The Face of Death

My mind is moving, my perception of the connectedness of things picking up speed. I turn without speaking and walk back into the bedroom. I examine the wrists and ankles of Dean and Laurel Kingsley. Callie and Barry have followed and look at me with their eyebrows raised.

I point at the bodies. 'No marks on their wrists or their ankles. You have two adults. You get them to strip naked, you put them into a tub, one at a time, you slit their throats, one at a time, bleed them out, one at a time-- does that make any sense?'

'I see what you mean,' Barry says. 'They would have been fighting back. How does he get it done? I don't think saying 'Take a number, I'll kill you next' would've cut it.'

'Occam's razor,' I reply. 'The simplest answer: They weren't fighting back.'

Barry frowns, perplexed, and then his face clears and he nods.

'Right,' he says. 'They were out cold. Maybe drugged.' He makes another note on his pad. 'I'll have them look for that during autopsy.'

'You know,' I say, shaking my head, 'if that's true, then that makes three bodies he had to carry, including one he'd had to have moved up the stairs.' I look at Barry. 'How tall would you say Mr. Kingsley is? Six feet?'

'Six or six-one.' He nods. 'Probably weighs one-ninety.'

I whistle. 'He'd have to muscle Kingsley into the tub, drugged . . .'

I shake my head. 'He's either tall or strong or both.'

'Helps.' Barry nods. 'We're not looking for a little guy.'

'Of course, there could have been two of them,' Callie says, glancing at me. 'We know about tag teams, don't we?'

She's right. Partnerships in murder are not uncommon. My team and I have chased more than one twisted coffee klatch.

'No visible evidence of sexual violation,' Barry notes, 'but that doesn't mean much. We won't know for sure until the medical examiner gets a good look at the bodies.'

'Have them check the boy first,' I say.

Barry raises a single eyebrow at me.

'He wasn't gutted.' I point to Michael's body. 'And he's clean. I think the killer washed him, postmortem. It looks like he combed his hair. It might not have been sexual--but there was something going on there. Less anger at Michael, for whatever reason.'

'Gotcha,' Barry says, jotting in his notepad.

I gaze around the room, at the streaks of blood on the walls and ceilings. In some places it seems splashed, like an artist had tossed a can of paint onto a blank canvas. But there are intricacies as well. Curls and symbols. Streaks. The most obvious thing about it is that it is everywhere.

'The blood is key to him,' I murmur. 'And the disembowelment. There's no evidence of torture on any of the victims, and they were bled out prior to being cut open. Their pain wasn't important to him. He wanted what was inside. Especially the blood.'

'Why?' Barry asks.

'I can't say. There's too many possible paradigms when it comes to blood. Blood is life, you can drink blood, you can use blood to tell the future--take your pick. But it's important.' I shake my head.

'Strange.'

'What?'

'Everything I've seen so far points to a disorganized offender. The mutilation, the blood painting. Disorganized offenders are chaotic. They have trouble planning and they get caught up in the moment. They lose control.'

'So?'

'So how is it that the boy wasn't gutted and Sarah is still alive? It doesn't fit.'

Barry gives me a considering look. Shrugs.

'Let's go see her room,' he says. 'Maybe there'll be some answers there.'

11

'WOW,' CALLIE REMARKS.

The reason for this soft exclamation is twofold.

First, and most obvious, the words written on the blank wall next to the bed.

'Is that blood?' Barry asks.

'Yes,' Callie confirms.

The letters are large. The slashes that form them are angry, each one a mark of hate and rage.

THIS PLACE = PAIN

'What the hell is that supposed to mean?' Barry gripes.

'I don't know,' I reply. 'But it was important to him.'

Just like the blood and the disembowelment.

'Interesting that he wrote it in Sarah's bedroom, don't you think?'

Callie asks.

'Yeah, yeah, puzzle puzzle cauldron bubble,' Barry grumbles.

'Why can't they ever write anything useful. Like: 'Hi, my name is John Smith, you can find me at 222 Oak Street. I confess.' '

The second reason for Callie's 'wow' can be found in the decor. The memory of standing in Alexa's room earlier today comes to me by comparison. Sarah's room is about as far from froufrou girly-girl as you can get.

The carpet is black. The drapes on the windows are black and they're pulled shut. The bed, a queen-sized four-poster, isn't black--

but the pillowcases, sheets, and comforter on it are. It all contrasts with the white of the walls.

The room itself is a good-sized room for a child. It's about half as big as the standard-sized 'kids' room' in most homes, perhaps ten by fifteen. Even with the large bed, a dresser, a small computer desk, a bookshelf, and an end table with drawers next to the bed, space remains in the center of the room to move around in. The extra space doesn't help. The room feels stark and isolated.

'I'm no expert,' Barry says, 'but it looks to me like this kid has problems. And I'm not just talking about a bunch of dead people in her house.'

I examine the wooden end table next to the bed. It's about the height and width of a barstool. A black alarm clock sits on top of it. Its three small drawers are what interest me the most.

'Can we get someone in here to fingerprint this?' I ask Barry.

'Now, I mean?'

He shrugs. 'I guess. Why?'

I relate the end of my conversation with Sarah. When I finish, Barry looks uncomfortable.

'You shouldn't have made that promise, Smoky,' he says. 'I can't let you take the diary. Period. You know that.'

I look at him, startled. He's right, I do know it. It goes against the chain of evidence, and at least a dozen other forensic rules, the violation of which would probably send John Simmons into some kind of apoplectic seizure.

'Let's get Johnny up here,' Callie says. 'I have an idea on how to handle this.'

Simmons looks around Sarah Kingsley's bedroom. 'So, Calpurnia. Explain to me what it is you're trying to accomplish here.'

'Obviously, Johnny, Smoky can't take the diary. My idea was to make a copy via photographs of each page.'

'You want my photographer to spend time--now--taking a picture of every page in the girl's diary?'

'Yes.'

'Why should I give this a particular priority?'

'Because you can, honey-love, and because it's necessary.'

'Fine, then,' he says, turning away and heading toward the door.

'I'll send Dan up.'

I stare after him, bemused at his instantaneous and complete capitulation.