Текст книги "Bones Never Lie"
Автор книги: Kathy Reichs
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
CHAPTER 6
IN THE ATMOSPHERIC but ineffective lantern light, I saw a neon-green surfboard near the end of the walkway. It disappeared as its wearer turned right.
Ryan was ten yards ahead when I hit the beach road. He wasn’t walking fast, yet I had to quicken my pace to keep up.
After going north a few blocks, he headed west along the highway. That fit with the dreadlocked kid’s account.
The tourists thinned as we moved farther from the center of town. With fewer rival noises, the ocean sounded louder. The sky, now fully black, was starting to show points of twinkling white light.
Fifteen minutes out, Ryan stopped abruptly. I froze, certain he’d seen me. Uncertain how my intrusion into his new life would be received.
Ryan’s shoulders rounded and his hands rose. A match flared. A tiny orange dot lit his face briefly. Then he straightened and turned left.
I let the distance between us increase, then I followed.
The road was narrow and paved only with gravel. Vegetation packed both sides, dark and dense in the moonless night.
Mosquitoes whined. Fearful of discovery, I fought the urge to slap them away.
Ryan’s footsteps continued another fifty, maybe sixty yards. Then a door opened, banged shut. Seconds later, light filtered through slivers in the tightly packed flora.
I held back a full minute, then moved forward.
It was a Tarzan arrangement of sorts, a crude cabin on stilts within the branches of a tree. I crept close and peered through the wood-latticed screening.
The lower level contained a very basic kitchen whose centerpiece was a wooden table with two blue plastic chairs. In one corner, an open door revealed a bath with stone-covered walls. In another, slatted stairs angled steeply to an upper floor. The wan illumination was seeping from above.
I stood a moment, breath frozen. What if I was wrong? What if the man wasn’t Ryan?
It was Ryan.
Moving gingerly, I eased open the screen door, tiptoed across the tile and up the stairs. I was on the second tread from the top when he spoke. “What do you want?”
The voice sounded hoarse, weary. Angry? I couldn’t tell.
“It’s Tempe,” I said.
There was no response. I swallowed. Tried to recall the words I’d practiced in my head.
“Why are you following me?”
“I located you through your email.”
“Congratulations.”
“It wasn’t hard.”
Shit. Was I trying to make him feel bad?
“Actually, I had help.”
“So I have been found. Now leave me alone.”
“May I come up?”
Silence.
“Don’t you want to know why I’m here?”
“No. I don’t.”
I stepped onto the top riser.
Ryan was sitting on an unmade bed, knees raised, back to the wall. A single bulb oozed light through a paper-covered fixture above his left shoulder. A fan rotated slowly overhead. A book lay spread on his chest.
An open bottle of Scotch sat on a table made of sticks to the right of the bed. An empty bottle rested at the base of one wall, abandoned where it had rolled to a stop. The smells of old booze and soiled clothing overrode the jungle bouquet coming through the screening that formed the upper half of the walls.
“You look good,” I said.
Partially true. Ryan’s skin was tanned, his hair bleached by hours in the sun. But he’d lost weight. His cheeks were gaunt below the stubble of beard. The shadowing of ribs and hollow spaces rippled his T-shirt.
“I look like shit,” he said.
I launched into the speech I’d practiced. “You’re needed. It’s time to come home.”
Nothing.
Screw it. I cut to the quick. “Anique Pomerleau.”
Ryan’s eyes flicked in my direction. He seemed about to speak, instead reopened the book.
“It’s her, Ryan. She’s killing again. A girl was murdered in Vermont in 2007. Her body was posed. The cold case detective—”
“Past life.” His eyes returned to the book.
“Pomerleau’s DNA was found on the kid.”
Ryan’s gaze remained fixed on the page. But a changed tension in his neck and shoulders told me he was listening.
“You tracked Pomerleau. You caught her. You know how she thinks.”
“I’m no longer in the show.” Still not looking up.
“She’s resurfaced, Ryan. She got away from us on rue de Sébastopol, and now she’s back at it.”
Finally, his eyes rolled up to mine. A spiderweb of red surrounded each neon-blue iris.
“A girl was murdered in Charlotte in 2009. The victimology and crime scene signature parallel the case in Vermont.”
“Including Pomerleau’s DNA?”
“That’s being confirmed.”
“Sounds weak.”
“It’s her.”
Ryan’s eyes held mine for a very long moment, then dropped back to the page he wasn’t reading.
“Another girl has now gone missing. Same physical type. Same MO.”
“No.”
“Undoubtedly, there were others in between.”
“Leave me alone.”
“We need you. We have to shut her down.”
“Do you know the way back to your hotel?”
“This isn’t you, Ryan. You can’t turn your back on these kids, knowing there will likely be more. More murders of young girls.”
Ryan reached up and killed the light.
Above the whine of insects and the gentle ticking of wind-tossed leaves, I heard him turn away from me.
Back at Villas Katerina, my iPhone picked up a signal, and messages pinged in.
Slidell had called three times.
Of the past forty-eight hours, I’d slept maybe two. Nevertheless, I phoned him. As was his style, Slidell launched in without greeting. “Where the hell are you?”
“Costa Rica.”
“Long way to go for a taco.”
“I’m talking to Ryan.” No point in discussing distinctions of ethnic cuisine.
“Yeah? How’s that going?”
“It’s not.”
“Just tell the bastard to get his ass home.”
“Never thought of that. Why did you phone?”
“When Barrow got the call from Rodas, he set up a cold case review on Nance.”
I knew that.
“First thing he did was resubmit the kid’s clothing and the shit stuck to her hand.”
“Thinking technology has improved since ’09?” I stifled a yawn.
“Yeah. And go figure. It has.”
Suddenly I was wide awake. “The lab found DNA that didn’t belong to Nance?”
“Guess the happy donor.”
“Pomerleau.”
“None other.”
“Holy crap.”
The speed of the report didn’t surprise me. The CMPD has its own DNA capability, and turnaround averages two weeks. What shocked me was the fact that the link was now real. Undeniable. Anique Pomerleau had abducted and killed a child in my town.
“What about Shelly Leal?”
“Still out of pocket. But we might have caught a break there. Kid had her own laptop. I had the computer guys take a run at it. The thing was wiped.”
“When?”
“Around three on Friday afternoon.”
“Right before she disappeared.”
“Eeyuh.”
“What was erased?”
“The browser history and the email. Clean. Not one friggin’ message. Not one friggin’ page.”
“Isn’t there an option to clear the history at specified intervals? Or every time you log off?”
“The guy said that’s what clued him. When he checked, the browser wasn’t set to do that. So he did whatever voodoo it is they do, found that someone had manually deleted the stuff. Emptied whatever it is archives your email on Mars.”
“Anything else?”
“Photos, music, documents, those files are all there. Hadn’t been touched since Friday morning. The only thing nuked was the online stuff.”
“Unlikely a middle-schooler would know how to do that.”
“Mom said the kid wasn’t a techie.”
“Clearly, she was coached.”
“Eeyuh.”
“You’re thinking she met Pomerleau online?”
“I’m thinking I’m damn sure gonna find out.”
“Can your guy retrieve any of the deleted files?”
“He’s working on it, no promises.”
“Did you roll this past Rodas?”
“The kid in Vermont didn’t own a computer.”
“Mobile phones? Other devices?”
“Gower didn’t own a cell. Leal did, but the thing’s missing. And the record search turned up shit.”
“How about Nance?”
“That’s why I called. You see any mention of a phone in the CCU file?”
“I’ll check as soon as I get back.”
“When’s that?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Good. I want this bitch in bracelets before she drops another kid.”
After disconnecting, I rewound my conversation with Ryan. Felt anger and resentment at his refusal to help. Then I thought beyond tonight back into the past.
Ryan was one of the good ones. He’d had a few rough years, made a few false starts. But since his rocky youth, he’d done everything right. Played it straight as a cop. Tried hard as a father.
Sure, his loss was unthinkable. But the time for wallowing was over.
I had an idea. Was it callous?
Nope. Enough self-pity.
Decision made, I dug out my Mac, logged on, and went to the US Airways site. When finished, I sat a moment, attempting to calm my frazzled nerves.
Outside, late-night swimmers splashed in the pool. High in the palms, a howler monkey grunt-barked an end-of-day message. Another answered. A small creature, perhaps a gecko, skittered across my window screen.
My thoughts turned to a river cabin shaded by trees soft with moss.
On a whim, I dialed Mama. Got voicemail. I left a rambling message about Samara and fresh seafood and beaches and meeting with Ryan. Said good night. Told her I loved her.
In the moments before sleep came, memories of Ryan again bombarded my mind. His body shielding mine during a biker shoot-out in a Montreal cemetery. Stretched out on a beach in Honolulu. Lying beside me in a hammock in Guatemala.
I dreamed about a cellar beside a rail yard covered in snow.
CHAPTER 7
BY SIX, I was chugging along the beach road again.
The sky was thinning from black to gray. The ocean had calmed overnight. Its surface was rippling yellow-pink in a triangle announcing the return of el sol.
A few vendors were already setting out their wares. Gulls were throwing a party out on the beach. The occasional car or motorcycle passed, now and then a battered pickup. Mostly, I had the pavement to myself.
Ryan was downstairs in one of the blue kitchen chairs, dressed in the same T-shirt and shorts he’d worn the night before. He glanced up when I opened the screen door, then continued spooning Cheerios into his mouth. His face registered nothing.
“Why Costa Rica?” I asked.
“Birds.”
“Over eight hundred species,” I said.
“Eight hundred and ninety-four.”
“Charlie would feel right at home.” I was referring to the pet cockatiel we shared.
“Charlie’s peeps come from down under. Hungry?”
As I settled into the other chair, Ryan retrieved a bowl and spoon from the counter behind us. His face was sallow and baggy-eyed. His sweat smelled of booze. I wondered if he’d finished the entire bottle of Scotch.
I poured myself cereal. Added milk, tamping the urge to check the expiration date.
“There are half a million animal species in this country.” Ryan spoke without looking at me.
“Three hundred thousand of those are insects.”
“Bugs gotta live.”
“What’s your plan?”
“Find every one.”
“How’s that going?”
“Place has something else in its favor.”
I floated a brow. Focused on his O’s, Ryan missed it.
“Thousands of miles between here and Quebec.”
“That’s it? Distance and fauna?”
“Booze is cheap.” Ryan pointed his spoon at me. “And Cheerios can be had by the savvy consumer.”
“This isn’t you, Ryan.”
He feigned looking over his shoulder. “Who is it?”
“I can’t imagine losing a child, and I don’t presume to understand your pain. But wallowing in self-pity, numbing yourself with alcohol, turning your back on life? That’s not you.”
“I thought about keeping a journal.” Spoken with a full mouth. “Like Darwin in the Galápagos.”
“What happened?”
“Can’t draw.”
“I mean what happened to you.”
Ryan’s spoon rattled as it hit the empty bowl. He snagged a pack of cigarettes from the table, tapped one out, drew matches from the cellophane, and lit up. One drag, then his eyes finally met mine. “You found me. Let’s hoist you on our shoulders and march you around the room.”
“Grow a pair, Ryan. Come with me. Do what you do. What we’ve done together for almost two decades. We catch the bad guys. We take freaks like Pomerleau off the streets.”
“Go back and tell your buddies I’m not the guy you need.”
I accessed the flight itinerary and slid my iPhone to him. Ryan studied the screen. “Who paid for this?”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“No way the CMPD’s footing the bill to fly me stateside.”
“Do you have your passport?”
Ryan drew smoke deep into his lungs, exhaled through his nose.
“They want you there,” I said.
“Hope for your sake the fare is refundable.”
“I got a call last night. Skinny Slidell.”
Ryan knew Slidell from a case we’d all worked together years earlier in Charlotte. He said nothing.
“The lab lifted DNA from Lizzie Nance’s clothing.”
Ryan questioned me with bloodshot eyes.
I nodded.
Ryan stubbed out his cigarette with one sharp jab. Slumped back and folded his arms.
“Also, Slidell thinks he may have caught a break in the Leal case.”
As I explained the erased files, the shadows and contours of Ryan’s face seemed to deepen.
“If Pomerleau has taken Leal, she’s stepped up her game,” I said. “She’s now stalking her prey online. One other thing—why Charlotte? I think I know. She’s learned I’m there and she’s taunting me. Sending a message that I can’t beat her.”
I settled back. Waited.
Ryan gave me the long stare.
“Suit yourself.” I snatched up my mobile and dropped it into my purse.
I was outside when his voice came through the screening. “What time is the flight?”
“We need to leave Samara by ten.” Masking my surprise. “I can wait while you shower and pack.”
“I have to see someone before I go.”
“No problem.” Now masking pain. Irrational. The “someone” could be his landlord. His Cheerios source. And Ryan and I had agreed we didn’t work as a couple. Still, the thought stung. Another woman in Ryan’s life? We’d meant so much to each other for so long.
“Where are you staying?”
“Villas Katerina.”
“I’ll meet you there at nine-thirty.”
I hesitated. Did I trust him?
What choice did I have?
My watch said 9:40. I hadn’t given up, but I was close.
9:50.
Of course he wouldn’t show. The bastard was probably halfway to San Jose.
I knew Ryan was wounded, but I’d underestimated the extent of the damage. I wondered if he could ever be whole again. Nevertheless, I was hurt more than I’d expected by the fact that he’d leave me to face Pomerleau by myself.
Once, Ryan would have worried about my safety. About the impact of a case on me as well as on the victims. His paternalism had both annoyed and warmed me. Seeing him made me realize how much I missed that.
A horn honked on the street beyond the wall.
Five past ten.
I wheeled my carry-on through the door and up the path. Estella waved from behind the window as I passed reception.
The driver was leaning on the hood of his taxi. He smiled, took my bag, and placed it in the trunk.
I was climbing in, thinking about the long trip back, about what I would say to Slidell and Barrow, when I spotted Ryan weaving through sunscreen-slicked tourists heading for the beach. He’d shaved and changed into a black polo and jeans. An overstuffed backpack hung from one shoulder.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Out of Cheerios,” he replied.
We passed the next two hours in silence. At Daniel Oduber Quirós International, we checked in, made our way through security, handed in our boarding passes, finally took our seats, and buckled in. Not a word.
I had the window this time, watched as Costa Rica disappeared beneath us. When I could take the silence no longer, “Wonder what the weather’s like in Charlotte.”
“Continued dark overnight, widely scattered light by morning.”
Recognizing the George Carlin quote, I smiled to myself. The old Ryan was still in there somewhere.
Then I was out.
I awoke to the captain announcing our landing. And wishing his passengers and crew a happy Thanksgiving.
As we wound down the ramp from the airport parking deck, I offered Ryan the guest room.
“A hotel close to the law enforcement center will be fine.”
I wasn’t surprised. So why the hollow feeling? Relief? Resignation? Sadness that at last I had full confirmation?
Yes. Definitely sadness.
I said nothing.
“It’s better this way.” In response to my silence.
“I’m good with it,” I said.
“I’m not the same person, Tempe. Not the man I was.”
I dropped him at the Holiday Inn on College.
It was after ten when I hit the annex. The place seemed incomplete without Birdie. After downing the takeout burritos I’d grabbed en route home, I phoned Barrow.
He was impressed that I’d bagged my quarry. And pleased. Suggested a meet at eight the next morning. Said he’d call Rodas and Slidell.
After disconnecting, I dialed the Holiday Inn. Asked for Ryan. Shocker—they connected me. He’d actually checked in.
I offered a ride in the morning. Ryan said he’d find his own way to the CCU. Or back to the airport, I thought cynically.
That was all I could handle.
Exhausted, I fell into bed.
“Wish I could say you look good.” Slidell was eyeing Ryan with an expression of amusement.
Ryan shrugged.
“What the fuck’s with your hair?”
“Been touring with Shaggy.”
The reggae reference was lost on Slidell, whose musical taste ran to C&W and sixties rock and roll.
Barrow cleared his throat. “The sooner we start, the sooner we get home to leftover turkey.”
“Or back on the street,” Slidell said.
“This will be short. There’s nothing new on Pomerleau. Leal is still missing; Detective Slidell says so far, the tech boys have recovered nothing from her Mac. They’re still at it.”
“The computer’s not out there.” This was Slidell’s way of saying, “Don’t discuss it with the press.”
“Right,” Barrow affirmed. “The media’s starting to turn ugly. Mainly, I wanted to get us all face-to-face—”
“Without that fuckwad Tinker.”
Barrow slid a look to Slidell before continuing. “I wanted Detective Ryan to meet Detective Rodas.”
The men nodded at each other, acknowledging earlier introductions.
“Dr. Brennan has briefed Detective Ryan on details of the Vermont and Charlotte cases.” Question, not statement.
“Yes.” I’d done it with zero feedback on the drive from the airport to Ryan’s hotel.
“I’m only here as an observer.” Ryan favored me with a sideways glance. “And to appease Dr. Stalker.”
Hurt and anger reared up in equal proportions. I fought both down.
“Two murders,” Barrow said. “And Shelly Leal is missing one week today.”
“Still, the link is weak.” Ryan often played devil’s advocate.
“DNA connects Gower to Nance and both to Pomerleau. The MO for Leal is identical.”
Ryan rubbed a thumbnail along the edge of the table. Thinking about long-ago girls in a cellar? His dead daughter? A bottle of Scotch he’d left in his room?
“Ryan—” I started.
“I’ll be no good to you.”
“You know Pomerleau,” I said.
“I’m a mess.”
Slidell snorted. “Should take the heat off my ass.”
“I’m sorry.” Ryan wagged his head. “I’m done with cracked skulls and slit throats and cigarette burns. No more dead kids.”
“What about live ones?”
Ryan’s thumb continued its slow back-and-forth. I wanted to slap him, to shake him to his senses. Instead I kept my voice even and neutral. “Pomerleau’s thrill didn’t come from killing. You know that. She fed her victims just enough to keep them alive so she could torture and rape them. She and her twisted sidekick.”
“Neal Wesley Catts,” Rodas tossed in. “Aka Stephen Menard.”
“Leal could be alive,” I continued. “But if Nance and Gower are indicative, it’s not like the old days. Pomerleau’s pattern has changed. Leal won’t last long.”
Still Ryan said nothing.
Rodas placed a palm on the cardboard box holding his case notes. “I have to head north in the morning. Would you at least skim the file?”
Ryan closed his eyes.
I looked at Slidell. He shrugged.
A very long moment passed.
Ryan ran a hand over his jaw. Sighed. Then his eyes rose to mine. “One day.”
He looked at his wrist. Which bore no watch.
“Twenty-four hours.”
CHAPTER 8
RYAN AND I got coffee before plunging into the Nance file. We wouldn’t drink it. The stuff tasted like liquefied dung. It was a ritual, like sharpening a pencil or straightening a blotter. Meaningless action as prelude to the real show.
We started with a section titled Summary of the Crime.
On April 17, 2009, at 1620 hours, Elizabeth Ellen “Lizzie” Nance, eleven, left the Isabelle Dumas School of Dance, located in the Park Road Shopping Center, heading for the Charlotte Woods apartment complex on East Woodlawn. A motorist reported seeing a child matching Lizzie’s description at the intersection of Park and Woodlawn roads at approximately 1630 hours.
Lizzie lived with her mother, Cynthia Pridmore, thirty-three, and sister, Rebecca Pridmore, nine. Cynthia Pridmore reported her daughter missing, by phone, at 1930 hours. She reported having contacted the school, several of Lizzie’s classmates, and her former husband, Lionel Nance, thirty-nine. Pridmore said she and Nance repeatedly drove the route between the school and the home. Said her daughter could not be a runaway. An MP file was opened, with Detective Marjorie Washington as lead investigator.
On April 30, 2009, a groundskeeper, Cody Steuben, twenty-four, found a child’s decomposed body at the Latta Plantation nature preserve, northwest of Charlotte. Medical examiner Timothy Larabee identified the remains as those of Lizzie Nance. The case was transferred to the homicide unit, with Detective Erskine Slidell as lead investigator.
Lizzie Nance was a sixth-grade student with no history of drug, alcohol, or mental issues. A low-risk victim. Cynthia Pridmore was a legal secretary, twice divorced. The second former husband, John Pridmore, thirty-nine, sold real estate. Lionel Nance was an electrician, unemployed at the time of his daughter’s disappearance.
Neither of the Pridmores had an arrest record. Lionel Nance had a 2001 arrest for public drunkenness.
Witnesses who knew the victim all stated that the person responsible had to be someone she knew or someone she trusted. Witnesses all doubted Nance or either of the Pridmores was involved.
We skimmed a few newspaper articles. It was the usual bloodlust frenzy. The disappearance. The search. The angelic little face with the long brown hair. The headline screaming that the child was dead.
I was still reading when Ryan leaned back in his chair. I laid down the page. “You okay?”
“Rosy.”
“Move on to crime scene?”
“Sure.”
I exchanged the folder we had for the crime scene search report.
CSS arrived at 0931 hours, 4/30/09. The site was an open field surrounded by woods, an unsecured area, but one not normally visited by the public. The body had been left fifteen feet north of a small access road.
The victim lay faceup, clothed, with feet together, arms straight at the sides. There was little damage attributable to animal activity. Some debris had accumulated on the remains (leaves, twigs, et cetera, collected by CSS), but no attempt had been made at concealment or burial.
Fingerprinting was impossible due to decomposition, but both hands were bagged. Photographs were taken of the victim and the surroundings.
The detailed report of each crime scene tech followed. Leaving those to Ryan, I moved on to the section labeled Evidence/Property Recovered/Analyzed.
Each article had been entered into a grid. The five columns were headed: Control #. Item. Location. Type of Collection. Results.
The rows contained pitifully few entries. Photographs, forty-five. A soda can. Leaves. Bark chips. A rusty battery. Hair. A weathered sneaker, woman’s size ten. The hair was Lizzie’s. The can, battery, and shoe were negative for DNA or latent prints.
I must have made a sound. Or Ryan caught something in my face. “What?”
“Katy took ballet when she was a kid.” I was referring to my daughter. “She carried her slippers in a bag and wore street shoes to and from class.”
Ryan cocked a brow. I rotated the property log so he could read it. When he’d finished, “Where are the kid’s dance shoes?”
“Exactly.”
“None of the CSS techs refer to shoes. Nothing on a bag or backpack.” Ryan rolled his head, trying to release tension in his neck.
“How about you take the witnesses and I take the autopsy report?” I suggested.
“You don’t have to protect me.”
“I’m not.” I was. “Interviewing is closer to your skill set.”
The section labeled Witnesses was ten pages long. Standard. When a child was murdered, the cops talked to everyone who ever intersected the kid’s life.
The interviews were listed in chronological order. The first was that of the groundskeeper who discovered the body. He’d been questioned by Slidell.
I turned to the section labeled Medical Examiner’s Report.
Elizabeth Ellen Nance. Victim is described as an 11-year-old white female, 57.5” in height, slender build, brown hair. Autopsy conducted on 5/1. Remains are partially skeletal with putrefied tissue remaining on the cranial posterior, torso, limbs, and feet.
The body is clothed in a green wool jacket, black leotard, black tights, pink cotton underwear, and blue plastic shoes. The panties appear to be in place. All clothing is heavily soiled. No bloodstaining is observed.
The body shows no evidence of sharp or blunt force trauma.
There is no fracturing of the skull, internally or externally. The skull base is intact. The facial bones are intact. The dentition is present and intact except for two right maxillary incisors that appear to have been lost postmortem.
The hyoid wings are not fused to the body. What remains of the laryngeal and tracheal cartilages is intact. Observation of aspirated blood in the upper airway or bronchi is not possible. Observation of obstruction of the airways or bronchi is not possible.
Parallel grooving on two right medial hand phalanges is consistent with rodent scavenging. Two right distal hand phalanges are missing. Neither hand shows trauma consistent with defensive wounding.
A number of fine hairs and/or fibers are observed on the ventral aspect of the right forearm. A sampling of these was taken by the crime lab.
Decomposition makes it impossible to determine if there is trauma of the external genitalia or fluid deposit or any other extraneous material around the genitalia or in the pubic area. The flesh of the lower torso in the area of the lower abdomen and thighs and legs is putrefied, but the bones show no fractures or other trauma.
Submitted for evidence:
1. scalp hair
2. bags removed from right and left hands
3. right– and left-hand fingernail remnants
4. clothing and evidence sheet in which the body was wrapped
5. hair/fibers collected from the right forearm
Blood ethanol and carbon monoxide levels: undetermined
Manner of death: homicide
Cause of death: undetermined
Such a pitifully small amount of information.
The clock said 1:10. Ryan was still wading through interviews.
“Anything?” I asked.
“Kid’s uncle sounds like a punk, but no.”
“Grab some lunch?”
We rode in silence to the basement. I got a salad. Ryan went for a pizza slice that had been waiting awhile for a buyer. We took our trays to a table by the back wall.
“This civilian review system is good.” My attempt to open conversation.
“Seems so.”
“The investigation was thorough enough. The cops just had nothing to work with.”
“Not unusual with stranger abductions.”
“A stranger abduction but no sexual assault?”
“That’s what the ME concluded?”
“He left it undetermined. But the clothes were undisturbed, so he felt pretty strongly there’d been no rape. Cause of death was also undetermined.”
We ate without speaking for a few moments.
“Pomerleau’s MO was to kidnap kids and keep them alive for her sick little fantasies. Why change that?” I’d been asking myself that since learning about the DNA hit.
“When torture’s no longer enough, these sickos up the ante.”
Something else had been bothering me. “That last night on de Sébastopol. Pomerleau set the house on fire.” And left me in it to die. I didn’t say that. “She escaped before Claudel could arrest her. Why was her DNA in the Canadian system?”
“Couple of years ago some counties in California started collecting DNA from violent offenders who’d died before authorities got their genetic profiles.”
“Using what?”
“Old court exhibits, blood or saliva from a vic or a crime scene. They’ve been comparing those profiles to genetic profiles obtained from unsolveds.”
“Cases with DNA from unidentified perps.”
“Right.”
“Will that hold up in court?”
“Doubtful. But they’ve managed to close some cold cases.”
“So Canada’s doing the same thing?”
“I’ve been out of the loop. But I’m guessing it’s something similar. When we first found Pomerleau, she went to Montreal General, right?”
Flashbulb image. Deathly white bodies in a pitch-black cell. I nodded.
“Doctors probably took blood from Pomerleau when she was admitted. Crime scene collected biological material from the house on de Sébastopol. The profiles matched. When Pomerleau became a suspect in the homicides, she went into the NDDB.”
“That tracks.”
Back upstairs, Ryan continued reading the witness interviews while I turned to the next folder: Related Investigations. I’d been at it an hour, and was well into a section headed Investigators’ Notes, when an entry caused me to sit up straighter.
The note was described as handwritten, dated 5/2/2009. There was no name to indicate who had made it.
Forensics computer tech F. G. Ferrara called to advise that the Dell Inspiron 1525 laptop computer collected from the victim’s bedroom had yielded no useful information. Email and browser history empty.
I raced through the rest of the page. The next. Found no further reference to the computer or to Ferrara. “Ryan.”
He looked up. I rotated the page and jabbed the entry with my finger. While he read, I dialed Slidell.
My call rolled to voicemail. I left a message: “Phone me.”
I dialed Barrow. Asked him to come back to the CCU. He was there in under a minute. “What’s up?”
I showed him the entry.
“What’s Slidell say?”
“He’s not answering. Is Ferrara still up on four?”
“Hold on.” Barrow stepped out, returned moments later.
“Frank Ferrara moved to Ohio in 2010.”
“Pay was too high here, hours too short.” The old Ryan wit.
“Something like that.”
“What’s the chance that PC is still around?” I asked.
“Was it logged as evidence?”
“No.”
“Five years?” Barrow wagged his head slowly.
“Does Cynthia Pridmore still live in Charlotte?”
“Oh, yeah. She calls every few months asking for updates. Mainly to keep us thinking about Lizzie.”
“Give her a buzz?”
Barrow hesitated. “I hate to raise hopes.”
Ryan and I waited.
“Let me see what I can do.”
Barrow was back in twenty minutes. His face spoke of a painful conversation. Of a woman’s days again haunted by guilt and grief. Of her nights again filled with dread of what lay within sleep.
