lipstick after having just murdered Marsha and no doubt wanting to split the scene ASAP. But he didn’t have to, because he already knew where Marsha kept her purse. Which indicates that her assailant knew this house and Marsha’s habits quite well. She had to have known this bastard, Rog! Either that, or he sure did a bang-up job of casing out this house and its occupants before coming here that night to carry out his crime.”
Roger drained the last of his Jack Daniels and stared at Sam. “I’m actually starting to think you may be absolutely right, buddy-you’re making me a believer. The question now is: which is it? And either way, which ever it is, we still don’t have jack shit to go on.”
Sam sighed. “I realize that. But it does give us a little insight into this prick. We know that he’s a clever sonofabitch beyond question-not to mention meticulous.”
“That’s a fact,” Roger agreed.
“What about the message? Any guesses?”
Roger shook his head. “Nope. “May Day…” The only thing that comes to mind is the international distress call for help. And the first of May-that spring celebration or whatever the fuck it is. The killer’s writing of that on Marsha’s tits after murdering her makes no sense at all, in light of the former-she was already beyond help. The first of May could be significant, though. But in what way? Who the fuck knows? Nope, buddy. That’s got me completely stymied.”
“Still think he could be a serial killer?”
“Fuck if I know. I’ll tell you the truth, and I’ve been saying it all along. Until Tommy Bradley talks to us, we’re just pissin’ in the wind on this case. All we have is a bunch of goddamn theories and two items of physical evidence: hair and cum. Big deal! We don’t even have a concrete motive yet, unless we want to believe that this was sheer rape and murder for the fucking fun of it-something for some sick ass to do on a lonely Wednesday evening. We need that kid to talk, Sam. That’s all there is to it.”
“Which could be weeks from now, you’ve been informed. What are you going to do in the meantime, Roger?” Sam asked purposefully, just to put him on the spot.
Roger felt the pressure and looked at his friend determinedly. “Well, we’re going to have to ask some people some more questions, for one thing. Canvass the neighbors again, just in case they’ve recalled something that might have slipped their minds when we last spoke to them. We’ll check and see if there have been any reports of prowlers in a twenty-block radius of this neighborhood in the last couple of weeks, too. And, it looks like I’m going to have to ask Dave some painfully personal questions about his wife-which I really hate to do. Find out if she was truly as faithful to him as he’s been leading us to believe, and ask him if she ever had any opportunities to play around on him that he can think of. He’s probably going to hate my ass for doing it, but we’ve got to check out every possibility, eh buddy?”
Sam grinned, pleased to hear that his friend wasn’t going to let him down. Roger was a man of his word, if nothing else. “That’s right, Detective Hagstrom. And if you need any help with the legwork, I’ll gladly offer my services.”
“I’ll let you know.” He glanced at his watch and said, “Why don’t you take your pictures so we can get the hell out of here. I’m getting thirsty.”
Sam looked around the room and said, “Fuck it. Let’s just go.”
Roger was tempted to rib him, but decided not to. “Want to hit the tavern and tie one on?”
It only took Sam a second to think about it. “Lead the way.”
CHAPTER 5
Ann stood in the doorway staring at her sleeping daughter and debated whether or not to wake her up. It was tempting, just to get back at her for coming home so late last night and worrying her half to death. But she relented when she saw how peaceful her daughter looked all snuggled up with her head buried underneath her pillow. She turned and quietly closed the bedroom door behind her.
She crept down the stairs and went into the kitchen, wrote Amy a quick note, then gathered up her things and headed out the front door. It was noticeably cooler than it had been the day before and the sun was shining brightly as she got in her car and started it up. As she was backing out the driveway, it suddenly dawned on her that she’d forgotten to call Mr. Ogilvy about fixing the floodlight in the backyard and made a mental note to call him the moment she got back home. The supermarket wasn’t far, only a few blocks away, so Ann drove slowly, taking in the quiet peacefulness of the neighborhood on a Sunday morning.
Ann waited for a traffic light to change then made a right onto High Street. She reached the supermarket in another three blocks and pulled into the parking lot, relieved to find that there were only a dozen or so cars parked outside. Since moving to Columbus, she’d gotten in the habit of doing her grocery shopping on Sunday mornings since it was rarely crowded then. Shopping had a certain therapeutic value to it, she had learned long ago. It helped to get her mind off things that were troubling her.
She went inside, grabbed a shopping cart, then spent the next half hour or so meandering through the aisles. When she was finished, she headed for the least crowded checkout line and waited.
There were only a couple of customers ahead of her: an elderly woman with a nearly full cart, and the man standing directly in front of Ann, who had only a few items. She’d seen the man before, last week in fact, and she remembered him because he was wearing the exact same thing he’d worn last Sunday-a gray wool suit and no overcoat. Her hunch was that he had just gotten out of church and had stopped by to pick up a few things before going home. He was strikingly handsome, she had to admit; tall, muscular build, with neatly styled longish blonde hair. His eyes were green, she recalled. A very dark, rich shade of green as stunning as it was unusual. He was probably about forty she guessed, and appeared fit and youthful with his trim, athletic physique and bronze, tanned skin-no doubt the result of numerous trips to a tanning salon.
The elderly woman was unloading her cart and taking her good old time about it. Ann heard the man in front of her sigh impatiently. She observed the handful of items he’d placed on the conveyer: a pound of ground chuck, a package of hamburger buns, a jar of pickles, a head of lettuce and a six-pack of Coke. Glancing over at the express lane, she wondered why he didn’t simply go over to it instead of putting up with the old lady like this, and then noticed that there were a half dozen people standing in line there.