When Death Draws Near (5 page)

AFTER ONLY ONE WRONG TURN, I FOUND CLAY
in his office. He was once again on the phone.

He finished his call and hung up. “Well?”

“She invented almost the whole thing.”

He leaned back in his chair. “We knew there was something wrong about her story. What do you mean, though, when you say she invented
almost
the whole thing?”

I pulled a chair up to the other side of his desk. “She told the truth about the fight with her boyfriend. The rest was an invention.”

“How do you know?”

“Forensic artists have about fourteen clues we watch for and two tests we give to determine if someone is being truthful—”

“This wasn't a composite interview.”

“I know that. But many of the clues are the same in both a regular police interview and a composite interview.”

Clay steepled his hands in front of his mouth as if he were praying.
Great.
Certain body language always caught my attention. Unless Clay always did this action—and in the short time
I'd known him, he hadn't—steepling was a sign of superiority. Steepling in front of the mouth meant he not only felt superior but was holding back telling me. He
knew
Teri Johnson was lying. He was either testing me or wasting my time and keeping me from working on the missing woman.

“Well, anyway, I just thought you should know.” I stood to leave.

“No, sit down. I want your thoughts.” He leaned forward and folded his hands on the desk.

I hesitated, then sat back down. “Of the clues we look for, the victim or witness needs to display three or more signs to show deception.”

“Why?”

“One or even two clues could have actually happened. But as soon as the different indicators start to pile up, we know we have deception in the incident.” I pulled out my notes. “She gave nine clues and two verbal indicators.” I read them from my notes as I ticked them off on my fingers. “Quasimodo Effect, Betty Boop Display, Scary Movie, Gothic Romance, Indiana Jones Syndrome, Spotlight, Safe Haven, Check-off List, and Revenge Rule.” I beamed at him.

“Huh?” Clay frowned.

“Oh, sorry. Those are my nicknames for the different actions and displays she showed.”

“Well, that's about as clear as mud.”

“Law enforcement likes acronyms. FBI, ATF, DEA, STS. I just use words I can remember and that have a great visual. Don't you know it's all about the visual?”

He twisted his mouth as if smelling something bad but didn't say anything.

“Anyway,” I continued, “I wrote it all down.” I handed him a sheet of paper with sketches and brief descriptions. “I started with the Revenge Rule. When a witness gives a statement of what happened to them, they'll want someone to know how they came to be in that situation, what happened, and the aftermath, or how this event changed them. Their statement will have three parts.”

The phone rang. Clay ignored it. “Go on.”

“When the story starts with a fight, say with a boyfriend or spouse, my lie-detector antenna goes up. There's a good chance that the story they're about to tell will be made up to exact revenge on the boyfriend. Kind of a ‘Because of you, I was almost killed.' ”

“But what if the fight had nothing to do with the event?”

“That's why we need three or more clues.” I consulted my notes. “The fight was the truth, as was his jealousy over a deliveryman. Her language reinforced that. She said ‘my boyfriend' and ‘he and I.' ”

“But it
was
her boyfriend. He confirmed he let her off—”

“That's not the point. Calling him ‘my boyfriend' without giving his name is what we call an incomplete social introduction. The rule is that in telling a story to a stranger, in this case the detective, the victim wants to make herself understood. She needs to ‘introduce' the various people she will be talking about. A complete social introduction would have been ‘my boyfriend, John.'
My
, possessive pronoun;
boyfriend
, title; and first name,
John
.”

Clay absently pulled out a gold metal cigarette lighter and opened and closed the lid with a small
snap
. The odor of lighter fluid soon filled the room.

“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.

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-snapp
ed 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?