“Maybe Carmody’s not our man,” Chase says.
“Yeah, well, I never really suspected him.”
Mills looks at the board on the opposite wall. He sees how many officers are on patrol at area hiking trails. A lot. In shifts. Sheriff Tarpo is lending a few deputies to the effort. The crime scenes are still secured. But the trails are open. The last patrol shift will end about an hour after dusk. Mills closes his eyes and tries to imagine the killer. He always does this. And the same image always comes to mind. It’s a bald white guy in his late thirties. He has smooth skin, save for a soft shadow of a beard at the edge of his jawline. His eyes are gentle and deceiving, his lips soft and boyishly supple. He’s wearing a nylon jacket with a striped collar and cuffs. He doesn’t know who this man is. Generic Killer, maybe, but it’s always the same man, with those same features, who lingers in his imagination. The face is not familiar; it’s not similar to any particular perp he’s apprehended. The face does not remind him of a high school nemesis or a neighborhood troublemaker. He doesn’t know why he sees this image whenever he’s looking for a killer, and he’s mildly envious of Gus Parker who not only gets images but visions, as well.
In walks Detective Morton Myers who interrupts Mills’s reconnaissance. He hands Mills a thumb drive. “Do you guys have time to watch?” Myers asks.
The videotape from the Circle K is fuzzy and frustrating to watch. It had successfully been subpoenaed from the convenience store’s corporate headquarters. Despite the graininess of the video, the detectives do see a woman emerging from a vehicle that matches Lindsey Drake’s rental. They see her walk into the convenience store. And then they see nothing. Myers inserts another thumb drive into the computer, and they watch as another camera picks up a woman approaching the cashier inside.
“That’s her,” Mills says. “That’s our victim at the counter.”
“Right,” Myers says. “But so far no sign of her making contact with anyone else.”
Mills calls up the other video source. “You can see her leaving the store, walking back to her car. . . . And now she stops before she even gets to the pump. I can’t make out what I’m watching here. Is she responding to someone? Or is she calling to someone?”
The tape is jumpy, and though it’s in color, the lighting is weak like a smudge of fluorescence, not really light.
“I don’t know,”
Myers says. But she stands there, Lindsey Drake does, mulling something over and motioning with her hands.
“She’s talking to someone at another pump,” Chases says. “Isn’t there another camera out there with a different angle?”
Myers grunts a no.
“Damn.”
They watch as she disappears out of frame; the next thing they see is her car pulling away from the pump. For a split second they see a vehicle fall in behind her, and then, it seems, the vehicle, a white van or SUV, inches up beside her. Then both cars are gone.
“Play it back in slo-mo,” Chase says.
Mills plays it back several times, but there’s just no making out the details of that white vehicle. He can’t even tell if it is, indeed, an SUV; it’s just not on-screen long enough. It’s gone in a flash. It’s white. That’s all.
“Well, it’s better than nothing,” Myers says.
“You think?” Chase asks.
“I can take it down to our A/V guys and see if they can enhance it.”
“Wait,” Mills says. “Let’s take another look at the indoor camera. Just because we don’t see anyone in the store when she reaches the cashier doesn’t mean there wasn’t someone in there earlier who might have been lurking.”
They examine the indoor video again. They go back thirty minutes before Lindsey Drake’s image appears at the counter. A few people buy cigarettes. A construction dude buys Gatorade. Three high school kids, all hyper and spastic, buy Slurpees and try stealthily to camouflage a few beers in their purchase. It’s funny. Myers and Chase both laugh at the same moment when the cashier simply slides the beers away from them. And then it’s dead, except for a guy who comes in and buys a lottery ticket, and he’s hard to see through the sunglasses and the low-lying cap.
“Our guy?” Myers asks.
“Let’s see the outdoor shot again,” Mills says. “See if it picks him up coming out.”
It does. The detectives watch and replay, watch again.
“He’s going in the direction of the white truck,” Myers says.
“Hard to determine,” Chase responds. “We can’t see the car in the shot. We can only guess he’s walking toward it.”
“Okay, fine,” Mills says. “Then match up the time codes. I bet if we look at the scene where the girl seems to be talking to someone we can match the clock to the time he would have reached his car at the pump.”
“Assuming she was talking to him,” Chase snaps.
“Confirming she was talking to him,” Myers insists.
The men are interrupted by heavy footsteps, someone entering the room. Mills looks up from the screen, but his eyes take a split second to adjust. Then he sees Sergeant Jacob Woods standing there. He says, “Hey, Sarge, what’s up?”
“We have a body. Call went to Glendale first. About thirty minutes ago. They’re out there. Confirmed a body.”
“Glendale?” Mills asks as he tries to reconcile the utterly suburban image of Glendale to the topography of the other murders. He can’t.
“Woman,” the sergeant says. “About thirty. I guess there’s something at the scene Glendale wants us to look at. Lieutenant Cole just texted you the address.”
“We’re talking about a house?” Mills asks the sergeant.
“Yeah. Crystal Ledge subdivision.”
Mills drives mostly in silence toward Glendale, Myers riding shotgun. Chase follows in his own car. Myers stares vacantly at the road in front of them, shaking his head incessantly. Occasionally, he’ll rest against the window beside him, and Mills can tell that a string of murders is not what Myers signed up for. A murder every six months, fine, but Morton Myers just doesn’t have the head for anything more sinister. And Mills supposes that’s a good thing, that there’s something about the man’s simple-minded, hometown boy approach to life that makes him a good all-around scout.
Crystal Ledge boasts the same charm as most of the newly built subdivisions in the Phoenix sprawl. That is to say none. Three styles of homes, a left-oriented one-story, a right-oriented one-story, and a two-story, alternate on streets of zero lot line plots; there are no trees, save for the saplings of palms and transplanted saguaros. You can see too much air and not enough green. The homes are colorless, too. The homeowners association has clearly written two shades of beige into its covenant. Crystal Ledge is one big circle with short streets branching off and lonely coves tucked into the middle. The big circle, itself, is called Crystal Ledge Circle, not leaving anything to the imagination, and Mills considers that as a metaphor for the whole subdivision. They drive about two-thirds of the way around the circle and take a left on Crystal Ledge Cove. They stop at 5668.
Glendale Police has a few cars here. The sheriff ’s office has a few as well. The mingling of officers and deputies outside the house comes to a hush and a freeze when Mills, Chase, and Myers approach.
Mills recognizes a detective from Glendale. “Hey, Scotty. What do we got here?”
Detective Scott Bradshaw looks at him emptily and says, “Either a copycat or your killer is getting more domestic. Take a look and tell me if you want in. I mean, do whatever you need to do, but my sergeant wants some answers.”
“No problem,” Mills assures him.
Neighbors have drifted to their lawns, mostly stay-at-home moms, some with babies in strollers, most of them cliquing off into small circles of curiosity and fear. The fear is lodged in their eyes, probably climbing up their spines, as they take surreptitious glances at 5668.
Myers stays on the lawn as Mills and Chase enter the home.
A sheriff ’s deputy leads the detectiv
es to a back bedroom.
“The victim is Andrea Willis, thirty-eight,” he tells them. “We found her DL.”
Mills enters first. The wall opposite him, the one above the bed, is torn up, pieces of drywall hanging like flesh. This is where the killer has carved his rendition of the murder. The carving depicts a body dangling from a noose.
“Fucking weird,” Chase says. He kneels to get a better look at the body. The victim is sprawled on the floor, her arms and legs akimbo.
“The bedroom door is off the hinges,” Mills tells him from behind.
Chase turns around. Mills lifts the door a few inches.
“You want a look at her?” Chase asks.
Mills comes forward and kneels to examine the woman’s face. It must have been beautiful before her death. He can tell from the high cheekbones, the well-defined jawline; her lips, though gray, look sculpted by hand.
“Who ID’d the victim?” Mills asks.
The deputy says, “The homeowner did. We removed her from the house. She’s out back with Glendale giving a statement.”
“They can stand down,” Mills tells the deputy, his gaze never leaving the body. “I’ll resume the interview.”
The deputy nods and leaves the room.
Myers approaches and says, “Looks like we have a copycat.”
Mills studies the victim’s neck. It’s purple, deep purple, almost black. She had obviously been strangled. He sees the imprint of some kind of cord. Gus Parker saw rope. He saw rope around a neck. “A copycat?” he asks. “Why do you say that?”
Myers clears his throat. “Uh, Alex, because we’re in a house, not a cave. Same idea, maybe. But different method. Inconsistent.”
Mills rises to his feet. “C’mon, Myers. You know better. This is just as easily the same killer throwing us a curve.”
“Ya think?”
“Dude, we still haven’t released the details of the crime scenes. They’re airtight for chrissakes,” he says, noting his exasperation.
“But the trails are reopened,” Myers insists.
“The crime scenes are still secured. At least during the day,” Mills reminds him. “No one’s described the cave drawings to the press. And none of the witnesses are talking.”
“How do you know?” Chase asks.
“Because the press would be all over it,” Mills tells him. “There’s been nothing in the paper about the cave drawings, nothing on TV. Nobody knows enough of the details to effectively copy those murders.”
“Hey, Mills, I’m just considering all possibilities,” Myers says.
Mills pats him on the arm. “I know you are.”
“What about the broken mirror?” Chase asks.
Mills turns. “Where?”
“Right there toward the floor.”
A mirror-paneled closet door is open, halfway off its hinge, and, indeed, there are cracks all across the bottom third. “She was most likely alive when she hit the floor,” Mills says. “When they struggled he either slammed her head into the mirror or she bumped it herself.”
Chase kneels by the victim’s head, studies it, looks closely, but doesn’t touch the scalp through the woman’s hair. “There are some lacerations here,” he says. “A few punctures, it seems.”
Mills backs toward the bedroom door. “All right, Tim. You bring in the techs and take over in here if Glendale truly wants to yield. I’m heading out back to talk to the homeowner.”
On the way back down the hall with Myers on his heels, Mills notices a few photos askew, doesn’t know if that’s the result of too many responders crowded into a narrow hallway, or more evidence of the struggle that preceded death. Mills enters the great room and gets a better sense of the house. A typical open floor plan that draws your attention, ultimately, three places: a fireplace, a flat-screen TV, and the sparkling pool out back. Through a mangled French door, he sees a cluster of uniforms surrounding a woman. She’s shaking her head. Mills is careful not to touch the busted handle of the door; he opens its partner instead. The partner door has all its panes intact. The other door is a chessboard of shattered glass.
“Hello, I’m Detective Alex Mills from the Phoenix Police Department.” He extends a hand. The woman shakes it. “This is Detective Myers.”
Her name is Marcy Stone. She’s sitting at a small wrought-iron table. Her hair is streaked blond, and it falls to her shoulders. She’s wearing a tight blouse unbuttoned halfway down her cleavage, revealing a chest that is ruddy from sunburn. Her skin is finely freckled. She looks about forty.
“Guys,” Mills says to the others lingering at the pool, “can I have some privacy for a minute?”
The men look at each other, faces full of professional umbrage, but they all disperse.
“Ms. Stone—” Myers begins.
“I gave a statement already,” she says, her voice as vacant as her eyes. “Two actually.”
“We realize that,” Mills tells her, taking a seat across the table. “But we’re not asking for a statement. We just want to talk.”
She asks if she can smoke. Mills nods. She lights up.
“Ms. Willis was staying with you?” Mills asks.
“Temporarily.”
“When did you find her?”
“I’ve answered that question several times this morning.”
“I know, I know,” Mills tells her. “And I apologize for putting you through this again. But for us it’s better that we ask a few times to make sure we get it right. For you, not so pleasant. Again, I’m sorry.”
“I found her around six thirty when I came home.”
“Came home? From where?”
“I stayed at my boyfriend’s last night.”
“I see. Did you provide us with his name?”
“I did.”
“His address?”
“Yes. He lives up in Moon Valley. I sleep there a few times a week. We take turns.”
“Where is he now?” Myers asks.
“He flew out this morning. On business.”
“Does he travel a lot?” Myers asks while jotting down notes.
“About twice a month. He sells eyewear.”
Mills looks at the woman as she looks away. She pushes a strand of hair back behind one of her ears and gazes off into nowhere. It’s quiet here, save for the fountain that trickles into the pool.
“How long have you known Andrea Willis?” Mills asks her.
The woman takes a long drag of her cigarette and exhales it slowly, almost luxuriously; she seems to admire the smoke as it drifts away. “About eight years.”
“How did you meet?”
“At the gym. She was in my Pilates class. That lasted about three months. But she loved hiking. So we hiked together.”
“Have you heard about the murders on the hiking trails?” Myers asks.
“Of course,” the woman says. “But we haven’t been out there in weeks. My fault. I met Matt a few months ago, and, well, you know.”
Mills offers her a smile. “Where did you usually hike?”
“Dreamy Draw.”
“My wife and I go there sometimes,” Mills tells her. “It’s nice and quiet. We like it. So, you came home, saw that someone had busted in . . .”
“Yeah. And I immediately went to her room to make sure . . . but, you know, I saw her. . . .”
Mills inches his chair closer. “I’m really sorry about your friend, Ms. Stone.”
“Marcy.”
“Yes, Marcy, I know how upset you must be.”
She looks at him fiercely. “You know what,” she says. “I’m all cried out. Don’t think I don’t care or anything. I do. I just lost my best friend. In my house! But I’ve cried all morning.”
“Actually, you look kind of numb to me. Maybe in shock. Can I get a paramedic to look at you?”
“No. That won’t be necessary. A monster was in my house last night. How do you expect me to look?”
“I understand,” Mills assures her. “Now, I need you to tell me the circumstances
around Ms. Willis staying here in your house.”
“Again, I’ve already been through this. You know, Detective, I’m cried out and talked out. You smoke?”
“No.”
“You?” she asks Myers.
He shakes his head.
“Well, don’t mind if I have another.”
“I don’t, if you will give us a few more minutes of your time,” Mills tells her.
“I will,” she says, exhaling the first wind of smoke. “Look, Andrea was thinking of leaving her husband. I told her not to make, you know, any hasty decision, to come here and think it through.”
“How long ago was that?” Myers asks, still writing.
“About three or four weeks ago.”
“Did her husband know where she was?” Myers continues without looking up.
“No.”
“But he knew you were best friends, so did he call here, or stop by? Did he call her? You?”
“He did call her several times, but she didn’t answer. That was not my advice. That was her decision.” The woman narrows her eyes and takes a long drag. Mills knows one thing doesn’t make sense: a woman who does Pilates, who hikes the desert, filling her lungs with poison. And Mills can tell she’s been smoking for a very long time. It’s betrayed in the roughness of her skin, a slight sandpaper quality to her voice, and, of course, the pursed wrinkles around her lips. “He never came by that I know about,” she tells the detectives.
“What’s his name?” Myers asks. “Bobby.”
“Willis?”
“Yes,” she replies, stretching the syllable with annoyance.
“I’m sure she confided in you,” Myers says. “What were the problems in the marriage?”
“She complained about his laziness, for one thing. He never helped out around the house. Really unmotivated. He lost his job a year ago and kind of started dragging her down with him.”
“I suppose a job loss could do that to someone,” Mills tells her. “Make them feel helpless or worthless.”
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