Ryan looked at me.
“I know. Without lower limits on age and height, I can’t really limit the subset that much.” I flapped a hand at the skeletons in my lab. “These girls could have survived years in captivity.”
Like Angela Robinson, Anique Pomerleau, and Tawny McGee.
“I cut samples for DNA testing on Angie Robinson.”
“The one wrapped in leather?”
I nodded. “I’m sure it’s her.”
“I think you’re right.”
“The coroner’s office is contacting the Robinson family. We’ll need a maternal relative to run mitochondrial comparisons.”
I slumped back.
“Anne called this morning.”
“That’s great.” Ryan’s face broke into a huge smile.
“No. It’s not.”
When I told him what had happened the smile collapsed.
“I’ve called the taxi companies. They’re checking their records for a pickup at your place Friday. Would you like me to contact rental car agencies?”
“I guess it’s time,” I said.
“It’s only been four days.”
“Yes.”
“If she—” Ryan hesitated. “If something happened we’d be the first to know.”
“Yes.”
Ryan’s cell phone rang. He checked the screen, frowned, then gave me his most boyish of grins.
“Sorry—”
“I know. Gotta take it.”
Ryan had barely cleared the door when my desk phone rang. As per my request, the librarian had found materials on sexual sadism and the Stockholm syndrome.
I was reading an article in the
“The dead man is Neal Wesley Catts.”
Claudel tucked down the corners of his mouth and sat.
“Catts was born in Stockton, California, in 1963. The usual sob story, broken home, alcoholic mother.”
Claudel was speaking English. What could that mean?
“Catts dropped out of high school in seventy-nine, hung with the Banditos for a while, got no invite to patch up. Served one hitch in Soledad on a drug rap.”
“Did he hold jobs?”
“Flipped burgers, tended bar, worked at a window frame plant. But here’s a tidbit you’ll love. The little pervert liked ogling forbidden grail.”
I listened without interrupting.
“Catts was hauled to the bag several times on peeping complaints.”
“Doesn’t surprise me.”
“Cops never had enough to charge him.”
“Voyeurism is a typical first step for sexual predators.”
“One old biddy accused him of snuffng her poodle. Again, no proof, no charges.”
“Where was this?”
“Yuba City, California.”
The name hit me like a blow to the chest.
“Yuba City’s right down the road from Chico.”
Claudel’s lips did something very close to a smile. “And Red Bluff.”
“When was Catts there?”
“Late seventies, early eighties. Dropped out of sight in the mid-eighties.”
“Didn’t he have to report to a parole officer or something?”
