'And when was this?'
'Six, eight months ago? Her wedding was set for May, so a month before that.'
Herb asked, 'What was the boyfriend's name?'
'Tashing. Johnny Tashing. But he didn't kill her. He's a loser, but he still loves her. There's no way he could kill her. Not like that. Not horrible like that.'
We went on for twenty more minutes, asking more questions, handing her more tissues. Theresa Metcalf had been a waitress at a club named Montezuma's. The last time Elisa had seen her was three days ago, when Theresa was leaving for work. Elisa had spent the last few days at her boyfriend's apartment, and hadn't known Theresa was missing until seeing her photo on television. She didn't recognize the picture of the first Jane Doe. She didn't know who killed her friend. She didn't know why anyone would.
After the inquisition, we walked down the hall to Theresa's room. It was neat. The bed was made. The closets were organized. Nothing appeared out of place or unusual.
Benedict and I busied ourselves looking through drawers and shelves for anything that could give us a clue as to Theresa's life and schedule. We found a box of letters, an appointment calendar, and some canceled checks. Nothing else warranted further attention.
Then we checked all the doors and windows, looking for signs of forced entry. We found nothing.
'Did Theresa have a purse?' I asked Elisa.
'Sure.'
We searched the bathroom and the rest of the house and came up empty-handed. Theresa must have taken her purse with her. That meant she probably wasn't dragged forcibly from her house. So our working assumption was she'd either been grabbed by surprise somewhere else, or she went willingly with someone she knew.
Benedict gave Elisa a receipt for the items we took, and we asked her if she would stop by the morgue sometime tomorrow to identify the body. Normally we'd ask next of kin, but according to her roommate, Theresa was an only child and her parents were dead. Elisa agreed to come in around ten.
'So where to?' Benedict queried as we climbed back into the car.
'Two choices.' I grimaced, trying to get my leg into a position that didn't hurt so much. 'Work or the ex- boyfriend.'
'I'd like to read through the letters we took before we tackle the ex. I saw his name on a few of them.'
'Then it's off to work we go.'
'You can adjust the seat, Jack. It's all electric.'
Comfort won out over ego and I began pressing buttons. By the time I'd found the perfect combination of tilt and lift, we'd reached Theresa's place of employment a few blocks away.
'They don't look open.' Herb pulled in front of the club. We couldn't see any lights on through the tinted windows.
'Alley entrance. I'm sure someone's inside, setting up for the day.'
Herb parked on the street, refusing to leave his nice car with electric seats in the alley. We walked around and banged on the back door until one of the kitchen workers answered. Our badges got us inside, and after an intense session of question and answer with the manager of the club, we learned that Theresa did indeed work there, but she hadn't shown up for her last four shifts.
We got an employee list, along with the current work schedule, and asked if any other employee had been missing shifts lately. None had. Neither had any employee been dating or harassing Theresa. Had any customers? Well, the wait staff got hit on all of the time, but none fit the stalker category. We'd have to talk with the other servers to be sure. No reaction to the picture of the first victim.
Benedict and I walked back to the car. Routine dictated that every employee had to be questioned and checked out. We'd run them all through the computer for priors, and then we'd begin the lengthy and time-consuming process of interrogation, checking alibis, running down new leads. Hopefully something would break loose, but I wasn't crossing my fingers. The more we turned up, the more it seemed that Charles picked women at random. Maybe all a girl had to do to get on his list was be young and cute.
We (Herb) stopped for doughnuts on the way back to the station, picking up a dozen and the obligatory coffee. Since Herb's tongue had been mangled, he'd actually been eating more than usual.
'I once knew an overweight woman who was anorexic,' he told me. 'She refused to give in to her disease, so she ate nonstop. I refuse to let a little mouth pain deter my eating habits.'
'Who said overcompensation isn't healthy.'
'Pass me another cruller.'
I was unable to talk Herb into taking the stairs when we got back to the station, even when using big words like arteriosclerosis and myocardial infarction. It was a good thing I saved my energy, because waiting for me in my office were the men in gray, ready to save the world and document it in triplicate.
'Lieutenant Daniels,' Agent Coursey said. Or maybe it was Dailey. 'We've got good news.'
I hoped it involved them being reassigned.
'Vicky worked up a new profile of the suspect, and we're 77.4 percent sure that he's French Canadian, and most likely owns a horse.'
'Our killer is a Mountie.' Herb said it deadpan.
'A what? Hmm, that's good. We hadn't thought of that.'
They looked at each other, and Benedict and I took the moment to do the same.
'How about the candy,' I asked. 'Did you get anything?'
