“Why?’’
“I just don’t.’’
“Well, okay, then. Maybe you should get a job with Psychic Helpers.’’ “For starters, he’s Hispanic. There aren’t too many Hispanic serial killers.’’
“Richard Ramirez.’’
“It’s not him.’’ Lydia was firm, and Jeffrey had only been playing devil’s advocate.
She placed the final index cards on the board and the final red pin on the map.
She stood back and looked at them, wondering what it was they had in common. The problem child. The abuser. The abused. The prostitute. She could catch the scent of these lives, but their life force, their personal essence remained elusive.
“It’s hard to really get a sense of these people. Whoever gave the cops their information was distant, on the outside looking in, neighbors, bosses, social workers. No intimates, no friends except for Shawna Fox’s boyfriend, and no families. It’s almost like there’s no one to say who they really were.’’
“It’s a start,’’ he answered pragmatically.
She paused, leaning forward on the desk, picking up a crystal paperweight and holding it up to the sun streaming in the southern window. Rainbow flecks of light danced on the wall behind her.
“I wonder…’’ She drifted away, staring into the facets of the object in her hands.
“What?’’ He hated it when she started a sentence and then let it float off into space, leaving him waiting for the finished thought.
“I wonder if the lack of information is something in and of itself. Not even an incompetent like Morrow would fail to interview people close to the victims – especially a juvenile.’’
“So, what are you saying?’’
“I’m saying maybe there was no one close enough to give a true picture of these people. Maybe that’s significant.’’ She walked over to him and sat close to him on the couch. She pulled her feet up beneath her and let her legs rest on his thigh. She looked up at him. “We’re going to need to do some digging on our own. Nobody leaves this world without showing someone their truest heart.’’
Her gray eyes stared past him at the boards then, her body leaning into his. She could feel his strong quadriceps beneath the soft rust-colored corduroy pants he wore, could smell the faint musk of his cologne.
Really? Who have you shown your truest heart to? He put his arm around her and rested his chin on her head.
“In fact,’’ she mused, “it’s really the only thing that connects them.’’
“What is?’’
“That no one seemed to care when they were gone. That and poverty.’’
“And religion.’’
He handed her the picture of the crucifix that Simon Morrow had showed him. He had told her about the crucifixes when he recounted his conversation with Chief Morrow, but her jaw dropped when she looked at the picture. The crucifix was large, made of a highly varnished red wood – the Christ figure intricately detailed. The feet were neatly folded over one another, nailed viciously to the cross, a single drop of blood falling like a tear. The knees were bent together to one side in a feminine, almost demure manner, like a curtsey. The rib cage and collarbone strained against taut flesh and the neck was arched in agony and the face uplifted, contorted in an expression of profound pain and anger. It was just so human, so emotional, just like the statue of the Virgin Mary in the garden at the Church of the Holy Name.
“What’s wrong?’’ Jeffrey asked, peering at her over his Armani eyeglass frames.
“I’m so stupid,’’ she said. “I didn’t even think of it when you mentioned the crucifixes. When I went to the church before I picked you up at the airport yesterday, I saw a statue of the Virgin Mary and Baby Jesus. It was remarkable for its humanism and Juno said that his uncle had sculpted it. He mentioned that his uncle carved wood crucifixes and sold them to parishioners. Looking at this picture…it must be the same person, the same artist.’’
She walked over to the map. “All these people, they all live within five miles of it. The church is the connection.’’ She was excited but not really surprised. She felt the pieces start shifting into place like the squares on a Rubik’s Cube, though the puzzle wasn’t close to being solved.
“Wait a minute. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We still don’t know for sure that these people have been murdered.’’
“Jesus, Jeffrey, what do I need to convince you?’’
“A body for starters. Any body. Have you lost all perspective on this, Lydia? We’re nowhere yet.’’
She sank into the chair across from him, as distant as she was close a moment earlier.
“I need evidence. We can’t conduct a murder investigation without a body,’’ he continued.
“Spare me the FBI rhetoric,’’ she said sharply.
“It’s not rhetoric, Lydia. We have four missing people…one of them probably violently murdered, I’ll give you that. If their crucifixes all came from your church, then okay, that’s weird. I’ll give you that, too. But there are no bodies, no actual proof of anything. I’m not with you on this. Do you want there to be a serial killer running around? Are you going to be happy if it turns out you’re right?’’
“Of course I’m not going to be happy. I also don’t want to be sitting on my hands while he’s picking his next victim. I thought this is why you left the FBI in the first place. Because you didn’t want to always play by the rules that sometimes allow people to be killed in the name of protecting civil rights.
“Remember when families had to wait twenty-four hours before reporting a child missing? Remember when women had to wait to be assaulted or killed before anyone did anything about their stalkers? Serial killers don’t always advertise. We’re not hurting anyone by looking into this. We may be killing someone if we don’t.’’
It was an old argument that never ceased to infuriate him. Lydia had a knack for pressing his buttons and making him more angry than anyone else he had ever known. One moment they could be as close as it was possible for two people to be. Then, in a heartbeat, they were spitting fire.
Suddenly she jumped up and ran from the room. In the distance he could hear the phone ringing. He sat and stared at the sunset, the sky painted in brilliant pastels, the sun dipping below the mountains in the west. He became aware of a powerful, irrational feeling of jealousy that she had gone to the church yesterday and again today. Why did she go there? To see the blind man? The one she dreamt about?
A moment later she was standing in the door.
“Well, you got your wish,’’ she said smug and smiling bitterly. “They found Maria Lopez’s body.’’
Fourteen
Someone had gutted Maria Lopez like the dog Lucky. It was a disturbing sight for the hunters who found her, in an open body-bag, sloppily half-covered with the dirt and sand from the ground around her, deep in the woods at Cimarron Canyon State Park. I guess you thought the animals would get to her, you cold bastard, thought Morrow as he stared down at her decomposing body.
“Cover her up,’’ he said to the uniformed officer standing beside him. He felt badly for her. No one had come to the station to report her missing, no one could be found to notify about her death. And there was no one to question about her life except her boss at the restaurant and Mike Urquia, who was the last person to see her alive. He was the prime suspect, only because there were no other suspects. But there was no evidence so far to indicate that he had done anything but sleep with her, and looking into his eyes, Morrow knew it wasn’t him. This was something much bigger than a good fuck gone wrong. Something so much uglier.
He took the number Jeffrey Mark had given to him and called from his cell phone. The phone rang a couple of times at Lydia’s before she picked it up.
“You and Jeff might want to meet me at the station. We think we found Maria Lopez’s body.’’
“I want to see where he dumped the body. You didn’t move it yet, did you?’’
“No, but…’’ Morrow didn’t really want her at the crime scene. He didn’t want her to have a front-row seat to this investigation, even though he’d agreed to have them on board.
“Good,’’ she said, like she was talking to a student. “Tell me how to find you.’’
