“No. Our serial killers have chests filled with ribbons and are called heroes. Some of our graduates make a big name for themselves after they leave the service, but Army life tends to discourage them from acting out their fantasies.”
“But you’ve handled rapes, sex crimes?”
“Yes. A few.”
“What about Lisa?”
“Probably. The JAG Corps likes us to be well-rounded. Great efforts are expended to round out our trial experience.”
“Could she have been involved in a case with her killer?”
It was an insightful question, one I should’ve thought of. I replied, “I wouldn’t rule it out. She couldn’t have handled many violent sex crimes, because we do generalize. It shouldn’t be too difficult to back-check her case records.”
“That would be helpful.”
“Maybe not. Even if Lisa and the killer met in connection with her legal duties, it wasn’t necessarily a sex crime.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re familiar with criminal profiles. Those who would commit murder and rape have a disdain for all laws. He’s as apt to have been prosecuted for DUI, shoplifting, military disciplinary problems.” I added, “I’ll check her record on sex crimes, but don’t hold false hopes.”
But since she’d raised the subject, I also suggested, “You know, now that it appears Lisa’s murder was at the hands of a serial killer, there’s not much you and I can do.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. The customary motives of jealousy, greed, revenge, and cover-up have just been eliminated. Why she was killed is no longer the mystery. Catching serial killers requires strong procedural police work.”
“Are you suggesting I should go home?”
“Yes. Grieve with your family. Wait for the cops to find this guy.”
She stared at me for a few seconds, then said, “And if it wasn’t a serial killer?”
“If it… Didn’t I just hear you tossing theories at Martin and Spinelli about this guy?”
“What if they’re wrong?”
“But you agreed with them.”
“You didn’t listen carefully. I neither agreed nor disagreed. I speculated.”
“All right. Do you have a reason to suspect something else?”
“I’m keeping an open mind.”
When I said nothing in reply, she added, “Consider the differences between Cuthburt’s and Lisa’s murders. Cuthburt’s was inarguably a sexual assault. We’re presuming that was the motive with Lisa. Cuthburt was attacked in her home, Lisa in a public parking lot. I could go on.” She paused, and then added, “In fact, the only similarities were pieces of the victim profile and the broken neck. That could be coincidental.”
She was right. But she was not convincing. I said, “I would think an assistant DA would have confidence in cops.”
“Really? I thought it made us experts in their mistakes. I’ve lost more cases off their blunders. Also, they’re human. When a live person is around every day checking on their progress, they keep the case on the front burner and pay attention to the details.”
Okay, I appreciated her logic. Spend a few years as a defense attorney exploiting cop screwups, or as a prosecutor trying to wallpaper over them, and you’ll be damned sure to lock your doors and sleep with a gun under your pillow. Truth and sincerity, however, are different things.
But Dom Jimmy Jones arrived with our pizza pie and the awful Italian accent he had lifted from The Godfather or something, and I said, “Grazie,” and he looked back with a dumbfounded look until I clarified, “Thank you.” Mamma mia-welcome to the suburbs.
Janet laughed and commented, “Maybe it’s your pronunciation.”
“No wonder I had such a lousy time in Italy. I was there with your sister, in fact.”
“I don’t think she ever mentioned it.”
“A few years ago. We were taking statements from some soldiers who were being kept in a jail there.”
“Oh, the Kosovo thing. She did tell me about that. She called right after you returned, in fact. She was smitten with you.”
“Smitten?”
“It’s how we say it in polite Boston society. It means-”
“I know what it means. What else did she tell you about me?”
“All of it? The good, the bad, and the ugly?”
I smiled. “I have a strong ego.”
“Funny, that’s the first thing she mentioned-no, she mentioned a big ego.”
“The good, the bad, and the ugly. You start with the good.”
“I did.” She laughed, her first genuine laugh since we’d met. I don’t mean she’d been dour or bitchy or anything-the woman could frown and look pleasant. But she’d been concealing her feelings, smothering her grief, trying to accomplish the task she’d set for herself; but you had to know things were a little brittle underneath. I was glad I’d brought her here. I was glad I was diverting her mind for the time being. I liked her laugh. I was pretty sure I liked her.
She said, “Actually, Lisa described you as this big manly hunk who snorts testosterone at breakfast… bullheaded… trouble with authority figures… Should I go on?”
“I thought you said she was… what was that word again?”
“Smitten. She was. She also said you were smart, clever, sexy, and very funny without meaning to be funny.”
“What’s that mean?”
“That’s hard to explain.” She added, “But I think I see what she means.” Then she looked at me pointedly and asked, “Why didn’t you ask her out?”
“A lot of reasons.”
“All right. Give me one good one.”
“After Bosnia, a long case in Korea, three cases in Europe, a long case that kept me in Russia, and so on. I know this is difficult to understand, but Army life’s not conducive to starting relationships.”
“Of course.” After a moment, she said, “Have you thought of a good one yet?”
Right. I allowed a few seconds to pass, then said, “Your sister scared the hell out of me.”
She put down her wineglass and studied me. “Why?”
“You know why.”
“I want to hear it.” But she already knew, and she chuckled. “Maybe you’re not as brave as she claimed.”
“I don’t see any engagement rings on your finger, sister.”
“I have an excuse.”
“What’s your excuse?”
“I’m much younger than you.” She laughed. Again. She then said, “You should have asked her out. She got involved with another man. We weren’t all that happy about it.”
“What was his problem?”
“ Problems. Older, married twice before… a charming, successful guy, just definitely not right for her. My father lost a lot of sleep over it.”
Well, for some reason, perhaps guilt or perhaps a need to change the topic from the dead to the living, I asked her, “Well, what’s your life story?”
She appeared amused by this question. “The same as Lisa’s.”
“I know you were sisters, but-”
“No, Sean. Literally almost identical. We were eleven months apart, Irish twins. Still, you’d swear we sprang from the same egg. Same height, clothing size, tastes, grades in the same courses… perhaps you’ve noticed we
