“Now there’s an appropriate metaphor,” Friedberg said.
“Robert,” Allman said with a big grin. He gave Friedberg’s hand a firm shake. “Didn’t see you there.”
“Jeez. Haven’t seen you since…well, since the last murder in town.”
“You make police reporters sound like the grim reaper.”
Friedberg laughed. “Hey, man…if the shoe fits.”
“You related to the brothers?” Vail asked.
Allman cocked his head. “What brothers?”
“Gregg and Duane,” Vail said. “Allman Brothers. ‘Ramblin’ Man,’ ‘Midnight Rider’-c’mon, I know you’re old enough to know their music.”
“Yes,” Allman said. “And no. Yes, I know their music. No, we’re not related. But I do play a mean guitar.”
“That’s true,” Burden said. “If by ‘mean’ you really meant ‘horrible.’”
Allman frowned at Burden, and then swung his gaze over to Vail. “So…about the DB.”
“What about it?” Vail asked. “This is a crime scene. When homicide inspectors respond, there usually is a dead body.”
Allman’s eyebrows rose. “Whoa. Do I detect a little… attitude?”
“You detect a lot of attitude,” Burden said.
Vail cleared her throat. “I can speak for myself, Birdie. Thank you very much.” She looked at Allman. “And yeah, I don’t believe reporters should be trampling a crime scene before the investigating detectives even get a chance to look things over.”
“Okay, okay,” Allman said, raising both hands. “I’ll wait. I didn’t mean anything by it. I just-it’s my job to cover crimes.”
“I got that,” Vail said, “when Burden introduced you as the Tribune’s police reporter.”
Allman looked to Burden, who shrugged.
“Don’t take it personally. Agent Vail treats everyone the same way. She doesn’t play favorites.” Burden nodded at Friedberg and Vail to follow him. “We’ll have a look around,” he called back to Allman. “If you’re still here when we’re done, I’ll let you take a look. These days you’re not even supposed to have access, so I know you’re good with that. Right?”
“Of course. And since I’m a man of words, although it goes without saying, I’ll say it anyway: I do appreciate it.”
Burden led the way through the decorative iron gate into an arched alley, then up to the townhouse’s front door. Friedberg handed Vail and Burden baby blue booties and latex gloves.
As they slipped them on, the SFPD officer gave them a report: “I did a well check, figuring I’d find her deceased, based on…well, based on dispatch’s warning. She’s upstairs, in bed. I backed out the way I came.”
Vail and Friedberg followed Burden through the front door. Inside, off to the left, sat a living room filled with austere antique furniture upholstered in paisley fabrics that were long in the tooth. They moved through the room, then into the dining room and the kitchen.
Vail checked the rear door with a gloved hand. Locked. A small square backyard stared back at her through the window. A well-tended vegetable garden sprouted tomatoes and squash, and what looked like the ends of carrots peeking through the soil.
“No sign of a struggle,” Vail said. “No nothing. Everything looks like I’d expect it to.”
“Ten-four,” Burden said. “Let’s go up. After we get a look at the body, we can come back down, take a fresh pass down here.”
They moved toward the front of the house and headed up the narrow staircase to the second floor. Two bedrooms and a bathroom sat before them.
Vail led them into the only one with an open door. The odor of death was pungent and flared her nostrils. But as intense as the smell was, it was nowhere near as impactful as the image of what lay before them.
Sprawled out on the bed lay an elderly woman. Vail wanted to turn away but could not. It was one thing seeing the body in the morgue. This one was relatively fresh. And she bore a slight resemblance to her mother. She bit down on her bottom lip.
“Shit,” Friedberg said. “I knew what we were gonna see, but does anything prepare you for a scene like this?”
Maybe a lobotomy.
Burden backed out of the room. “I’ve seen enough.”
“Are you-you’re shitting me,” Vail said. “What exactly have you seen?”
“Enough. I’ve seen enough. Same as before, same as the last one.”
“You don’t mind if I take a closer look?”
“Be my guest. I’m gonna go check for missing electrical cords.”
“You and me, then,” Vail said to Friedberg. She carefully moved to the side of the bed and examined the body visually. “Burn marks,” she said, pointing at an area overlying the abdomen. “Same as the ones on Maureen Anderson.” The woman’s blouse had been pulled up over her chest but was not covering the face.
Friedberg smacked his lips, as if trying to hold back an upchuck of bile. “Violated, like Anderson.”
Vail stepped back and took a look around, viewing the victim from different angles. Her shoe nudged the edge of something hard. “And I just found his preferred tool.” She looked down at her foot. It was touching the tip of a blood-soaked black umbrella.
They remained with the body for another ten minutes, then checked the other rooms. As they were headed downstairs, CSI Rex Jackson was walking in the front door.
“She’s upstairs,” Vail said.
They found Burden in the kitchen, staring out the back window. “This guy isn’t gonna stop, is he?”
“No,” Vail said. “Offenders like him, they’re going to keep killing until we grab him up. There’s a lot going on here. A lot for us to figure out.”
“Anything we need to know down here?” Friedberg asked.
Burden hiked a shoulder. “No sign of forced entry. I’ve got some officers out canvassing neighbors to see who these people were so we can build on our victimology.”
“Good,” Vail said.
Burden’s gaze remained out the window. “The Andersons have a daughter. She’s out of the country. Lives in France. We’re trying to get word to her. The Ilgs apparently have two
