“Did LaTara have any girlfriends, people she might have confided in?”
“When she was younger, yes. But as she got older, got deeper in the drugs, I’m afraid I don’t know who she was hanging around with. She stopped coming to services, stopped listening to me. I hate to say it, but I kicked her out. It wasn’t very Christian of me, and I regret it now. But I don’t truck with drugs, can’t abide that kind of behavior under my roof. When she got her head back on straight, tried to clean up, I welcomed her back with open arms. She was trying so hard.”
“So no boyfriends?”
“Not that I know of. None that I saw sniffing around. She was a pretty girl, my LaTara. Boys always noticed her. But once she got deep into the drugs, she din’t look too good. She was getting back to herself when she passed.”
The sheriff walked back into the kitchen, followed by a young woman with a brunette pixie haircut and ridiculously high cheekbones. A no-nonsense kind of girl. Though she looked young, she oozed smarts. He introduced her as Deputy Ann Clift. The woman nodded and shook Taylor’s and McKenzie’s hands.
“Let’s get started,” she said. “Show me the bedroom.”
The five of them trooped dutifully down the hall. Taylor signaled to McKenzie to hang back. The sheriff and Deputy Clift walked into the room, Marie Bender followed reluctantly. Taylor couldn’t imagine how hard this must be for her.
Though three years had passed, the room was still decorated as LaTara left it, in the style of a little girl, pink and floral and lace. Posters adorned the walls, a single bed with a flowered eyelet coverlet stood against the wall. Taylor was struck by the similarities and glaring differences between LaTara’s room-warm, inviting and safe-and the room that belonged to Allegra Johnson-dank and dark, with no frills or unnecessary items. These were two girls who were alike, but miles and miles apart. It wasn’t just their physical non-proximity that made them different. It was rather amazing that they’d ended up the same, into drugs and prostitution, dead much too young, possibly at the hands of the same killer. Was there something about Allegra Johnson that reminded the killer of LaTara Bender?
The sheriff didn’t waste any time, had a diagram from the original crime scene out and was measuring the area to the right of the bathroom door. After a few minutes of consultation, Deputy Clift drew a wide rectangle with an orange marker, then got on her knees and carefully swabbed the entire area, working in quadrants. She sealed each individual swab, labeled it, and moved on to the next section. After she’d collected over fifty samples, she cut the area of the rug out. It measured about four feet by three feet, and rolled easily into a conveniently placed paper bag. It was labeled and sealed, and they were done.
They bid Mrs. Bender farewell; Taylor gave her a card and asked her to call if anything else came to mind. They left her standing in the doorway to the bedroom, lost in the nightmares and sorrow she had been living with since her only child’s death.
Twenty-Two
T he basement was so empty.
Gavin sat at his corner desk, staring unseeing at his computer screen. The vast black space behind him seemed to grow and breathe, the shadows lengthening ominously. He didn’t like to be alone in the basement.
So lonely.
He woke from his reverie when his IM chimed. He glanced at the screen. Morte had opened a private chat with him.
Hey, Morte. Good timing. I was just sitting here by myself. I’m alone again. They’re both gone.
The response came immediately.
WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD DO YOU THINK YOU’RE PLAYING AT?
Morte was furious, Gavin could read that clearly. But why? The last time Morte had gotten angry with him was about the car. No, it wasn’t smart of him, but he was still learning. What else could have set Morte off? Oh, the music. He shouldn’t have told him about the music. Morte had been very clear in his instructions, in how the scene should look. But Gavin was an artist, and the music was so lovely, so necessary. He needed to hear the flowing, building crescendos as he worked. He couldn’t help himself. He decided to play dumb.
What are you talking about?
You know exactly what I’m talking about. How dare you contact me in the real world?
Gavin’s brow furrowed. Contact Morte in the real world? What?
Morte, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t been in contact with anyone.
As he typed the period, a moment of insanity passed through him. He had been in touch with someone. Someone very far away. Someone unattainable. A slow burn began in his chest. He started to type, stopped himself. No. That was crazy. There was no way.
Another message flashed into the chat room.
Listen to me, little Gavin. You have absolutely no right to cross the line. NO RIGHT! Haven’t I given you everything you’ve always dreamed of? Friends, a home for your basest desires, a family, the benefit of my vast knowledge?
Oh, my God. He couldn’t lose Morte. He just couldn’t. He typed frantically.
Of course you have. I appreciate everything that you’ve done for me, Morte. But I don’t understand. What have I done?
There was nothing for a moment. The online equivalent of dead silence. It took Gavin a second to realize Morte had called him by his real name, not his screen name. How would Morte know his real name? Then the words came, flowing onto the screen in quick succession.
You really don’t know who I am? You’re saying the e-mail was a coincidence? I don’t believe in coincidences, Gavin. I’m afraid our relationship has come to an end.
NO!
Gavin felt the despair showering through his system. He couldn’t give Morte up. He was one of the only people in the world who understood him. Who cared for him. But it was too late. Morte had left the chat room. Gavin was alone again. He began to cry, typing desperately through his tears.
Please, Morte, please don’t go. I swear I didn’t know. I still don’t know.
Gavin stayed logged in for an hour, waiting, but there was no answer. Morte was gone. He sat there crying, feeling a loss so deep that he could barely breathe, like half of his soul had been sheared away. He was again incomplete.
Twenty-Three
T aylor and McKenzie bid the Manchester contingent goodbye. They declined the invitation for a late lunch at the Jiffy Burger, the best burger in the South, because they needed to get back to Nashville for the post of their Radnor Lake victim.
Sheriff Simmons wasn’t going to take no for an answer. He convinced them to stop and take a bag of food to go, his treat. He called ahead, had an order of burgers and fries ready to be picked up as they drove out of town. The Jiffy Burger was right next to the library, and obviously packed; the only open parking spaces were in the library lot. Taylor double parked behind a Ford F-350 and let McKenzie run in for their order. He returned in three minutes
