They knew a lot about her already, aboutCallie. The rest they would know when they interviewed her friends and family,found out who she was and what she did. Why someone might want to kill her.
But the killer himself, though: that wasa different question. Where was he, or she? Zoe could see nothing on the groundof the alley, no particular sign that might give them away. There were nofootprints, not on an alleyway that was no doubt traversed by tens if nothundreds of people a day. There was no discarded lighter or stub of a match, noempty gas can. Any evidence that might have betrayed their presence had beenwashed away when someone dumped water over the body in an attempt to put it outand save a life that had already ebbed away.
What had he used for fuel? Foraccelerant? Where had he stood? What kind of weapon had he used to cut thethroat? Or she, Zoe tried to remind herself, in an effort to stay open-minded;the statistics were clear, however. This level of violence would usually pointat a male suspect.
It was the “usually” that was theproblem. Zoe liked to rely on her gut, but unless she was above ninety percentsure of something, she wasn’t willing to bet everything on it. And even whenshe’d been that sure in the past, she had occasionally been wrong. Right now,she had nothing at all to be sure about, not where this killer was concerned.
Perhaps she would know more when theytook a look at the body. She walked back over to Shelley, who was just wrappingup her conversation.
“There is nothing here,” Zoe announced,as soon as Shelley was done.
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Shelleyreplied. She was glancing up at the windows of the apartments above, blackenednot by the rising smoke from a human corpse, but by years of dirt and neglect. “Noone in the neighborhood saw anything. They said they smelled the smoke first. Afew local residents rushed out with a bucket of water to try to help, but thatwas all. No suspects, no one standing and watching. No witnesses that sawanyone enter the alley around that time.”
“Is there any footage?” Zoe noddedupward to a security camera perched just at the entrance on the side they hadwalked in by.
Shelley shook her head. “The cops say it’snot even connected. Every time they tried to get it working, kids would comeand spray-paint over the lens or cut the wires. They kept it up as a scaretactic, just in case, but it hasn’t worked properly for years.”
“Locals would know that,” Zoe pointedout.
“So would anyone who did a preliminarywalk around the block and saw the state it’s in.”
Zoe glanced around one more time,satisfied that there was nothing more to read here. The only story the numberswere telling her was about the construction of the buildings and the alleyitself. Since she doubted the height of the walls had any bearing on the crime,they were done here. “To the coroner, then,” she said with determination,striding away toward their rental car.
***
Zoe wrinkled her nose, then modulatedher breathing. It was all about focus. She breathed in through her mouth, thusavoiding the worst of the smell, and out through her nose. Shelley wasstruggling not to gag, but Zoe tried not to let it put her off.
“It’s a bad one, all right,” the coronersaid. She was a tall young woman with bronzed blonde hair and a tan, andaltogether too much eyeshadow for someone working in a medical office—even ifit was only the dead she was working with.
Zoe ignored her, too, and kept herattention on the body. If it even fit under the definition of a body anymore;charcoal was a more fitting description. The man, the one Shelley had named asJohn Dowling, was no longer a man. There was a certain shape—legs twistedtogether and to one side, arms close in across the body, a round jut where thehead had been—but it would have been just as easy to imagine that it was a bitof scrap, part of the belly of a ship or an ancient piece of machinery that hadburned in the ruins of Pompeii.
The second body was more recognizable,though only just. Somehow, even though the burning had not taken hold so badly,the smell was worse with that one. Maybe because she had been left out in theheat of the California sun in the middle of the day. The young woman. The bitsof ragged and scorched flesh that still clung to her seemed somehow obscene.Five inches of leg above the foot, two inches at each elbow, a chunk of hairfrom the back of the head that had been protected by contact with the dampground. Any longer in the flames, and she would have been just as much ash as hewas.
“Ante-immolation wounds?” Zoe asked,without looking up.
The coroner hesitated for a second.
“Before they were burned,” Zoe added forclarification.
“I know what immolation means,” thecoroner replied, a hint of tension for the first time in her calm, beachyvoice. Everything about her was irritating to Zoe. “As far as I can tell, withthe state the bodies are in, there was only the single cut to the throat.Enough to kill on its own. Besides being set on fire, nothing else was done tothem.”
Zoe leaned closer, examining the throat.The girl’s hands had been up at hers, and the fingers had fused together andmelted against the next when she burned. There was, however, still a distinctand visible wound behind them, gaping open where her head had tilted back.
“This was precise,” she said, more toherself than anything else.
“It was a quick attack,” the coroneragreed. “Whoever the killer was, they knew what they
