to see the victims dressed like her, and nothing Banko could do would make it any easier for her. The victims’ clothes in the murder book matched her clothes in the album, right down to the jewelry. The killer had recreated her for his own sick pleasure.
Banko closed the two books. Then he stood up, and came around the desk. His face had a look that Valentine didn’t recognize; soft, and full of compassion. Banko stopped in front of his wife, and gently took her hands with both his own.
“May I call you Lois?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said.
“Lois, I’m going to ask you to do something that’s probably going to be painful.”
“What’s that?”
“We have the victims’ clothes downstairs in the evidence room in the basement. I’d like to have you look at them.”
Her voice broke. “Is that… necessary?”
“You said you don’t remember much about the modeling job. Or the man who was stalking you.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“I understand. Maybe seeing the clothes will jog your memory, and you’ll remember this guy’s name, or something he said to you.”
“And then you can catch him,” Lois said.
“That’s what I’m hoping,” Banko said.
“Okay. I’ll take a look at them.”
The cop on duty in the evidence room was named Dave Gordon, although everyone called him The Kid. The Kid was wearing on his shirt a jelly doughnut he’d just eaten, and looked embarrassed as hell when the three of them came through the door.
The evidence was kept behind a giant cage inside metal drawers that were stacked to the ceiling. The Kid unlocked the cage, then busied himself pulling out the plastic bags that contained the victims’ clothes. When he had the four bags, he came out of the cage, and carefully laid them on a rectangular table that served as his desk.
“Open the bags up, and lay the clothes out,” Banko said.
The Kid unzipped the bags. He handled the clothes gingerly, like the dead women’s’ spirits might still be in them. Soon, the clothes covered the table. Lois took a step forward and reached for a blouse.
“Is it okay if I pick them up?” she asked.
“Of course,” Banko said. “They’ve already been dusted for fingerprints.”
Lois picked up a sky-blue blouse with peace symbols stitched into the fabric. Around the symbols flowed the words
“Oh, Jesus,” she whispered.
Valentine was standing beside her, and stared at the blouse’s label. Summer of Love. He saw his wife pick up the bell bottoms that went with the blouse. She turned them inside out, and stared at the inseam.
“No,” she said sharply.
Then, quite suddenly, his wife burst into tears.
“You’re absolutely sure about this,” Banko said.
They were back in Banko’s office. This time, they’d accepted Banko’s offer of a cup of coffee. Sipping her drink, Lois nodded while staring at the floor.
“Positive. Those are the clothes I wore that day,” she said. “I remember getting to the job, and none of the bell bottoms fit. A seamstress had to let the inseams out.”
“You’re sure they’re the
“Yes. I quit the job after the first day. The agent in New York was furious, and screamed at me over the phone. I didn’t care.”
“Why?” Banko asked.
“I don’t know.”
Banko pulled his chair up closer to her. His tone was gentle. “ I know this is difficult, but I’d like you to close your eyes, and
“Tony tried to hypnotize me last night. It didn’t work.”
“Please let me try,” the sergeant said.
Lois looked at her husband, and saw him nod.
“All right.”
Lois folded her hands in her lap, and shut her eyes. The pose made her look like a young girl. A minute slipped away while Banko talked to her, and helped her slip back in time. His wife frowned, struggling with the memory. Valentine remembered something she’d told him on their first date.
“The exhibit was called Summer of Love,” she said. “We worked out of a tent on the Boardwalk. Besides me modeling clothes, there were performers keeping the crowd entertained. A singer, a juggler, and another variety
