Dead Wrong

by Janice Kay Johnson

  A block from her apartment complex, she said, "That was a wonderful dinner, Will. Thank you."

  "You're welcome." He put on the turn signal. "Is that your Explorer?"

  "Your mother and I split up some early interviews, then she followed me here so we could double-team on some others."

  "Ah." He gently braked behind her Explorer, then turned to look at her. "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't say anything to my mother about what I told you."

  She put her gloved hand on the door latch. "Of course not."

  "When I saw you Saturday night at J.R.'s, do you know what I thought?"

  Surprised by the change in topic, she shook her head.

  "I thought you have a face like a Renaissance Madonna." His voice had a soft burr. "There's more than one kind of beauty, Detective Giallombardo."

  "I…thank you," she squeaked.

  He dipped his head. "Good night."

  She scrambled out, managed a flustered, "Good night," and hurried to her door, aware of his 4Runner hovering until she'd unlocked and slipped inside.

  The cynic in her thought, He was buttering me up. Using that vaunted charm to make me forget what a jerk he really is.

  She took off her coat, hat and gloves, and hurried into the bathroom. She paused momentarily, caught by her image in the mirror. Her nose and cheeks were red, her dark eyes wide and spooked.

  A Renaissance Madonna. Uh-huh.

  Was flirting with women so automatic for him, he couldn't turn it off? Why else would he bother saying something like that to her?

  The annoying part was, she couldn't help feeling a flutter under her breastbone. He hadn't said she was beautiful, but he'd implied…well, that she might be.

  And he hadn't said it earlier, when she'd made that stupid comment about moving to where people were homelier, where she'd fit in. When she'd practically begged for him to deny that she was ugly. Then, she would have discounted his polite rejoinder—don't be silly, you have a face like a Renaissance Madonna.

  But he hadn't said it then.

  So why had he said it at all?

  She got ready for bed, angry at herself for dwelling on something so meaningless. She should be thinking about why the killer had dumped Karin Kristensen's body where he had, why he'd wanted it found right away. Not about whether Will Patton was a jerk, or a decent man struggling with his pride.

  * * *

  "JACK, we need to make a public plea." Meg stood her ground despite the sheriff's scowl. Literally, since she'd chosen not to sit and was gripping the back of one of the chairs facing his desk. She'd gone to his office to make her case, knowing that he would resist.

  He rose from behind his desk and tugged impatiently at his tie. "We're going to have a goddamn panic once people start thinking serial killer. Better yet, believing we don't have a clue!"

  She reminded him of unpalatable reality. "We don't have a clue."

  He scowled at her. "Talk to Mendoza again. Who else did he see in the bar that night?"

  She snorted. "He's going to remember faces of people he didn't know six years later?"

  Jack unbuttoned his cuffs and started rolling up his sleeves. He must be done with politicking for the day.

  "It was the most memorable night of his life. You don't think he's rewound it in his mind a couple hundred times?"

  "Maybe," she conceded.

  "Anyway, who says we're looking for someone he didn't know?"

  Meg blinked. "True."

  "Isn't the autopsy this morning?"

  "Giallombardo went."

  He shot her a look. "Chicken."

  "I went to Amy Owen's."

  "This her first?"

  Feeling a little ashamed of herself, Meg nodded. "She's going to get stuck watching one sooner or later."

  "So you decided to make it sooner." Jack sounded amused.

  With a snap in her voice, Meg said, "I decided it wasn't the most important thing that needed doing today. Damn it, Jack, if we don't get on the five o'clock news, we'll lose our chance! Some people who went up skiing today will be heading out of town in the morning."

  She didn't remember from their long-ago romance, but Meg was willing to bet that Jack Murray didn't ask for directions when he got lost. It stood to reason that asking for the public's help went against his grain, too.

  He paced a few steps each way, fighting the inevitable. Finally he growled, "All right! Do it. Just don't give anything in return you don't have to."

  "Jack, I'm not a rookie."

  He grunted. Maybe it was supposed to be a laugh. "Talk to the press yourself. Giallombardo might blow it."

  "She's pretty closemouthed. You'd approve," Meg said. "Anyway, is there a single detail that hasn't already been aired?"

  He settled back in his chair behind his massive desk. "I haven't heard Mendoza's name."

  "Yet."

  "I want answers before the press ask questions." He rotated his shoulders, letting her see his tension. "We're going to have every news organization in the country here any day. These were real colorful murders. We may put Elk Springs on the map by ending up on the cover of People magazine."

  Meg shuddered.

  "Go. Set it up." A tight smile crossed his face. "I see you had enough faith in your coercive abilities to dress for the occasion."

  "I relied on your common sense," she said serenely.

  A rough laugh rewarded her. "I assume you don't need me there?"

  "No. It's going to be short and sweet."

  Back in her own, much smaller, office, Meg started making calls. "I'm holding a press conference at noon to discuss the Amy Owen and Karin Kristensen murders."

  Half an hour before showtime, Detective Giallombardo knocked and presented herself. Her eyes were glassy, her skin pasty.

  "How'd it go?" Meg asked, interested to find out how honest this interesting young woman would be.

  "I missed half of it puking."

  "I did my first time, too." She hesitated. "Just between you and me, I can't get past the nausea. I know cops who hardly notice the smell anymore, but I'm not one of 'em."

  "And the sounds." Giallombardo shuddered. "When Sanchez sawed her skull open…"

  A shudder of her own worked its way down Meg's vertebrae. "Not my favorite part."

  "Do you have a favorite part?" Giallombardo asked, with pardonable incredulity.

  "Walking out at the end."

  The detective laughed, healthier color returning to her cheeks.

  "What did you learn?"

  "Sanchez got a really clear bite impression. The killer is definitely the same as Amy Owen's." As if either of them had doubts. "He combed some pubic hairs, sent them for analysis."

  "Anything else?"

  "Her body was as clean as Amy's. As Sanchez put it, she had to have been raped on a floor you could eat off."

  "Nice thought."

  "She was more battered than Amy. He guessed she fought back. One wrist was cut and bruised from a handcuff. She'd wrenched at it repeatedly."

  "That's how he held her so long. Didn't even need a locked room. God." Meg shook herself and glanced at the clock. "I've set up a press conference at noon. Join me."

  "I don't have to talk, do I?" Giallombardo looked horrified.

  "No, you can stand to the side and nod solemnly at every pearl of wisdom that falls from my lips."

  "I can do that."

  Meg had indeed dressed with care this morning, having formulated her plan during the night. She wore a royal-blue pantsuit, businesslike but elegant. No reason women cops had to be perceived as dowdy. Abby had lectured her on the subject enough times to have an impact.

  "Why try to look like a man?" Abby had asked, curling her lip at some blazer Meg had pulled from the rack when they shopped together. They were women in a man's profession. So what? Her rule was, you don't hide the fact that you're a woman. You advertise it. You're feminine, classy and smart enough to have shown the men on the job a thing or two.

  "Take a look at Jack's
wardrobe," she'd advised. "In those million-dollar suits of his, he's sexy and powerful. You can be, too."

  Meg strode through the halls of the public safety building, her heels clicking on the gleaming floors, conscious of turned heads and enjoying them.

  The auditorium was half full. She stepped behind the podium, Giallombardo taking her place to one side a few steps back. A babble of voices shouted questions.

  Conscious of the dozen or more camera lenses aimed at her, Meg lifted her hand. "I called this press conference to ask the help of the public in apprehending a murderer." Silence fell. "As you know," she began, "a young woman was murdered in the early hours yesterday morning, her body abandoned at an unfinished housing development that does not yet have any residents. The street is a dead-end. The killer drove into the housing development and departed the same way." She looked at each camera in turn, leaning forward slightly to emphasize her words. "His vehicle was the only one to turn into the Crescent Ridge development from the time it started to snow until firefighters, responding to a call, discovered the body at 5:15 a.m. We believe the fire was set by the killer to draw our attention, which means he likely left the scene between four-forty-five and five. We're asking for the assistance of anyone who traveled the Mountain Loop highway early yesterday and might have seen a vehicle entering or leaving the development. Certainly some employees at Juanita Butte would have been on the road by that hour, maybe some eager skiers. If a vehicle turned off the highway ahead of you onto a road covered with fresh snow just past mile marker eight or emerged from any road that appeared largely untraveled, please call." She gave the telephone number, then repeated it. "Thank you."

  In response to questions, she confirmed that Karin's parents planned to have her body flown home to be buried in Boise and that there were similarities in the murders of Amy Owen and Karin Kristensen. Yes, investigators did believe it likely there was one killer.

  "Was she raped?" a local television newscaster asked.

  "I can't comment."

  A reporter she recognized from the Oregonian in Portland called, "An eyewitness reported that Karin was strangled with a jockstrap. Was Amy also?"

  "I'd also rather not comment on which aspects of the two crimes were similar and which different." She maintained a pleasant tone. "I'm sure you understand why."

  "Do we have a serial killer in Elk Springs?" called a voice from the back.

  "By definition, any murderer who kills more than once is a serial killer. In that sense, yes, it appears likely we do. Is this a Green River type killer who will continue to strike? At this point, I can't say. The two victims do have physical similarities. I urge all young women to take particular care until we apprehend the perpetrator. Thank you." She nodded and walked away, Giallombardo closing in on her heels, both women ignoring the storm of voices rising behind them.

  When the door swung shut behind them, Detective Giallombardo said, "Wow!"

  "They're a little scary, aren't they?"

  "More than a little."

  "The trick," Meg told her, "is to plan in advance what you want to say. Then don't deviate, no matter what they ask. Don't let yourself get thrown off balance. 'No comment' is an endlessly useful response. You stick to your message. Period."

  Forehead puckered in concentration, Giallombardo nodded.

  "All right. Let's go take a look at Karin's apartment."

  During the drive, she asked, "How was dinner last night?"

  The young woman started, but kept her gaze on the road. "Wonderful. You were right. Will's a great cook. I almost begged him for leftovers, but I clutched at my pride."

  "I hope I didn't put you on the spot."

  "No, it was fine."

  Did that sound just a little forced?

  "This is a rough time for Will." Meg thought. She wished she knew better what he was feeling.

  "We didn't talk much about it." Giallombardo's voice was noticeably restrained.

  "Ah? Well, I wish he'd talk to somebody." She was grateful at least that he had Travis, but she also knew from experience that men didn't always open up to each other. Even when they did, it might consist of a few words and a rough pat on the back. A man needed a woman to drag every tormented word out of him, to make him articulate his grief or imagined guilt. Will, she suspected, was shutting most of his in.

  Karin's apartment offered few clues. She'd lived in Elk Springs for barely a year and a half, and perhaps because of that hadn't accumulated the possessions Amy Owen had. The apartment was decorated on the cheap, with posters and throw pillows from the local Pier 1 store. She'd brought mementos from home—framed photos shared space on a bureau with a tattered stuffed bunny, for example. Meg studied the photos. They looked much like Amy's, some of family, some of friends. But the people in them were all strangers. She wasn't invested in the group of friends she'd made here.

  Unfortunately, she'd died because of them, whether they'd meant much to her or not.

  Karin had liked James Dean—a large poster hung over her bed and her wall calendar for the year featured photos from his movies. An occasional note on the calendar suggested a doctor or dentist appointment or a date.

  7:00 Will!!! noted one entry. Interested, Meg saw Trina's eyes linger on that entry before she abruptly turned away and went to study the multiple photos and lists attached to the refrigerator with magnets.

  "No appointment that night. Certainly nothing exciting. She did like her exclamation points."

  "So I see." Trina pointed to a grocery list, where items were apparently given priority by the number of exclamation points following them. Pepsi had four, contact lens solution two, cereal one, paper towels none.

  Karin appeared not to have been a reader. She owned a couple of dozen movies on DVD, all fairly recent hits, had a cheap stereo system and CDs of country-western music, and kept a basket of magazines in the living room. Meg watched as Trina went through them. People, Entertainment Weekly, Premiere, Cosmopolitan.

  Probably not surprising she and Will hadn't kept dating.

  A giant tote bag held an unfinished crochet project. On her knees, Trina gently touched the downy soft yellow blanket. It made Meg think of chicks and Easter morning. She hoped Maria Baker or someone she knew would finish the blanket. She felt sure Karin would want them to.

  In the bathroom medicine cabinet they found birth control pills, generic ibuprofen, toothbrush, toothpaste, cold cream and makeup. No prescriptions. Nothing unusual.

  Her undergarments were surprisingly chaste for a woman as beautiful as she'd been. She favored boy-cut cotton panties with cute sayings on the butt.

  Meg closed the last dresser drawer. "This was a waste of time."

  Trina turned from the closet. "We had to do it."

  On a surge of grief, Meg said, "She was a nice, normal young woman with her whole life ahead of her. Goddamn it."

  That was what got her most with kids and young adults: the life they hadn't had. Not so much the untapped potential, the possibility that this woman would have dreamed up a cure for cancer or become a teacher and influenced a generation of children, but rather the loss of the simple, satisfying experience of getting married, raising children, buying a first house, planting a tree in the yard and watching it grow to a stately size that could hold a tire swing for grandchildren. She'd been denied so much.

  Meg felt profoundly depressed when she and Giallombardo closed the door to Karin Kristensen's apartment.

  In the Explorer, she said, "Let's stop for lunch. I want to think, and I know my voice mail will be full. I don't feel like dealing with it yet."

  She suggested a sandwich shop near an antique mall housed in the old Elk Springs police station, a grim, gray building that looked like an old Carnegie library and was much improved, in her opinion, by the gaudy banners hung on its basalt block facade. She liked it even better in the spring and summer, when pots of flowers decorated the outside steps and windsocks twirled from the porch pediment. It gave her great pleasure to imagine what her fat
her, whose old office was now a space dedicated to the sale of vintage clothes, old quilts and lace and doilies and table linens, would think if he could know. She ate here often, just so she could contemplate how pissed he'd be.

  Giallombardo gave her a sidelong, startled glance and Meg realized she was smiling. She wiped it from her face.

  "I've never been here," the young detective said, after they were seated at a round oak table in the reception area of the old station that now held a restaurant. Faded cabbage rose wallpaper, mismatched antique chairs and a carved fireplace mantel lined with old glass bottles gave the place atmosphere.

  "I come often." Meg picked up the menu. "You know that used to be the police station." She nodded out the window.

  Giallombardo followed her gaze. "Sure. I remember."

  "These are my old stomping grounds," Meg said, choosing not to explain further. "I like the food here, and I like the fact that the diners are mainly tourists. I don't have to sit here thinking, Damn, why is that man glaring at me? He looks familiar. Did I arrest him?"

  Trina Giallombardo smothered a laugh. "I've already had that happen. It gets worse, huh?"

  "Oh, yeah." Meg smiled at the waitress who arrived at their table. "I'll have the soup and half sandwich."

  Since the lunch hour was past, they shared the room with only one other group, three women laden with bags and engrossed in their own conversation.

  Giallombardo had obviously checked them out, too, because she said in a low voice, "Some of the bags are from Bronwen Fessler's shop. She has beautiful clothes."

  "I bought a couple of Christmas presents there this year."

  "Really? Her stuff is so expensive, but…" For a moment, naked longing turned the detective into a young woman who coveted pretty things, just like all young women did.

  "A couple of spectacular sweaters can transform your wardrobe," Meg said, then felt absurdly like a surrogate mother.

  "Maybe," Trina murmured, primarily to herself, Meg suspected. "Oh, thanks," she told the waitress, who brought their drinks.

  Meg sighed, hating to drag them both back to thinking about a serial killer but knowing they had no choice. He might already be stalking another woman. Probably was, at the very least, casting around for possibilities. Savoring the last kill, yet feeling rage and hunger swell again.