“But if her murder was committed by the Interstate Killer,” Jed said dully, “there won’t be any DNA beneath the nails. And there won’t be any semen in the vaginal canal.”
“Just like twelve years ago, like a cop or an M.E. or a crime scene tech, someone who knew exactly what would nail him, did it,” Jerry said.
“Or an avid student of forensics?” Jed said.
Doc Martin was thoughtful for a moment. “No way to know for sure, but it’s certainly possible.”
A few minutes later they were standing outside the morgue. The sun was high and hot, the sky the kind of crystal blue the state was known for. But the storm clouds were already brewing. Hell, it was summer. That meant a storm like nobody’s business sometime during the day, around three or four, usually. Locals loved the phenomenon, though the tourists had a penchant for running from the theme parks when the rains started, not realizing they would be gone in an hour or so.
Then the night would be beautiful, crystal clear, even if humid and hot.
“Well?” Jerry demanded, staring at Jed.
“Well, either everyone involved fucked up entirely and Beau Kidd wasn’t the killer, or we’ve got a copycat out there who studied the case and is imitating the original too damn well.”
“Hell, I knew that.”
“Jerry, I was in and out of town when it all went down,” Jed reminded his friend. “And I wasn’t on the force then, either. Who’s your partner these days?”
“O’Donnell. Mal O’Donnell. And he wasn’t around twelve years ago, either. Hey, you want to get some dinner?”
Dinner? Jed’s stomach turned at the thought. Did that make him a wimp? he wondered. He could still smell death and disinfectant. Still, he started to agree, hoping, probably vainly, that Jerry might say something that would give him a clue to the truth about the murders. Did he feel guilty? Hell, yes—if he’d made a mistake. Not only had he made the perp in his novel the homicide cop, even though the man’s name had been changed for legal reasons, but the case he had used was glaringly evident.
The real cop was dead.
Yeah, but his parents weren’t. And they had to live every day with the world’s belief in their son’s guilt, a belief he had perpetuated in his novel.
Jed realized that he wanted the current killing to be the work of a copycat—he didn’t want to be responsible for the continued life of a horrible mistake.
“Hey, you in there somewhere?” Jerry asked him.
“Yeah, sorry.” Jed looked at his watch. “I can’t join you for dinner. I have a commitment.”
“Yeah?”
“My cousin Ana. One of her best friends when she was growing up just moved into her grandmother’s house. I promised I’d show up for the housewarming.”
“Cool. Where’s the house?”
“Almost horse country. An old pre-Civil War place, one of the few still left in the area.”
“Ah. A rich kid.”
“No, not really. I grew up down the street, and Ana is still there, since she bought her parents’ house. Christina’s place is just older and bigger. Her grandparents were immigrants and bought the place way before the theme park explosion, when the countryside was nothing but groves.”
“Must be worth a fortune now,” Jerry noted.
“Yeah, I guess. But you know how neighborhoods build up. Christina has almost an acre, with a big sloping lawn, almost looks like the place is on a hill, but there’s a modern ranch on her right, and a 1930s art deco-style bungalow on her left.”
“Sounds cool,” Jerry commented. “Better than the cookie-cutter housing developments that have gone up everywhere. Anyway, if you think of anything, give me a call. And stop by the precinct sometime. The guys will be happy to see you.”
“Yeah, they like to torture me about my books.”
“What? You a sissy now? Can’t take the torture? I’m betting I’ll see you soon enough,” Jerry told him. He pointed a finger. “I know you, and you’re not going to let this go. And that’s cool with me,” he added. “We’ve got the mayor and the governor breathing down our necks. The feds even have a squad on it.”
“Then I’m sure the perp will be caught.”
“Yeah?” Jerry said morosely. “We had about six counties’ worth of detectives and the feds on the case the last time. Anyway, keep in touch. Have fun hobnobbing with the rich and famous.”
“I told you, Christina’s family wasn’t rich,” Jed said, laughing.
“If she sold that place, she’d be rich now.”
“She won’t sell it,” Jed said flatly. But did he really know that? Christina had been his kid cousin’s friend. He didn’t actually know her all that well, though for some reason he felt as if he did. He had just seen her six months ago at her grandmother’s funeral. The gangly kid she had once been had grown into a beautiful woman. Tall and slim, but shapely. Regal, and stoic in the face of grief. She’d been wearing black, a suit with one of those slim pencil skirts. Her hair had been a blaze of deep red against the black, something Jed remembered well. The sun had lit up the length of it as it swept down her back, and the color had been almost startling.
Irish red, he reckoned.
She hadn’t cried at the service, but those enormous blue eyes of hers had been filled with a greater depth of emotion than any tears could have evoked. She’d loved her granny, the last of her family except for two cousins. He knew them, too, though they weren’t the same age. Dan and Michael had graduated one after the other right behind him, but they’d had different interests and hung out with different friends. He’d gone for a basic BA, while Michael and Daniel McDuff had gone into the arts. Daniel was still struggling as a performer, while Michael did freelance production work for several of the local theme parks and planned to found his own company one day.
Jed knew through Ana that despite having grown up several hours away in South Florida, Christina had been the closest of the three grandchildren to her grandmother. According to Ana, Christina and her grandmother had shared a special bond.
He’d turned down tonight’s invitation at first. He had never been a real part of the crowd. But oddly enough, it was the memory of Christina at her grandmother’s funeral that had turned him around. She had grown up not just beautiful but intriguing. She’d acquired an air of sophistication that was best described as alluring. In addition, she’d lost her parents just five years earlier, and had worn a lost and weary look he knew all too well himself.
He wished that he could somehow ease things for her. It was so easy to become bitter after so much loss. He had certainly done so, but Christina didn’t look as if she had.
He was surprised by how eager he felt to go, even if Ana’s old friend had grown up very nicely and he felt that they shared a bond of grief.
He usually avoided any woman who might be considered a friend. He didn’t like sympathy, and he didn’t like to talk. Margaritte had been dead for four years. He wasn’t as dead inside himself as he had been, but he still wasn’t certain that he even liked people in general, much less that he wanted to let himself get close to anyone. Best to veer far away from anything that might be an actual relationship. Barhopping and one-night stands were his preferred mode of existence.
Still, Ana had