She refers to the fact that Valerie remains posed as she died, something we can tell by the pattern of blood flow from her side.
'I asked him about that,' Alvarez responds. 'He said he could tell she was dead. The way her eyes are open, and how white she is.'
'I can see it,' I admit.
There's no spark of life evident in Valerie. She has the appearance of a cold, soft mannequin.
'Evidence of a point of entry?' Alan asks.
'Two. There's a door that leads from the backyard into the garage, and there's a door that leads from the garage into the house. Both show evidence of skilled tampering. If he did it, he opened the gate that leads into the backyard, forced door number one, then door number two and gained access.'
'No alarm system?' I ask.
'No. And no dog. Bad luck.'
'Still, pretty bold,' I say. 'Coming in here at night, killing her while the parents were sleeping.'
'That fit with your guy?' Alvarez asks.
'He's a risk-taker and he warned us he was going to kill a child.'
He indicates the bed and Valerie.
'What about this? Does it seem authentic?'
'I only have two other scenes to compare it to. It presents the same, except for the age of the victim, which is troubling. We held something back regarding his MO.' I tell him about the cross the Preacher inserts into the wounds postmortem. 'If it's not there, this is a copycat.'
'In which case we'll have to take a hard look at the parents.'
Alvarez sighs. 'Great. I'm not sure which is better.'
'Can we get this checked out now, honey-love?' Callie asks. 'The coroner on-site?'
'He's out front getting the body wagon ready. I'll call him in.'
'HOW FAR IN WAS THE cross placed in the other victims?'
Dr. Weems, the coroner, is a middle-aged man with a precise, fastidious air about him.
'Just under the skin, against the rib cage,' Callie answers. 'You should be able to feel it if you palpate.'
'It would be irregular to remove it here,' he muses.
'But not illegal,' I point out, 'and if you film it, you'll have things covered from an evidentiary standpoint. Time isn't on our side, Doctor.'
To his credit, he doesn't hesitate for long. 'Very well. Detective Alvarez, if you can get the crime scene recorder in here, I'll examine her and remove the cross if it exists.'
Recording crime scenes and their processing with video cameras has become common practice in many investigations, especially the high-profile ones. It is a double-edged sword; if procedural mistakes are made, they're caught on camera and become fodder for defense counsel. The reverse is true as well, though; if the camera says it's so, it's so.
The man wielding the small camera is introduced as Jeff, a young, brown-haired man who doesn't look old enough to be here. He's unfazed, however; he turns the camera on Valerie's corpse without blinking.
Dr. Weems kneels down to examine the wound in Valerie's side.
'Appears to be a hole, approximately one-half inch in diameter, not ragged. The instrument used would have been pointed but very sharp. Incision marks extend out from the sides of the initial puncture. These are clean cuts, probably made by a scalpel or similar blade.' He uses his fingers to feel around the wound, gently. 'I can feel a hard object underneath the skin.'
Adrenaline rushes through me. I am excited, then ashamed by that excitement. Her death should have affected me for longer. All I can think about now is what she can give me, not what was taken from her.
Dr. Weems looks up and into the camera. 'Photographs have already been taken of the wound pattern. I'm going to try and retrieve the item.' He grabs a small satchel I hadn't noticed before. It's a black medical bag. It looks like a throwback to the 1950s. His kit, I think.
I find this self-conscious nod to style via retro accessory a little creepy. Things that deal in the dead should have their aesthetics confined to function. He opens it up and hunts through it until he finds what amounts to an oversized pair of tweezers.
'If anyone here is squeamish,' he says, bending toward the wound, 'please look away or leave. We don't need vomit contaminating the crime scene.'
No one moves. Jeff films away, unperturbed.
Dr. Weems sticks the tweezers into the hole without hesitation or ceremony.
'I'm contacting a hard object,' he confirms. 'I need to rotate it to pull it out without damaging the skin further. Wait a moment . . . there.' He pulls the tweezers out slowly.
'Son of a bitch,' Alan breathes.
A silver cross. It has the same approximate dimensions as the others.
Weems deposits the cross into an evidence bag after photographs and video have been taken.
'So it is your guy,' Alvarez says.
'It appears that way,' I agree. 'The question now is: Why her? He goes for people with big secrets. What kind of a secret could a tenyear-old girl have?'
'I had a fair number by the time I was ten,' Callie says. 'But then, I was always ahead of my time.'
My cell phone chimes.
'Barrett.'
'It's James. Three things. We're moving well on questioning the families. So far, it's a hundred percent on the victims as practicing Catholics.'
Another adrenaline rush.
'That's excellent, James. What else?'
'We need to consider pulling surveillance from the Bester home. I checked into his whereabouts during the Lisa Reid murder. He was on a business trip in San Francisco.'
I frown. 'We need more than that . . .'
'More ties into the third thing.'
'Go on.'
'Someone from Computer Crimes has been coordinating with the user-tube staff every half-hour or so to check for attempted new postings by the Preacher.'
'And?'
'They caught one. Concerning Valerie Cavanaugh.'
'Damn it!' I rub my temples.
'Back to Bester: this new clip wasn't posted from his IP. Surveillance says he was at home and in bed when Valerie Cavanaugh was killed. It's not him, Smoky.'
I sigh. 'Agreed. Pull the detail.' I lean forward a little, feeling something inside me narrow to a focus. 'Now, tell me about this new clip.'
He pauses. A little too long, I feel. 'It's different. He didn't film her just before killing her.'
I'm perplexed. 'I don't understand.'
'I e-mailed you the clip. Watch it. It's bad, very bad. It's going to devastate this family.'
The usual acerbity is absent from James's demeanor. He sounds quiet, troubled. This, more than anything else, replaces that rush with a slight chill.
'How bad?'
That too-long pause again.
'It's a nightmare.'
THE CAVANAUGHS HAVE A WIRELESS Internet connection and Callie has her laptop, so we find ourselves in the living room, checking my e-mail and downloading the clip James had sent me. I am sitting next to Callie on the couch. Alan is next to her, Alvarez stands behind us all.
'Ready?' she asks.
I nod. 'Go ahead.'
She clicks to begin and the familiar black screen and white lettering goes by. We arrive at the hands and the rosary, the stark light and the spare wooden table.
