The Face of Death

happens there. Did you hear anything from Callie?'

'I haven't talked to her yet. I'll call her when we're done here.'

'Maybe he was dumb there too.' He takes another deep drag on his cigarette. 'About the girl. I don't have much yet, but here goes: She's been with the Kingsleys for a little over a year, real name is Sarah Langstrom.'

Sarah Langstrom, I think, trying the name on for size.

'I checked for a record,' Barry continues. 'She was arrested for drug possession when she was fifteen-- smoking a joint on a bus bench in broad daylight. Nothing else came up. I'll get her file from Social Services tomorrow.'

'She said her parents were murdered. When she was six.'

'That's great. I love a happy ending.' He sighs. 'How do you want to handle interviewing her?'

'Strictly straight and narrow. This girl . . .' I shake my head. 'If she feels like we're not being honest with her, or we're not taking her seriously--she'll stop trusting us. And I don't think she trusts us much anyway.'

'Fair enough.' He takes a final drag on his cigarette before flicking it into the parking lot. 'I'll follow your lead.'

Sarah has a private room in the children's wing of the hospital. Barry has a guard posted outside the door. Young Thompson again. Tired looking but still excited.

'Any visitors?' Barry asks him.

'No, sir. No one.'

'Sign us in.'

It's nice enough, as hospital rooms go, which as far as I'm concerned is like saying that it's the best one available at the Bates Motel. The walls have been painted a warm beige, and the floor is some kind of faux-wood. Better than white linoleum and institution-green, I admit to myself. There's a large window, and the drapes are pulled open, allowing the sunlight to pour in.

Sarah's in a bed near the window. She turns her head to see us as we enter.

'Aw, geez,' I hear Barry say under his breath.

She looks small and pale and tired. Barry is appalled. This is another reason I like him. He's not jaded. I walk up to the side of her bed. She doesn't smile, but I'm happy to see less deadness in her eyes.

'How are you?' I ask.

She shrugs. 'Tired.'

I indicate Barry with a nod of my head. 'This is Barry Franklin. He's the homicide detective in charge of your case. He's a friend of mine, and I asked him to take on your case because I trust him.'

Sarah looks at Barry. 'Hi,' she says, disinterested. She turns back to me. 'I get it.' She sighs, her voice resigned and bleak. 'You're not going to help me.'

I blink, surprised.

'Whoa, honey. The local police are always involved. It's how things work. That doesn't mean I'm not a part of it.'

'Are you lying to me?'

'Nope.'

She stares at me for a few seconds, eyes narrowed and suspicious, gauging the truth of what I'm saying. 'Okay,' she says, reluctant. 'I believe you.'

'Good,' I reply.

Her face changes. Hope, mixed with desperation. 'Did you get my diary?'

I choose my words carefully. 'I couldn't take the original diary. We have rules about how we handle things at a crime scene. But'--I raise my voice as I see her face begin to fall--'I had a photograph taken of every single page in it. Someone is going to be printing those photographs out for me today, and I'll be able to read them. Just as if they were the pages from your real diary.'

'Today?'

'I promise.'

Sarah gives me another long, suspicious stare.

There's no trust in this girl, I think. No trust at all. What had it taken to make her this way? Did I want to know?

'Sarah,' I say, keeping my voice even and gentle, 'we need to ask you some questions. About what happened in your house yesterday. Are you ready to do that?'

The gaze she gives me is filled with too much experience, a kind of empty indifference I've seen before in victims. It's easier to be indifferent than it is to care.

'I guess.' Her voice is flat.

'Do you mind if Barry is here while we talk? I'll ask all the questions. He'll just sit away from us and listen.'

She waves a hand. 'I don't care.'

I pull up a chair next to her bed. Barry sits down in a chair near the door. More of our easy dance. He'll be able to hear everything, but he'll remain unobtrusive. It won't be hard for Sarah to forget that he's even there.

There's an intimacy to victim recollection. It's personal. A sharing of secrets. Barry knows this, and he knows that Sarah is going to be most comfortable sharing those secrets with me.

She's turned her head back to the window. Away from me, toward the sun. Her hands are folded. I see black nail polish on every nail. Let's get this row on the shoad, inner-me says.

'Sarah, do you know who did this?' The key question. 'Do you know who it was that killed the Kingsleys?'

She continues staring out the window. 'Not in the way you mean. I don't know his name, or what he looks like. But he's been in my life before.'

'When he killed your parents.'

She nods.

'You said you were six when that happened.'

'June 6,' she says. 'On my birthday. Happy birthday to me.'

I swallow, stumbling inside for a moment at this revelation.

'Where did that happen?'

'Malibu.'

I glance at Barry. He nods, makes a quiet notation in his notepad. We'll be able to track down all the details of this earlier murder, if it happened.

'Do you remember what occurred back then? When you were six?'

'I remember all of it.'

I wait, hoping she'll elaborate. She doesn't.

'How do you know the man who killed the Kingsleys yesterday is the same man who killed your parents ten years ago?'

She turns to look at me, a faint expression of resignation and muted anger on her face. 'That's a stupid question.'

I regard her for a moment. 'Well, then . . . what's a good question?'

'Why is he the same man?'

I blink. She's right. That's the most incisive question of all.

'Do you know why?'

She nods.

'Do you want to tell me?'

'I'll tell you a little. The rest you'll have to read about.'

'Okay.'

'He . . .' She struggles with something. Maybe to find the right words. 'He said to me once, 'I'm making you over in my own image.'

He didn't explain what that meant. But that's what he said. He said he looked at me and my life the way an