To Die For (7 page)

To Greco, another similarity was the brute force used on both victims. This was an earmark, Greco thought: it seemed unlikely that more than one person was responsible. How could this be the work of two people? It had to be someone working alone. And the left-handed theory? He didn't know if the coroner would be able to tell whether any of the blows were struck by a left-handed person. He made a another note to himself.

By 9:25 p.m., the county lab's photographer and ID tech pulled up to June's house. The DOJ criminalists arrived an hour later. Greco briefed them and took them on a walk-through of the crime scene. They marked evidence and laid down the taxicab-yellow numbered markers for the photographer, conferring amongst themselves and with Greco about what to collect.

With the evidence marked, the photographer took photos, and then the criminalists started collecting everything, starting in the carport with the paper store receipt and the bloodied piece of glass. For each bloodstain, bouquet of fibers and hairs, and sliver of glass tweezed from the carpet, the criminalists created what amounted to a crime-scene catalogue. A lab number given to each item of evidence would help track it on its journey from June's house to the police department, where it would be booked, to the lab, where it would be examined and tested, and sometimes to outside labs, where it might be shipped for further examination and more sophisticated procedures, like DNA tests. Years later, a prosecutor may introduce some of the evidence at a trial and show it to jurors, using the same numbers. A sharp defense attorney, faced with incriminating physical evidence against a client accused of murder, is likely to scrutinize those documents, looking for sloppy record-keeping, and pounce on any discrepancy, which could result in a judge tossing out that piece of evidence.

Hour after hour, Greco stood shoulder to shoulder with the criminalists, observing what he had only been told about in homicide school, like the tape lifts from Norma's clothing. Elissa Mayo, one of the DOJ criminalists, pointed out what she thought was a small speck of blood by the front door. Greco watched as she used a sampling kit to test the speck for the presence of blood. It registered positive and was collected to be tested later for type and other genetic markers.

When it came time to examine and move the body, the other DOJ criminalist, Marianne Stam, pointed out purplish indentations on June's neck that she thought looked like fingernail marks. They couldn't tell if they came from June trying to pull the cord away from her windpipe, or from the killer manually strangling June. They would have to wait for the autopsy.

As the criminalists slowly worked their way through the house, Greco was able to examine the scene unencumbered, finally getting a closer look at the crime scene that he had been observing for hours from the hallway. He lingered in the kitchen, poked his head into June's fridge and the cabinets, stood in her bedroom and examined her desk, trying to get a feel for June, and hopefully bringing himself closer to her killer.

Greco saw two themes in June's life—health and church. Not only did her car bear the Christian igthus, but her home was adorned with framed Bible quotations sewn in needlepoint. On top of June's desk was a Bible open to a passage from Corinthians. Some parts had been outlined with a red pencil, which was still in the crease of the book. Here's this religious woman studying the Bible, he thought to himself, and she was killed with savage violence. It was incomprehensible to him why someone would do something like this to her. The passage was bookmarked by a prayer list with penciled-in names. As Greco scanned the list, he was surprised to find familiar names: Ila Tingley, who was Norma's housekeeper, and Shirley Morrales, one of the friends who found June's body. It seemed an odd coincidence that the housekeeper of one murder victim would show up on the prayer list of the very next victim. Greco thought it was probably a fact of life in a small community like Canyon Lake that victims of tragic circumstances were so closely connected. Ila Tingley had been hospitalized when Norma was murdered. At this point, Greco had no suspects. He had no idea who would emerge as a possible suspect. He would definitely talk to Ila when she got out of the hospital.

June's passion for robust living was evident in the contents of her kitchen cabinet and refrigerator. Both were stocked with health foods. Fat-free recipes were magnet-mounted on her refrigerator. It looked like she had just opened a box containing a new food dehydrator—since her birthday was the day before, it was probably a gift, Greco surmised. The empty box was on top of the washer in the laundry area, right next to her purse. On June's desk was Adele Davis's best-seller,
Let's Eat Right to Keep Fit.

June's desk contained the usual items—a large desktop calendar, books, a digital clock. On the far corner sat a large, clear glass pitcher with a handle. A framed picture of a mature man, probably June's deceased husband, Duane, also perched on the desk. On the living room floor, a photo album, an obituary for Duane Roberts, and an envelope of snapshots were spread out as if June had been updating the album. June's husband had been a war hero who earned the Bronze Star for bravery in World War II. There were two desk drawers open; one on the side held office supplies like a stapler and paper clips. Greco looked inside the flat center desk drawer. There lay June's checkbook, untouched.

Greco's body jolted to attention. If it wasn't money,
what was this killer looking for?
The same thought had been nagging him all night. Greco fought off fatigue and tried to focus, but nothing registered.

This killer seemed very confident and careful. Looking over at the phone on the side table by the couch, Greco saw that the longer cord had been carefully unplugged from the phone, not ripped out like the one from Norma's den. Greco rubbed his eyes, irritated from staying open all night. This killer had taken the time to remove both cords, perhaps undecided about which one to use.

TUESDAY, MARCH 1, 1994, 6:15 A.M.

Shards of daylight stung Greco's tired eyes. His head throbbed as he drove home. He was physically drained and mentally exhausted. After thinking about the crime scene all night, he couldn't think anymore. He just wanted to get home and sleep. Greco and James McElvain had waited around until sunup for one final search of June's front yard. In the clear light of day, Greco and McElvain poked around the carport, scanned the little green rocks in the front yard and checked the shrubbery and the dirt areas around the house and under the windows. They found nothing. During the search, Greco got a call on his cellular phone from the dispatcher. June's son had suggested that they collect her handgun in her nightstand. When he and McElvain were finished outside, Greco retrieved the .38-caliber Smith & Wesson. Greco and a community service officer took the gun and the rest of the evidence back to the station, booked it, and drove home.

His mind free to wander, Greco's personal disgust at the brutality against the victims knotted the back of his throat. The image of Alice popped into his mind and Greco started to worry. She would no doubt see something about the murder in the newspaper in a day or two and would probably be petrified. Alice had been named in an earlier newspaper article for finding Norma's body and Greco wondered if the killer would come after her for some twisted reason. He promised himself that he would stop by for a visit.

As he neared his house, Greco tried to focus on thoughts of home, but the ugly images of both murders were hard to shut out. As a new homicide detective, his psyche hadn't become desensitized by prolonged exposure to multiple crime scenes. The more he tried to shut it out, the more the violent images were superimposed on his mind. Why so much force? The coroner had declared two causes of death for Norma and he would probably make the same finding after examining June's body. Why the viciousness? Easy targets, Greco thought. And for what? The killer takes the trouble to calmly remove both phone cords, uses just one and doesn't even bother to take June's checkbook?

Pulling into his driveway, Greco turned off the car engine and sat for a second, his head pounding in the morning sun. Why go overboard with overkill and leave the cash behind? And a diamond ring? And credit cards?

He wondered if the killer wasn't getting some pleasure out of this.

CHAPTER FOUR

TUESDAY, MARCH 1, 1994

The woman with the frizzy blonde hair plopped an armful of swim suits on the counter and handed clerk Kellie Jacobs a Mervyn's charge card. She seemed to be in her 30s—and in a big hurry.

It was just a few minutes after 9 a.m. Kellie thought it odd that someone would buy so many swimsuits not only early in the day but early in the season. The customer also had a black net beach cover-up and a fish-themed beach tote. While the woman fidgeted, Kellie methodically scanned the bar code on each item. The total was a few cents shy of $300. But the charge wouldn't go through. The cash register's computer wouldn't work.

“Do you have a photo ID?” Kellie asked.

“I have nothing. I don't have anything with me,” the blonde woman said, frowning. “Can you hurry up? I have to be somewhere.”

Kellie hesitated. The computerized cash register wouldn't let the sale go through without proper authorization.

“You know what,” the blonde woman said, “just call the girls in lingerie, because I was here yesterday and they just let it go through.”

Kellie became flustered. She picked up the phone to call a manager. This woman was getting upset with her and she didn't know what she was supposed to do. When the manager arrived, she asked for a home address and the woman rattled off some numbers on Big Tee Drive in Canyon Lake. But they didn't match what the computer had entered as customer June Roberts' correct address.

“I just moved there and I don't remember the address,” she said with an irritated tone to her voice.

“Look, just void it out and use my Visa,” she said, fishing the card out of her purse. “I told you, I'm really in a hurry. I've got to go.”

Though Kellie felt there was something suspicious about this pushy customer, her manager put the sale through using the Visa card. The woman stormed off. But she wasn't through at Mervyn's. Before she left, she bought seven pairs of boys' Levi's for a total of $154.01. The clerk in the boys' department let the sale go through.

*   *   *

Clerk Maria de Soto had barely opened her register at Sav-On in Lake Elsinore when a blonde woman started unloading a shopping cart full of items onto the cashier's treadmill. As Maria rung up each item, the woman talked in a loud, nervous voice with her companion, a tallish man with a slicked-back black hair and a beer belly. Kitchen trash bags. Fabric softener. A toilet duck. Carpet spray. Menstrual pads. Two 1.75 bottles of Smirnoff vodka. Four bottles of Ban de Soleil suntan lotion. Two cartons of Marlboro Lights. Maria chatted with the customer, wondering how she'd gotten a tan so early in the year, as she rang up each item.

Now that's unusual, Maria thought to herself. No one ever buys two cartons of Marlboro Lights. Or six rolls of Brawny paper towels.

The woman charged the $138.60 total on her Visa charge and the two customers walked out with the bags. It was 10:04 a.m.

Dana was in a hurry. She had an appointment for a massage at the upscale Murrieta Hot Springs resort at 11 a.m., a twenty-minute drive. Dana turned into the driveway, landscaped with indigenous cactus and succulent plants. Oversized palm trees with frothy fronds caressed the blue skies. She stopped briefly at the guard shack and continued on to the main building. She parked, checked in, bought a pool pass and was shown to one of the changing rooms where she disrobed, sheathed herself in a wrap-around towel and waited for her masseuse. Fifty minutes later, she emerged, put on one of her swimsuits and paddled around the pool for a few minutes. She got dressed, browsed in the gift shop and put a $32.33 purchase, the $50 massage and a $10 tip on June's credit card.

By noon, Dana was lunching at the Ferrari Bistro, a racecar-themed Italian restaurant in Temecula in a new shopping center next to a string of car dealerships. She ordered so much food—calamari, tortellini with basil tomato sauce and iced tea—that she took the leftover portions with her.

*   *   *

At 1 p.m., Greco was at his desk, trying to stay calm. He was fending off grogginess with coffee and typing in notes from his notebook so he could write his report on June's homicide. As his fingers tapped the keyboard, he became immersed in the crime scene again.

His phone rang. It was a reporter for the local newspaper. Could he talk about the recent murder at Canyon Lake? How is the investigation progressing? Do they have a suspect?

Greco gave the reporter a quote, simply saying that the department was investigating the homicide of an elderly female, without giving any details, like the cause of death, which Greco knew the reporter could eventually get from the coroner's department. Greco hung up the phone feeling a renewed wave of panic. He was relieved that the reporter hadn't asked whether the murders were related. But he knew he would be investigating them in a political hotbox.

By tomorrow, his worst fears would be realized. The case would be in the newspapers. The residents would be up in arms. There would be pressure from the family. Everyone was expecting him to solve the case. Greco knew he had squat. He had absolutely nothing in the way of a suspect.

*   *   *

The Lake Elsinore Outlet Mall lures the kind of suburban shoppers who will drive more than 100 miles round trip to spend money. The 35-acre behemoth, constructed in standard-issue but fashionable whitewashed stucco, with Western-themed accents, is the unlikely desert home to 110 discount designer stores. Lake Elsinore's only other point of interest, besides the lake itself, is the Elsie Museum, containing “evidence” of a sea serpent purportedly lurking in Lake Elsinore.