Deeper Than The Dead (26 page)

Tommy didn’t argue with her, but he knew it
was
his fault. He had decided to cut through the park. He had looked at Dennis when he shouldn’t have. His mother was upset because of all of this trouble he had fallen into.

Miss Navarre stood up and crossed her arms and walked around in a little circle. From Tommy’s observations that usually meant the person was working up to saying something nobody wanted to hear.

“Do you remember last Thursday night?” she asked. “Do you remember what you did that night? Were your mom and dad home?”

“I think so,” Tommy said, puzzled. “My dad and me watch
The Cosby Show
.”

“I like that show too,” Miss Navarre said with a little smile. “Does your mom watch with you?”

“No. She doesn’t think anything is funny.”

“That’s too bad for her.”

“She’s not a very happy person,” he said.

“How about your dad? He seems like a happy person.”

“Most of the time,” Tommy said, but he didn’t say anything about how it was when his mother was on one of her rampages and yelling at his dad. He didn’t say that sometimes his dad would just have to leave, and how he wouldn’t come back for hours.

It didn’t feel right to tell anybody things like that. Not even Miss Navarre. That was family stuff. You weren’t supposed to tell other people family stuff. It was like a code. You had to be loyal to your family first.

“My mother used to say ‘This too shall pass,’” Miss Navarre said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means even bad times will go away. All the crazy stuff that happened this week already happened, it’s behind us. We should look forward. Next week could bring something really great.”

I hope so
, Tommy thought as he slid off his chair and followed her out of the room, holding his arm against his aching ribs.
I sure hope so
.

“I can’t believe any of this is happening,” Sara Morgan said, pulling her pink sweater around herself as if she was freezing, even though the morning was warming up quickly.

She was a pretty woman in a wholesome athletic sort of way, dressed like maybe she was on her way to aerobics class in black leggings with gray leg warmers slouching around her ankles. She had a head of hair a man would like to tangle his hands in—thick with curls and waves. She had caught up a couple of sections in barrettes in a halfhearted attempt to keep it under control.

They stood on the sidewalk in front of the school. Mendez flipped his Ray-Bans down against the bright sun.

“We had such a nice life a week ago,” she said. “Suddenly everything is wrong.”

She was on the verge of tears—out of proportion to what had gone on in the conference room. Although, Mendez thought, Janet Crane was almost enough to make him cry.

“You’ve had a lot to deal with,” he said. “I spoke to your husband yesterday. I understand he was out of town when the kids found the body.”

“Yes,” she said, suspicion creeping into her expression. “You talked to Steve? Why?”

“The murder victim, Lisa Warwick, volunteered at the Thomas Center as a court advocate. She and your husband had worked together frequently. We thought she might have confided in him if someone had been giving her a hard time. Did you know her?”

“Yes,” she said. “I met her a couple of times.”

“Is that all?” Mendez asked, feigning surprise. “They never met at your home to talk about a case?”

“Steve doesn’t bring his work home with him.”

“Hmmm. Well, I suppose that’s good, but it makes for a lot of late nights at the office, doesn’t it?”

“Steve’s very dedicated,” she said, her voice cool.

“To his work,” Mendez said. “Does it bother you that he gives up so much time to the Thomas Center?”

“It’s a worthy cause.”

She looked away, pulled a pair of aviator sunglasses from on top of her head and settled them in place to hide the stress in her cornflower blue eyes.

“You volunteer as well?” Mendez asked.

“No. I’m busy with other things.”

Like holding herself together, he thought.
We had such a nice life a week ago
.

“Mrs. Morgan,” he started, “there’s no delicate way of asking this question. Was your husband involved with Lisa Warwick? Romantically?”

“No!” she said, too quickly, hugging herself tight.

“We’ve looked at Ms. Warwick’s phone records. There are a lot of calls to your husband’s office. A lot of after-hours calls.”

“You said yourself, they worked on a lot of cases together.”

Mendez didn’t press for more. Browbeating Sara Morgan into saying it aloud would only have been cruel. Her husband was unfaithful to her. She was suffering enough keeping the secret to herself.

“One other thing,” he said. “Do you happen to remember where your husband was last week, Thursday, late in the day?”

“He was in town,” she said. “I remember that. I teach an art class every other Thursday evening. He was home when I got back.”

“What about from, say, five to seven?”

“He rarely gets home before seven. I leave for my class at six.”

Which meant she couldn’t account for his whereabouts during the time period Karly Vickers went missing.

He waited for Sara Morgan to ask why he wanted to know, but she had had enough.

“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Morgan,” he said. “I’ll let you go. Have a nice day.”

She laughed without humor, already on her way to her car.

“I spoke with Sara Morgan,” Mendez said, walking into the war room, where Vince had carved out a spot for himself at a small table in one corner.

He glanced up from making notes, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. “And?”

“It’s a good bet Steve Morgan was having an affair with Lisa Warwick. Mrs. Morgan was very uncomfortable with the topic,” Mendez said, pulling up a chair.

“She didn’t come right out and say he was cheating on her?”

“No. She couldn’t deny it fast enough. She’s trying to hold together what she has,” Mendez said. “It’s a sore point with her that he dedicates so much time to the Thomas Center.”

“With other women,” Vince said. “Vulnerable women, women in need of heroes. That’s a rich prowling ground for the wrong kind of guy.”

“Everybody says he’s a Boy Scout.”

Vince arched a brow. “What kind of merit badge do they give out for adultery these days?”

“A scarlet letter?”

“Good one,” Vince said. He pulled his glasses off and set them aside. “So, let’s say he’s having an affair with her. That’s a long way from doing what was done to her.”

“Maybe she was threatening to tell the missus, giving him an ultimatum he couldn’t live with.”

“Motive for murder, yes. But a guy murders his mistress in the heat of the moment. He gets rid of the body. He doesn’t carve it up like a totem pole and plant it in a public park for school kids to stumble on.”

“Maybe he wants to make it look like some maniac did it.”

“How much information about the Paulson murder was made public knowledge?” Vince asked. “The strangulation? The cutting? The mutilation? The glued eyes?”

“Almost none of it,” Mendez admitted. “And the wife couldn’t account for his whereabouts when Karly Vickers went missing, either. Guess we’d better find out if he ever met Julie Paulson.”

“She had a record, right?”

“A couple of old prostitution charges in another jurisdiction.”

“See if she got busted with a john. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

“I’ll make some calls. Did you get anything from Quantico?”

“One of the agents knew a case in Ohio where a guy went away for killing a ten-year-old girl. When he got out, he switched to killing prostitutes of small stature—childlike. He figured when a kid goes missing, people notice. When a hooker disappears,
c’est la vie
.”

“Karly Vickers is small,” Mendez said. “But Lisa Warwick was pretty curvy. No mistaking her for—or pretending she might have been—a child.”

“Let’s go see your Mr. Sells,” Vince said, getting up slowly. He stuck his reading glasses on top of his head and picked a folder from a neat stack on the table. “Dixon gave me the go-ahead to interview him. I want to know what pushes his buttons.”

Gordon Sells looked at Mendez as they entered the room, and jabbed a finger in his direction. “I got
nothin’
to say to
you
, you fuckin’ spic.”

Mendez looked at Vince and shrugged. Vince tipped his head toward the door. He didn’t want Sells pissed off just because he didn’t like Mendez.

Vince sat down, perched his reading glasses on his nose and paged slowly through the notes that had been made thus far regarding Gordon Sells. Sells watched him suspiciously and fidgeted in his chair as the minutes ticked past.

Finally Vince sighed and looked up.

“Mr. Sells,” he said with a friendly smile. “I don’t care how many stolen cars you’ve shipped to Mexico.”

Sells didn’t deny it.

“That’s not important. Not to me, not to you. You’ve got other issues,” Vince said. “I’ve talked to a lot of guys like you over the years. Guys who had that same . . . attraction . . . you have. None of them wanted to have it, you know. You probably don’t want to have it either. I mean we all know it’s against society, but you didn’t ask to be that way. It’s not your fault you like girls younger than other people think is right.”

“Who are you?” Sells asked. “Are you a shrink?”

“Something like that,” Vince said. “I’m Vince.”

He reached across the table to shake the grubby hand of Gordon Sells.

“Now, Gordon. May I call you Gordon?”

Sells shrugged. “I guess.”

“So, Gordon, Detective Mendez thinks you have something to do with the murder of a woman—Lisa Warwick.”

“Never heard of her.”

“And the disappearance of another woman—Karly Vickers.”

“Don’t know nothing about it.”

Vince got up, went to the wall, and taped up three black-and-white crime scene photos. The partially decomposed remains of Julie Paulson. “Come have a look.”

Sells came over and looked at the gruesome pictures, held his hands up and turned away. “That’s sick. I got no stomach for that. I maybe have done some things in my time that ain’t right, but nothing like that.”

“See? That’s what I figured,” Vince said. He went back to the table and took a couple more photos out of the file, pornographic images of well-endowed women in their twenties. He stuck them up on the wall beside the others.

“I need coffee,” he said. “Would you like some coffee, Gordon?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I’ll be right back.”

He went out the door and across the hall.

Dixon looked at him as he strolled into the monitor room and went to the coffeemaker. “What’s the point of that?”

“The porn?” Vince said, pouring two cups of black coffee. “You’ll see.”

He doctored his coffee with four plastic thimbles of fake cream, stirring as he came over to the monitor. In the other room, Sells went over to the wall, looked at the porn for a minute, looked at the other photographs, and walked away.

Mendez opened the interview room door and let Vince back in. Vince handed a cup to Sells. “I brought it black. I didn’t know. Me, I’ve got to load up the cream. Bad stomach.”

Sells took the coffee and sipped at it.

“See, I said to Detective Mendez you wouldn’t be interested in anything like that,” Vince said, hooking a thumb toward the photos. “That’s not what you’re about. You’re not a violent man. You don’t want to hurt women.”

“That’s right,” Sells said. “I never hurt nobody.”

Vince went back to the wall and took down all the photographs. He replaced them with three photographs of a twelve-year-old girl, her unripe body naked, just beginning to bud into something more. She looked at the camera as she touched herself provocatively.

Vince went back to the table and promptly knocked over his coffee.

“Oh, shit! Look at that! Oh, man . . .”

He scooped up the file, the jacket dripping coffee. “Shit. Excuse me. I’ve got to get some towels.”

He went back out the door and across the hall, dropping the file jacket into the trash. He joined Dixon, Hicks, and Mendez at the monitor, and they all watched as Gordon Sells went to the door and glanced out to see no one in the hall. He went back to the wall to stare at the photographs. Not thirty seconds had gone by before he began to fondle himself through his baggy pants. Another thirty seconds and he was fully aroused.

“Barnum and Bailey could pitch a tent on that pole,” Vince said. “He’s not your guy.”

But before Dixon could say anything, Detective Trammell hustled into the room.

“We’ve got something at Sells’s place,” he said. “Bones. They look human.”

The search for Karly Vickers ceased to be the lead news story of the day. Word that skeletal remains had been found in the hog yard behind Gordon Sells’s salvage business shot through the media like a bolt of lightning. Mendez and Hicks had to fight through the crush of reporters and their support staff to get to the yellow-tape barrier.

The hogs were highly interested in the fuss and in the people in crime scene jumpsuits and knee-high rubber boots wading through their territory. They stood off to the side with individual members of the herd occasionally rushing toward the people, snorting bravado then rushing back to the safety of the group. Their squeals were ear-splitting.

“This smells almost as bad as the trailer,” Mendez said, wrinkling his nose.

“I’m glad I have a badge,” Hicks said, watching the crime scene techs systematically raking through the inches-deep muck of mud and feces and pig urine. “My granddad up in Sacramento used to raise hogs. When I was a kid, in the summers, I used to have to help him move them from one pen to another. You don’t shake that smell fast.”

Dixon motioned them over to a table set up along the back of a shed. The findings had been washed and laid out on a tarp: what appeared to be a human femur and several rib bones.

“What do we do now?” Mendez asked. “We have no way of knowing who these belonged to. Unless they can find a pelvis, we don’t even know if we’re looking at a male or a female.”