Will was silent for a few seconds.
“I do.” He sounded sad. “I think I’ve been expecting something like this for sixteen years.”
“Why’s that?”
“Just a feeling. I mean, of course when a kid is exposed to what he was exposed to, it’s to be expected that he’d be screwed up. But there was something about him even back then that gave me a feeling that’s hard to put my finger on. Call it cop’s intuition. I just felt that he would end up like his old man.”
“What’s his name?” Jen kept facing forward. “You never said the son’s name.”
“I didn’t? It was Arthur James. Wayne called him Artie.” He sighed. “Wayne was a skinny weasel, but Artie was a good-looking kid, already close to six feet at fourteen, and well-built, like an athlete. Curly brown hair and brown eyes. And quiet. At first, I thought it was shyness or fear or dislike of the police, which was to be expected, but later I began to think there was something else.”
“Such as?”
“Mental illness. I think the kid was on his way to becoming as twisted as his father. It was the look in his eyes. He didn’t look scared, and he didn’t look shy. He looked calculating. Like he was going through the motions of whatever was going on at the time, but it wasn’t really touching him.”
“Didn’t the courts see that?”
“Apparently not. I tried to convince his social worker that they needed to keep him under psychiatric observation longer, but she wasn’t buying it. Of course, after the foster mother alleged he raped her, the situation changed.”
“Do you think he did rape her?”
“Frankly, no. Like I said, he was a good-looking kid. She was a hard thirty-five, and her husband worked too many hours. I think she persuaded Artie to take up the slack and then got nervous when her husband got suspicious. Again, just a feeling. I couldn’t prove it.”
“So maybe we know our killer’s name,” Al said. “Arthur James Kelty. He’d be what, twenty-nine or thirty now?”
“Thirty.”
“White male, thirty years of age, brown hair, brown eyes, approximately six feet, probably well-built. Now we’ve just got to find him out of hundreds of guys fitting that description. Thanks for your help.”
Will laughed and leaned back in the rear seat. Jen took a deep breath, relaxing just a little now that he was no longer so near her. I’m going to have to stop this, she thought. She had two murders to solve, and she was going to have to work with this man till that was accomplished. If she got weak-kneed every time he got within smiling distance of her, she was going to have major problems.
She tried to concentrate on what she was going to see on Finley Street. It made her feel a little sick, but she figured there was no better libido killer than rerunning the first one in her mind. Police officers saw plenty of bodies during the course of their job, but the battered remains of Carla Edwards had been something else again. Maybe it was the sense of evil, the feeling that something not quite human had done this thing to what had once been a beautiful, young woman.
They caught up to Hawkins and Lonnie as they turned off Lancaster Boulevard and onto Finley. She saw two marked units parked in front of the last house on the right. Finley dead-ended in a small park with a child’s play area complete with swing sets and a merry-go-round providing an incongruent contrast to what Jen knew they’d find inside the house. Hawkins pulled behind the second cruiser, and Al parked their gray Chevy behind him.
Bill Gant was at the front door. He was a pimply-faced rookie with only a few months on the job who still rode with a training officer. He looked ill. Jen squeezed his hand in support as he stood aside to let them into the house.
The front door opened directly into the small living room. It was decorated cheaply, but imaginatively, with wicker furniture and a multiplicity of houseplants. A television sat on a wooden stand that the resident had probably picked up at Walmart and put together herself. Good stereo components were arranged on a wicker etagere beside it. The door into the kitchen was directly across from the front door, and a small hall led from the other end of the living room.
Hank Dennis, the day shift patrol sergeant, stood in the center of the room making notes in his pocket secretary. He glanced up and made a face, pushing his black-framed glasses back up onto his aquiline nose. Hank was a couple of years past fifty, nearing retirement, and today he looked older than his age.
“Hi, sugar,” he said to Jen, nodding to Al and Lonnie, while eyeing the two federal agents with blatant curiosity. “It’s a great way to make a living, ain’t it.”
“Yeah, it’s a dream job. Will Anderson and Donald Hawkins from the FBI.” She gestured to the two agents by way of introduction, avoiding looking at Will. “Hank Dennis.”
The men shook hands. Hank opened his mouth, probably to question the FBI’s presence, but Lonnie cut him off before he got a word out. “Where is she?”
“Bedroom.” Hank jerked his head toward the opening into the hallway. “Nola and Gene are in there. Coroner’s on the way.”
“Who’s been where?”
“Nola and Bill got the call, and I was right behind them. The kitchen door was unlocked. When we got to the bedroom door and saw what was there, we didn’t go any farther. It was obvious she was beyond help. I did a walk-through of the rest of the house, but I haven’t touched anything.”
Lonnie nodded his approval, and the five of them moved into the hall. The bathroom was straight ahead and to the left were two small bedrooms. The door of the first bedroom was ajar. Jen could see cardboard boxes bulging with stored items, an ironing board
