Collecting the Dead (18 page)

“Or he reads the newspaper,” Diane says patiently.

“What do you mean?” I say, leaning into the phone.

“Our victims were all pictured—pictured, mind you, not just named—in various newspapers and weeklies in the months prior to their disappearance. All but one: Valerie Heagle.”

“The first victim,” Jimmy says.

“Correct. Other than her, I have photos of all of them within weeks or months of their disappearance: Jennifer Green out of Crescent City, Tawnee Rich out of Susanville, Leah Daniels out of Eureka—she was singled out for her volunteer work with dementia patients. Some reward.”

“So of the eleven victims, you found ten,” Jimmy muses. “Lauren Brouwer included?”

“Lauren had her fifteen minutes of fame five months ago when she won a local writing competition—it had something to do with the personalities of dogs. Three months later she vanished.”

“That’s good work, Diane,” I say.

“Well, someone has to do some honest work around here.” I can almost feel her sarcastic grin on the other end of the phone and can’t help smiling myself. “Oh, one more thing,” she says as I’m about to disconnect. “I’m sure you geniuses have already figured this out, but the bodies recovered so far have all been found in Shasta, Trinity, or Tehama Counties—if we exclude Nevada—and not one of them more than seventy miles from Redding.”

“So he likely lives or works near Redding,” Jimmy says, “but he’s willing to range farther afield when he finds a victim he wants.”

“That was my assessment,” Diane replies.

“I like it,” Jimmy says. “It makes a bit more sense now, and your newspaper theory explains his erratic pattern. Anything else?”

“Isn’t that enough?” Her voice is heavy with feigned hurt—the old fraud. Jimmy gives me a grin. In the background we can hear her typing away, scouring the Web, continuing the hunt, kicking over one digital rock after another in search of the next clue. She loves piecing things together before we do—
piecing the puzzle
, she calls it. “Now, if you don’t mind,” she adds, “I’m late for my Zumba class.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

June 29, 6:15
A.M.

There’s a buzzing in my head, some kind of alarm, persistent and irritating. Heather’s gone—though she was just here. She was wearing royal blue and her long hair was swirling and lifting from the wind as it dipped in and out of the sunroof in my Mini Cooper … and the ringing, ringing, ringing won’t quit. Each shrill intonation is like a crowbar on my eyelids, prying and pounding and prying again until I can’t take it anymore.

“Hello,” I grumble into the phone, barely lifting my head from the pillow. “Walt? Whoa, slow down! Which … no, don’t tell them anything … I know … How many?” Sheriff Gant is spitting mad and yelling through the phone, then apologizing for yelling, then yelling some more.

“I’m sorry, Steps,” he says, pausing for breath. “I don’t mean to yell, but this is going to make things a lot more difficult, and quick. If I get my hands on the rat-bastard that did this—”

“It’s all right, Walt,” I interrupt. “It’s not the first time something like this has happened, and it probably won’t be the last. Let me grab Jimmy and we’ll be down there as quick as we can.”

“Yeah, I tried calling him first, but there was no answer.”

Glancing at the clock, I say, “He’s probably in the gym. I’ll track him down. This is your show, Sheriff, but it would be a lot easier if you didn’t talk to anyone until we can come up with a game plan.”

“I’m not talking to anyone,” Walt grumbles. “I might yell at a few folks, though.”

Jimmy blows a gasket when I tell him.

He’s just finishing his workout routine and insists on hopping in the shower for a minute. Even at that, he’s dressed and we’re on our way in fifteen minutes. It’s a short drive to the sheriff’s office and we’re soon pulling into the parking lot. Lining the street are news vans from CNN, Fox News, and KRCR News Channel 7 out of Redding. As we park the car, a van from KRON out of San Francisco pulls up and parks behind the others.

Walt comes storming over as soon as our noses breach the door. He’s waving copies of the
Sacramento Bee
, the Redding
Record Searchlight
, and the
San Francisco Chronicle
. The one story title that’s fully visible reads “Serial Killer Stalks Northern CA.”

“Three so far,” Sheriff Gant says, slamming the papers down on a desk in front of us. “Two front-page stories and a page-two. Plus, I’ve got voice mail from a dozen newspapers, radio stations, and TV stations … and the day hasn’t even started. This is about as inside as it gets; they even list the victims by last name, first initial, and age. That came from someone familiar with the investigation.”

“Why don’t they just list their full names?” I mutter. “The damage is already done.”

Jimmy snorts. “This way they can claim they’re protecting the privacy of the victims’ families.” He looks at Walt. “Any idea who leaked it?”

The sheriff shakes his head. “I hope it wasn’t one of mine; I’d like to think they have better sense than that, but I can’t be a hundred percent sure.” He suddenly squints his left eye until it’s half closed, smashing down the corner of his mouth. There’s a queer look on his face. “There was something … now that I think of it; it had to come from the source.” He fishes through the stack of newspapers and retrieves the
Sacramento Bee
. Laying it flat on the desk, he quickly flips through to page A8, where the story continues from its front-page introduction. There, embedded in the text, garnishing the story, is a crisp and revealing black-and-white photo.

My mouth falls open. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

Jimmy’s fingertips are white from pressing into his temples. He stares silently at the image, an image showing two men in FBI Windbreakers at the scene of one of the body dumps.

“That’s a good picture of you,” I say in a soft, sarcastic voice. Then, with a frown, “My hair’s all messed up. Why does that always happen to me when we’re in the woods, yet you always look like you just walked out of a salon?”

“I go to an old-fashioned barber in Lynden, not a salon.”

“Still, you’ve got that whole GQ thing going on.”

The article doesn’t name us, but our faces are plain to see and the pack of hungry hyenas cloistered in their vans out front won’t have any problem putting two and two together; more specifically, the two faces in the picture and the two of us.

Looking closer at the image, I notice a fallen log in the background, ripe with fungi, sheared on one end where the wind had snapped the upper part of the tree off in some year past. The forest floor is thick with pine needles and last year’s leaves. I remember the smell. “That’s where Sarah Wells was found, just outside of Weed toward Mount Shasta.”

“You’re sure?”

“I never forget a forest. They’re like nightmares with leaves.”

Jimmy’s thinking now. “We had to hike in a ways—” He snaps his fingers and turns toward me, holding his right hand like a gun and rocking it back and forth. “Remember that female park ranger? Her uniform didn’t fit right, it made her look lopsided?”

“Really tall?”

“Yeah. She had a camera with her, but I don’t remember her taking any pictures. What was her name … Harper … Harbor…?”

I can picture her in my mind: mottled tan with a trace of turquoise and the texture of beaded glass. “Hooper, wasn’t it?”

“Hooper! That was it.”

“Where’d she get this level of information, though?” Walt asks. “Her only involvement was during the recovery of the body last year, and then taking you two back to the scene.”

I walk over to the bulletin board next to the coffee machine and extract a red pin holding a single-page flyer. Handing the paper to Walt, I say, “Every law enforcement agency in northern California, including the U.S. Forest Service, got a copy of this.”

The flyer, issued by the Shasta County Sheriff’s Office, alerts law enforcement to a possible serial killer—Sad Face—and asks for information on any similar cases. It lists victims and locations, and has an excerpt from a preliminary profile of the killer.

“Damn.” Walt sighs. “How’s this going to affect the investigation?”

“I don’t know, Sheriff,” Jimmy answers honestly. “These guys are going to be all over us from here on out. We’ll just have to deal with it the best we can. You’re going to have to talk to them at some point, though.”

The room is silent a moment, then, in a beaten-down voice, Walt says, “Sorry ’bout the flyer.”

“No need to be,” Jimmy says strongly. “That’s standard procedure. You wouldn’t have been doing your job if you
didn’t
send one out. The only one who needs to apologize—and lose her job—is the person who gave that photo and the information to the press, whether it’s Ranger Hooper or someone else.”

“It’s just the media,” I add. “We’ll deal with it.”

It’s not the first time.

*   *   *

“Twenty-ounce mocha, single-shot, decaf, one percent milk with no whip,” I say when I reach the counter.

“Single-shot
and
decaf,” the barista chides, a quirky smile blossoming between her nose and chin. “Sure you don’t want some coffee with your coffee?”

Before I can respond, I hear Jimmy pipe up behind me.

“He doesn’t like coffee.” It’s a programmed response he’s used a hundred times over the years to defend my honor, and my coffee. His voice is flat and the comment so ingrained that in three minutes he won’t even remember having said it. His eyes are tight on his cell phone screen, never looking up.

That’s Jimmy.

Mr. Multitask.

“That’s a pretty complicated drink for someone who doesn’t like coffee,” the barista purrs, turning her brown eyes back on me. “How’s that happen?”

“I was forced into a coffee shop against my will … repeatedly.” I tip my head toward Jimmy.

She has Heather’s laugh and a beaming smile. Her name tag says Gail, but she seems more like a Susan or a Kathy … at least, more like a Susan and a Kathy that I know, I can’t speak for them all.

“What’s your name?” Gail asks.

When my eyebrows lift, she quickly jiggles the paper cup in front of me, saying, “It’s for your order,” but I notice she doesn’t ask Jimmy for his name.
Mm-hmm
.

As we head out the door I say, “Good coffee,” without having taken a sip. “We should come back tomorrow.”

Jimmy’s still scrolling through his messages, oblivious.

Halfway down the block my phone rings.

It’s Diane and she’s in a mood. I can hear it in her voice, like gargled gravel with a hot-tar chaser. Jimmy must have done something to irritate her.

“Officer Coors from Red Bluff PD called,” she growls, “said he’s working on a case with you?”

“Yeah, what’d he say?”

Silence.

“Diane?”

“Some joke. It’s not funny … not even clever.”
Gravel, gravel, gravel
. “It’s actually sophomoric. You can’t do any better than that?”

“Do any better than what?”

“Knock—it—off, Steps. It’s not funny. And I’ve got better things to do, hon.”

“Okay, let’s try this again. Officer Coors. Red Bluff PD. Case. Message?”

“And I’ll say
again
—it’s not funny. Joke’s over.”

“Diane, you’re not making sense?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, and I’m not falling for it.”

“Uh … no, I don’t. What do you mean? What joke?”

“Come on, Steps, I’m an analyst. I know when I’m being jerked around.”

“Diane, I’m going to fly up there and take away your iPad, your coffee,
and
the chocolate-covered macadamia nuts you keep hidden at the back of your bottom drawer if you don’t tell me what you’re talking about.”

“
Coors!
He’s
working on a case
with you. Beer comes in a case. Coors is a beer. I even had him spell it to make sure I was hearing him correctly. C-O-O-R-S. I wrote it down.”

“Wow!” I blurt into the phone. “
That
—is an epic fail, Diane. Epic. That one goes on the board.” The “board” is the whiteboard in the conference room, the bottom right corner of which is devoted to a laundry list of significant screwups. Jimmy and I dominate the board, while Les has one entry and Marty has two. Diane has never made the board. Until now.

The phone is silent.

After a moment, Diane’s voice grates through the earpiece, paving the way for the words that follow. “Explain. Please.”

“Officer Coors is Danny Coors,” I respond in a pleasant, oh-so-cheerful voice. “He’s with Red Bluff PD, just like he said, and he’s trying to get some data off a dead GPS found in Ashley Sprague’s car.”

More silence.

“Diane?”

Her voice is subdued—unusual for Diane. “Well, that partially explains the second part of the message.”

“How do you mean?” I can’t help smiling.

“He said, ‘
Memory’s shot
,’ and ‘
If beer can’t fix it, it’s hopeless
.’”

I chuckle.

I don’t even try to hide it.

“Not beer as in B-E-E-R,” I say, “Behr as in B-E-H-R. She’s the lab tech.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

June 29, 12:07
P.M.

Tami pokes her head into the conference room and opens her mouth to speak, only to become transfixed by my fingers as they sort out the water chestnuts from a bowl of chicken stir-fry. “That’s the best part, you know,” she says after a second.

“Not in my book,” I reply, glancing up only briefly. “They have the texture of raw potato and no flavor to speak of. Some starving person ate one five thousand years ago and didn’t die of it, so now we’re stuck with them as accepted cuisine. It’s the same thing with snails, balut, and scores of other foods I don’t care to think about while I’m eating.”

“Balut?”

I look up from my stir-fry grudgingly.
Didn’t I just say it’s something I don’t care to think about while I’m eating?
“It’s a duck embryo that’s boiled alive in its shell and then eaten, starting with the broth around the embryo, which is sipped from the egg before peeling.”