“With an incomplete social introduction, plus saying ‘he and I’ instead of ‘we,’ which would indicate togetherness, I concluded they were at odds with each other. Her language confirmed the fight.”
Someone knocked softly on the door. “Yes?” Clay barked.
A deputy entered and placed some papers in a file on his desk. “The captain said you wanted this as soon as possible.” He nodded at me, then glanced back at Clay. “Got a sec?”
Clay stood and stepped into the hall.
I leaned forward and opened the file. It was a report on Ina Jo.
The two men’s voices grew fainter. I jumped up and peeked out the door. They’d moved down the hall and were in a heated discussion.
Leaving the door open a crack so I could hear returning footsteps, I raced around the desk and opened the drawers. They were all locked except the top middle one. Inside was the usual muddle of paper clips, pens, Post-it notes, and scissors, all in a black tray.
Clay’s voice rose.
My hand jerked on the drawer handle. The black tray jostled over an inch. Underneath was a sheet of paper.
Footsteps approached.
Heart pounding, I lifted the tray. Underneath was a DNA printout, dated April 17 of this year.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I PLACED THE TRAY IN THE DRAWER, SHUT IT, and stepped over to the bookshelf. I just had time to grab a Reader’s Digest condensed book when Clay opened the door.
He entered and narrowed his eyes at me.
“I see you like to read . . .” I glanced at the spine. “Ah . . . Nora Roberts?”
“No.” He strolled around the desk, sat down, and opened the drawer.
My hand trembled slightly as I shelved the book, then casually returned to my seat.
He was staring at me when I finally looked up.
“Please continue your report.”
“Yeah. Sure. Um . . . Teri also had a cluster of ‘you knows.’ If someone doesn’t use that phrase routinely, it marks a sensitive subject. The cluster occurred when she got out of the car, so something happened at that point that she’s leaving out of the story. She commented she ‘sort of’ got out of the car. How do you ‘sort of’ get out of a car?”
Clay grunted. “Her boyfriend said he shoved her out of the car.”
“I figured it was something like that.” I checked my notes again.
Clay snap-snap-snapped the lighter. I glanced at his hand. He stopped and put the lighter away. “I’m trying to quit smoking.” He picked up my notes. “Quasimodo Effect?”
“She described him as having dirty hair and walking with a limp. She just needed a hunchback to have a perfect Quasimodo.”
“I didn’t catch that.”
“It’s more obvious to a forensic artist. The average person tends to think being a criminal equates to being ugly, so they describe the bad guy as Hollywood’s casting of a villain, maybe with pitted skin, large nose, and small, close-set eyes. I call it the Quasimodo Effect. And when you think about it, it makes sense. Victims and witnesses are, shall we say, amateurs. They don’t realize that true evil can dress in a clown outfit and entertain at children’s parties—”
“John Wayne Gacy, who killed at least thirty-three boys.”
I nodded. “Or be a handsome but injured young man in need of help.”
“Ted Bundy, with a final body count of over thirty young women and girls.”
“My friend Beth would say we shouldn’t be surprised. Satan himself can appear as an angel of light.” I suddenly missed my friend and sidekick. She lived and breathed forensics and was a whiz at research. She might turn up some interesting information about the sheriff.
“Hello? Gwen?”
I started and dropped the pencil I’d been tapping on Clay’s desk. “Sorry. Woolgathering. Back to the clues. Let’s see, ah, the victim also said he was strong and walked away . . . slowly . . . looking over his shoulder. As if”—I clutched my hands in front of my chest and spoke in a whispery girlish voice—“he couldn’t take his eyes off her. And he was soooo strong.” I dropped the voice. “Like a gothic romance novel.”
“I can see why your boss, Dave, called and talked you up.” He absently rubbed his gold watch for a moment, reached for the phone, hesitated, then looked at me. “This whole thing just dills my pickle.” His accent seemed more pronounced. “I’m just a poor country boy and sure do appreciate your help.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Here’s what we know about that front desk clerk.” He handed me the report he’d just received. “And this here’s a copy of the video surveillance image. We got it from a drugstore where one of the gals got grabbed.”
I took the material from him. “Do you have transcripts of Teri’s interview? And a copy of the profile report?”
Clay’s eyebrows pulled together. “I thought you said Teri was lying.”
“She was. I just . . . may want to review it again. Something’s bothering me.”
He unlocked a bottom drawer, rummaged about, then pulled out a file and DVD and handed them to me. “No transcripts, but here’s a copy of the interview. I’ll get someone to drive you back to your hotel.”
“It’s not that far. I think I’d like to walk.” I was pretty sure no one would run me down in broad daylight with tons of witnesses. I placed the reports into my composite kit.
Clay stood and escorted me to the lobby. “I’ll have someone pick you up in the morning.”
The afternoon had turned into cool early evening. I paused just outside the door and breathed in the fall air. On my left, a slender, middle-aged man with a lock of dark, unruly hair flopping over his forehead sat next to a plump woman with a long, ginger braid and ankle-length skirt. She was leaning against him, a hankie pressed to her eye, while he read from a tattered Bible.
The man looked vaguely familiar. I tried to picture where I’d seen his face before. His eyes slightly bulged, level eyebrows . . .
The sketch.
The drawing of the unknown remains in the morgue looked like a younger version of the man seated on the bench. A brother? Father?
“. . . Naked came I out of my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return thither,” the man quietly read. “The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”
“Oh, sweet Lord.” The woman dabbed at her eye. “I never took a picture of him a’tall this year.”
Clay mentioned they’d identified the young man’s family. I had no idea why they’d come to the sheriff’s department instead of having a deputy deliver the news to them, but with startling clarity, I knew what I needed to do. I reached into my composite kit, pulled out my sketchbook, and approached the man and woman. The couple didn’t look up until I stood in front of them. “Excuse me?”
The man looked up. His tortoiseshell glasses slid down his nose and he adjusted them with a quick flick of his hand. “Ma’am?”
“Are you the parents of . . . the young man they found yesterday?”
“Samuel. Samuel Adkins. Yes, he is . . . was . . . our son.”
The woman nodded and looked at me with the sweetest face I’d ever seen. “Death has drawn near our family. Again.”
“My name is Gwen. I created the drawing that may have helped identify him. I overheard you mention that you didn’t have any recent photos, so . . . I thought you’d like to have it.” I held out the sketch and my business card.
The man took them with a trembling hand. “Ahhhh.” He groped for a blue-and-white handkerchief, then wiped his eyes. “I couldn’t—”
“It’s okay.” I stepped back. “The sheriff has copies, and it’s served its purpose.”
The man carefully placed the Bible, sketch, and card next to him on the bench, then stood and held out his hand. “Thank you, Miz Gwen. My name is Elijah. This here’s my wife, Ruby.”
I shook hands with him, feeling the thick calluses across his palms. “I won’t intrude any further. Please accept my sincere condolences for your loss
.”
“We were hoping,” Ruby said, “to see him—”
“Ruby, please take my word on this . . .” I touched her arm. “You’ll want to remember him the way you last saw him.”
Ruby’s gaze held mine, then drifted down to the small gold cross on my necklace. She nodded once, then stood. “We’ll have the funeral home take care of things.”
Elijah picked up the Bible and drawing, then put his arm around his wife. They started to leave, but Elijah paused and turned back to me. “Ma’am, it would be an honor if you would come to Samuel’s funeral.”
I blinked. “Oh . . . okay. Um . . .”
Elijah held up my card. “I’ll call you with the particulars.” The two of them walked toward the street.
I took the now-empty bench. Sketching unknown remains and reconstructing skulls are part of my job, but I seldom meet the families of the victims. Unlike television shows where the forensic anthropologists or behavioral scientists run around with guns investigating the cases, the reality is that we each do our part and move on. I rarely even know when my drawings make a difference in the resolution of a crime. Knowing that, in this instance at least, the sketch had brought closure felt satisfying. But sad. Oh, so very sad.
I slowly got up and started back to my hotel. I was starving. Stopping on my way back to the hotel for dinner seemed even more attractive when I spotted the bus parked in front of the lobby. The place would be a madhouse. And the basketball team was probably already warming up in the room above mine.
I found the same restaurant from the night before, this time going inside. The air was rich with the aroma of grilled steak and fresh-baked bread. After ordering dinner from a cheerful waitress who called me “hon,” I pulled out the report on Ina Jo.
At 2159, patrol officer Kari Seibel responded to a report on a welfare check on crying baby and possible missing person at the Craftsman’s Hotel on Hambley Boulevard, in Pikeville. Gwen Marcey, a guest at the hotel who called in the report, said she’d last seen the mother, Ina Jo Cummings DOB 03/19/1991, and baby when she went out for dinner at 2117 hours. She said she returned at approximately 2150. Shortly after Marcey found the baby, the sitter, Lila Pender (report included), arrived. Officer Seibel called Child Protective Services. Detective Ernest Oropeza arrived at 2221 and found Cummings’ purse, jacket, and keys. He contacted her employer, who said she was a trusted employee and had never left during her shift.
Cummings is described as 5'2", 135 pounds, blue eyes, and short black hair with a purple streak on the left side. Her ears have multiple piercings, and her left eyebrow has a vertical silver loop piercing. Her right ankle has a sea turtle tattoo. She was last seen wearing blue slacks, white blouse, navy blazer with the hotel logo over the pocket, and black boots.
My order arrived, something to do with chicken, and I pondered the material in front of me while I ate.
What was most interesting was Junior Reed, Clay’s son, was assigned to be the sheriff’s liaison on the case. Neither Junior nor the Derek-clone detective I’d just viewed were particularly adept. Why would Clay use those two on the biggest crime wave since the Hatfield and McCoy feud?
I was becoming more convinced that Sheriff Reed didn’t want to find the rapist. If that were true, why had he sent for me?
CHAPTER NINE
SURPRISINGLY, THE HOTEL LOBBY WAS EMPTY, the only sound coming from the hidden speakers playing Muzak. The convention—or tour or whatever the noisy group was—must have been out or turned in for the night. I suspected they’d rallied at some other location.
I’d relax with a long, hot bath and read an article in Forensic News before turning in.
The scent of dried leaves and asphalt greeted me as I opened the door to my room. I paused, then flipped on the light. The sheer curtains in the living area puffed and swirled as chilly air blew in.
I didn’t remember opening the window.
From my position by the door, I could see most of the two rooms. Empty. Swiftly I pulled the pepper spray from my purse. In four quick steps I was in the bedroom. The closet door was open with only my meager wardrobe hanging inside. The bathroom was empty. Nothing looked out of place.
Returning to the living room, I checked the window. The sash could only be opened a few inches before being blocked. No one could fit through the narrow opening. I was about to turn away when I gave the window a quick tug upward. It opened easily.
Biting my lip, I shoved the window closed and locked it.
Another tour of the room assured me it was empty. I placed the pepper spray back in my purse, took off my jacket, and tossed it on the bed. The white duvet was disturbed from when I sat on it earlier.
The phone rang.
Kicking off my shoes, I picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
A deep male voice said, “You need to leave before you get killed.” Click.
I gasped and dropped the phone. I spun, trying to remember where I’d placed Clay’s phone number.
The chocolate-colored scarf across the foot of the bed shifted.
My mouth dried. I grabbed the duvet and jerked it off.
The coiled snake reared its head and prepared to strike.
I froze.
The snake shook its rattles, starting with a slow chchch, then speeding to a continuous cheeeeeheeeee. Its head waved side to side, its tongue flickering.
I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out. My body refused to move. My heart pounded in my head.
The bedclothes vibrated.
The snake turned its head and looked at the sheet.
I tore my gaze from the coiled beast and glanced down. I was still clutching the covers in a white-knuckled trembling hand. With excruciating slowness, I lowered my hand.
The snake watched, tail vibrating.
I edged backward, one foot, then another. How far can a snake strike?
The snake dropped its head.
I fled from the room. Slamming the door shut, I headed to the lobby, clinging to the walls, my legs barely able to keep me upright.
The clerk must have heard me coming. She gawked at my appearance.
Grabbing the counter to keep from collapsing, I stammered, “Ssss . . . snake! There’s a ssnake . . . bed. Call-call the police . . . Shut door . . .”
“Now, there . . . is it Miz Marcey?”
I gripped the counter harder and nodded.
“Well, Miz Marcey. Those little ole snakes won’t hurt you. They sneak in under the door. I’ll get maintenance to catch—”
“Rattlesnake.”
The woman paused, phone halfway to her ear. “Are you sure?”
I nodded.
She opened a drawer, pulled out a telephone book, and swiftly flipped pages until she found what she needed. She dialed. After identifying herself, she explained the situation. “I’ll meet you outside with a room key. I don’t want guests in the lobby or hall to see you or they’ll panic. Come and leave through the side door.” She hung up. “Jason Morrow, the snake handler with animal control, will be here shortly. This sometimes happens. Can I make you some coffee or tea?”
“No. No. What do you mean this sometimes happens? How many poisonous snakes have turned up in people’s beds here?”
The woman wouldn’t meet my stare. “Um, well, not when I’ve been working here. But I’ve heard—”
“How long have you worked here?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed at my tone. “Now, Miz Marcey—”
“Never mind.” I rubbed my arms. “Someone opened my window, put that snake in my bed, and called and threatened me. Where were you when I came in earlier? The front desk was unmanned. Anyone could have walked through those doors.”
“I only stepped away for a moment.”
“Where’s your manager?”
Her face flushed red. “We’re shorthanded. I’m the manager on duty.”
“Listen. Once that snake’s gone, you need to get me another room. Someone knows what room I’m in. Last night’s attempt to ru
n me down, the snake, the phone calls . . . It’s not safe—”
“I can’t move you. We’re booked solid. Sorry.”
She said “Sorry,” not “I’m sorry.” She left out the pronoun. I moved away from the reception desk, my forensic training in high gear. I understood what people really meant by the words they used. A pronoun shows possession, commitment, and responsibility. By leaving it out, she was saying she wasn’t sorry. Was she the one who put the snake in my bed? Or who opened the window to let someone in? Did she know who did? Or was she simply glad I had to sleep in that room, with or without a reptile?
“Would you find me a room at another hotel?” I politely asked.
“Sorry. All the available rooms in town are booked. Have been for months. It’s the tournament, you know.”
I didn’t really know, and I didn’t care. As I thought of a suitable comment, a man tapped on the glass outside the lobby. Jason Morrow, the snake wrangler, was a fair-haired, even-featured man in his late twenties, wearing gold, wire-rimmed glasses, and with powerful shoulders and a slim waist. He held what I recognized as snake tongs and a five-gallon plastic bucket with a perforated lid.
The clerk strolled to the door and handed him a key card. “Room 137. Last one.”
A hot flash, yet another reminder of my estrogen-positive cancer and the hormone treatment that put me into early menopause, left me leaning against the counter. I could see the small television screens displaying the security feeds from the different areas of the hotel. It reminded me of the night before, searching for a missing Ina Jo while comforting her wailing daughter. Jason appeared on one, walked directly to my door, looked around, and entered.
The screens flickered, jerked, and two went blank. The clerk stepped over and banged the side. “Stupid thing never works right.”
In what seemed like a very short time, Jason appeared on a screen outside my room. The screen flickered for a few moments. When it came back on, the hall was empty.
Jason tapped on the glass doors outside the lobby, held up the bucket, gave a thumbs-up, then nodded at me. The clerk retrieved the key. Walking to the reception desk, the clerk pasted on a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Well now, Miz Marcey, I can get you clean sheets, but housekeeping doesn’t come on until—”
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