for the view to be obscured?” Vail asked.
Friedberg took a long drag, then spoke while the smoke streamed out of his mouth. “Hard to say. Depends on the day. This time of year, fog like this is common. Sometimes it burns off, sometimes it doesn’t.”
“And the 122?” Burden asked.
Vail only shook her head. “The numbers seem to be all over the place. What if you add up the first three?”
Burden looked at the sky a moment, then said, “Whoa. One-twenty- one.”
“Well,” Dixon said, “121 is not 122.”
“No, it’s not.” Vail thought a moment, then said, “It’s reasonable to assume he killed Strayhan sometime after his wife, then posed him under the cover of darkness.” Vail craned her neck to take in her surroundings. “And the location was carefully chosen-a perfect spot, really, to place a dead body. No security cameras. When the public arrives in the morning, none of the staff is going to see the body because he’s blocked by the statue. But like you said, soon as people start arriving in the parking lot, bam. Max impact.”
“You had a problem with something,” Dixon said. “You spaced out on me when I pointed out the rope.”
“The rope,” Vail said with a nod. “There were some things at the wife’s crime scene that varied from the other vics. And there’s rope here, just like the one at that Palace place, but-”
“Palace of Fine Arts,” Friedberg said.
“Yeah. That one. The rope we found there was a specialized type that a climber may use. But the one he used here, it’s just plain old rope.”
“So things are a little different,” Burden said. “What are you saying?”
“It could be a copycat, going off what he read in Scheer’s article. Or it could be the UNSUB screwing with us. That’s what this kind of killer would do.”
“How can we be sure?” Dixon asked.
“Absent identifying forensics, behavioral analysis may hold the answer. Let’s refocus our efforts, drill down a bit, start with the basics.”
Friedberg blew out a plume of smoke and watched it zip away on the breeze. “And what are the ‘behavioral basics’ in a case like this?”
Vail spread her hands. “It all starts with the victims. Why these people? Why now?”
Burden glanced around the parking lot, then at the tower, then at Rex Jackson, who was processing the body. “So let’s go back to the war room and plot this out.” He nodded at Friedberg. “Where do we stand on the backgrounders you were putting together?”
“I’ve got the first four vics done. I was just getting started on the Ruckers.”
“What happened with your chat with that retired guy, Inspector-” Vail waved a hand, the universal sign for assistance. “The one who handled the ’82 Newhall case.”
Friedberg pulled the cigarette from his mouth. “Millard Ferguson. He’s not doing so good. Throat cancer, looks like shit.”
“Sorry to hear the guy’s dying,” Vail said. “But the case. What’d he have to say about the case? Maybe we can prevent others from following him to the grave.”
“That’s cold,” Burden said.
Vail hiked her brow. “Am I wrong?”
“Not wrong…just…cold.”
Vail turned to Friedberg. “Did he give you anything we can use?”
“He only remembered certain things. Like that key. Thought there might be some connection to the building they found him in front of. But nothing panned out. They had a few suspects, nothing that excited them.”
“So a dead end,” Dixon said.
“A dead end,” Friedberg said. “For now. Maybe one of those old cases Clay’s got will pop up on our radar.”
A phone began buzzing.
Friedberg wagged a finger at Burden’s pocket. “You’re vibrating.”
Burden pulled his cell, read the display. He looked over at Allman, who was still standing beside the cop. “Text from Clay. Wants to know when he can come over, see the body.”
They swiveled their heads to look at Allman, who had his hands spread in anticipation.
“I think we can use his assistance,” Vail said.
Burden waved him over.
Vail held up her BlackBerry. “I’ll be right back, gotta make a call.” She moved away from Columbus and walked toward the edge of the parking lot, where it met the vegetation that led to the coastline. A wall of fog-of nothingness-stared back at her. A moment later, her phone connected to the Behavioral Analysis Unit.
“Lenka, this is Karen. Can you look something up for me?”
“How are things going in San Francisco?”
Now there’s a loaded question. “I’d rather just discuss happy things.”
“That bad?”
“There’s a fresh dead body about thirty feet away. If you can look up Agent Mike Hartman and tell me where he’s assigned, it’ll make my day a little brighter.” She heard Lenka tapping the keys.
“Then this may make the sun shine. He’s right in your backyard. San Francisco Field Office.”
Vail felt a cold sweat break out across her forehead. “You’re shitting me.”
“Just emailed you the phone number. You’ll have it in a sec.”
Vail thanked Lenka, then scrolled to her email. She clicked on Hartman’s number and got his voicemail. “Mike, it’s Karen Vail. Can you give me a call? It’s very important.” She left her number, then hung up and stared off into the fog a moment.
What does this mean? Can Mike Hartman be the offender? No. He wouldn’t implicate himself by leaving that note. And he can be a bit of an asshole, but he’s no psychopath. No, either Eugenia told somebody-the Bay Killer?-or it’s gotta be someone Hartman knows, someone who talked to him.
But why would Hartman tell anyone about me, and what I did in New York? Unless he’s trying to embarrass me, cause problems. If it’s someone Hartman talked to, the offender’s gotta know I’m gonna call up my former partner and ask who he told about it. Unless he doesn’t know Hartman’s the only living person who knows. Or the source was someone who bought the info from Eugenia. Vail sighed. Shit.
Vail turned and headed back to the knot of colleagues. Off in the
