he said.
Strangled, then. A victim vanished from her domicile for almost a month, then somehow returned to the same domicile dead. Remington backed away from the circle of men around the body.
The surroundings displayed the living personality of the deceased. The posters on Merilee Henegar’s walls reflected the local music scene.
Start with that, Remington told herself. She had a vague awareness that Agoura Hills was ground zero for a gnarly brand of music called nu metal. The sound was fast, dark and aggressive. Outsiders had tagged it “agro,” implying that the songs perfectly reflected the seething anger of contemporary adolescence.
From the evidence plastered across her bedroom, Merilee might have strayed far beyond local mainstream rockers, such as Linkin Park, into the darker realms of death metal. A few of the posters had the eyes of the band members torn away, or actually stabbed out by the blade of a letter opener or a penknife. Black scribbles of Magic Marker defaced other posters. Merilee Henegar had been one pissed-off young goth girl. Maybe her black hair was a dye job.
Another hazmat-suited forensic tech joined Bell Kelly, and the two conferred in low voices. In the opposite corner of the bedroom, Remington encountered a shrine of sorts—a collection of books, the popular Rose and Thorn series, all with well-worn covers. Wax from black candles had been allowed to drip onto the shelf, building up into fantastic shapes. A picture was tacked on the wall, a moody shot of the actor who had played Damien Thorn in the movie version of the Rose and Thorn books. The actor’s eyes and mouth had been outlined with a red pen, like smeared lipstick.
A bad vibe all around. But was it out-of-the-ordinary bad? Or just average-teenager bad?
In an attempt to clear her head, Remington left the room. As she did so, she encountered a plainclothes cop she didn’t recognize. The dude looked totally out of place. If he hadn’t had a badge wallet hanging around his neck, Remington would have challenged his right to be there. He resembled a skell who had wandered in from some downtown park, lured by the scent of free coffee. He was unshaved and wore an army-surplus jacket with the name “Dickson” stenciled on it. Aggressively undercover. A non-cop cop.
The Dickson guy said, “Hey,” as he passed her and joined the group of men around the victim.
The bedroom at the end of the hall was clearly the mother’s. Remington glanced inside. No band posters there, just ordinary middle-class Laura Ashley–style furnishings. The two bedrooms were like cultural polar opposites.
The bay window at the end of the corridor gave a view out onto the yard. The Holmes Canyon subdivision bordered the freeway, snug up against a U-shaped formation of steep, forbidding hills. The three-hundred-home residential area centered itself around a neighborhood park. A fence and a strip of dense underbrush cut off the back of the Henegar yard.
Remington noticed a streetlight beyond. She brought up a Holmes Canyon map on her cellphone screen and discovered a dead-end cul-de-sac just a few yards from the property line.
The intruder came in through there,
she thought. Carrying Merilee’s body. The approach from the street in front would have been too exposed. Nobody in forensics had thought to process the yard as of yet. They had their hands full with the interior. They would wait until daylight.
Have it cordoned off
. Strict orders for no one to disturb the area. Impression evidence, footprints, drag marks, the intruder’s whole approach might be read there.
A gust of emotion swept through Remington. Fury at a world where young girls were taken. A forlorn, abandoned air hung about the darkened yard….And the pin-neat mother’s bedroom affected her almost as much as the goth lair of the daughter.
“Jesus, Detective, are you crying?” Deputy Velske had walked up on her.
“It’s just stress, Johnny.” Remington swiped at her eyes. “It
Strangled, then. A victim vanished from her domicile for almost a month, then somehow returned to the same domicile dead. Remington backed away from the circle of men around the body.
The surroundings displayed the living personality of the deceased. The posters on Merilee Henegar’s walls reflected the local music scene.
Start with that, Remington told herself. She had a vague awareness that Agoura Hills was ground zero for a gnarly brand of music called nu metal. The sound was fast, dark and aggressive. Outsiders had tagged it “agro,” implying that the songs perfectly reflected the seething anger of contemporary adolescence.
From the evidence plastered across her bedroom, Merilee might have strayed far beyond local mainstream rockers, such as Linkin Park, into the darker realms of death metal. A few of the posters had the eyes of the band members torn away, or actually stabbed out by the blade of a letter opener or a penknife. Black scribbles of Magic Marker defaced other posters. Merilee Henegar had been one pissed-off young goth girl. Maybe her black hair was a dye job.
Another hazmat-suited forensic tech joined Bell Kelly, and the two conferred in low voices. In the opposite corner of the bedroom, Remington encountered a shrine of sorts—a collection of books, the popular Rose and Thorn series, all with well-worn covers. Wax from black candles had been allowed to drip onto the shelf, building up into fantastic shapes. A picture was tacked on the wall, a moody shot of the actor who had played Damien Thorn in the movie version of the Rose and Thorn books. The actor’s eyes and mouth had been outlined with a red pen, like smeared lipstick.
A bad vibe all around. But was it out-of-the-ordinary bad? Or just average-teenager bad?
In an attempt to clear her head, Remington left the room. As she did so, she encountered a plainclothes cop she didn’t recognize. The dude looked totally out of place. If he hadn’t had a badge wallet hanging around his neck, Remington would have challenged his right to be there. He resembled a skell who had wandered in from some downtown park, lured by the scent of free coffee. He was unshaved and wore an army-surplus jacket with the name “Dickson” stenciled on it. Aggressively undercover. A non-cop cop.
The Dickson guy said, “Hey,” as he passed her and joined the group of men around the victim.
The bedroom at the end of the hall was clearly the mother’s. Remington glanced inside. No band posters there, just ordinary middle-class Laura Ashley–style furnishings. The two bedrooms were like cultural polar opposites.
The bay window at the end of the corridor gave a view out onto the yard. The Holmes Canyon subdivision bordered the freeway, snug up against a U-shaped formation of steep, forbidding hills. The three-hundred-home residential area centered itself around a neighborhood park. A fence and a strip of dense underbrush cut off the back of the Henegar yard.
Remington noticed a streetlight beyond. She brought up a Holmes Canyon map on her cellphone screen and discovered a dead-end cul-de-sac just a few yards from the property line.
The intruder came in through there,
she thought. Carrying Merilee’s body. The approach from the street in front would have been too exposed. Nobody in forensics had thought to process the yard as of yet. They had their hands full with the interior. They would wait until daylight.
Have it cordoned off
. Strict orders for no one to disturb the area. Impression evidence, footprints, drag marks, the intruder’s whole approach might be read there.
A gust of emotion swept through Remington. Fury at a world where young girls were taken. A forlorn, abandoned air hung about the darkened yard….And the pin-neat mother’s bedroom affected her almost as much as the goth lair of the daughter.
“Jesus, Detective, are you crying?” Deputy Velske had walked up on her.
“It’s just stress, Johnny.” Remington swiped at her eyes. “It
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