Reid—transgendered person and offspring of a congressional family?” I shake my head. “That’s not a coincidence. He likes planning and control. Victim choice would be an integral part of that. I could be wrong, but…this doesn’t feel random to me.”
Callie considers this, nods in agreement. “Point taken.”
We move down the single aisle. The 737-800 has the classic seating arrangement, rows of three seats on either side. The air is cool but not cold yet. Airplanes hold heat well. We arrive at 20F.
“How far did their Crime Scene Unit get, Callie?” I ask.
She flips through the file. “Full photographs, with good coverage both before and after removal of the body. They collected her luggage, which is down there in the hangar. That’s about it.”
“Someone jumped on this one fast,” Alan observes.
I take a moment and look. Nothing fancy, nothing psychic. This is it, right here, the place where one human being murdered another. A life ended in that seat by the window. If you believe in the soul, and I do, this is the location where the essence of the who of Lisa Reid disappeared forever.
I’m struck, as always, by how inadequate the location of death is when compared to the truth of death itself. I saw a pretty young woman once, staked out in the dirt. She was naked. She’d been strangled. Her tongue lolled from her swollen, beaten mouth. Her open eyes stared at the sky. She still had some of her beauty, but it was fading fast, being eaten around the edges by the coming entropy. Dead as she was, she still put the dirt to shame. There was no forest, no ground, and no sky, there was only her. No canvas exists that can really add to an ended life; death frames itself.
“I see blood on her seat cushion,” Callie observes, jarring me from my thoughts. “Easiest thing to do will be to just take the whole cushion. Take hers, take his, then search for prints. That’s a good avenue. It would have stood out if he’d worn gloves. Then vacuum everything for trace. That’s pretty much going to be it.”
“I think he would have taken something,” James notes.
I turn to him. “What?”
“A trophy. He left something in her, the cross. He’s into symbols. He needed to take something.”
Not all serial killers take trophies, but I agree with James. It feels right.
“Could have been anything,” Alan says. “Jewelry, something from her purse, a piece of her hair.” He shrugs. “Anything.”
“We’ll go through her belongings, see if something obvious is missing,” I say.
“It’s only getting colder, so what’s the game plan, honey-love?”
Callie’s right. I’ve started to get the smell of him but there’s nothing else here that’s going to help me.
“You and James are going to stay here and finish processing the scene. Call me when you’re done. Alan, I want you to drop me off at Lisa’s place, and then I want you to interview the witnesses. Flight attendants, passengers, anyone and everyone. Follow up on how he bought his ticket as well. Did he use cash? A credit card? If he used a credit card, it was probably a false identity. How’d he make that happen?”
“Got it.”
Callie nods her assent.
I take a final look at the window Lisa had died next to, turn, and walk away from it forever. It’ll fade eventually, I know. Someday I’ll be sitting at a window seat on an airplane and I won’t even think of Lisa Reid.
Someday.
6
ALAN AND I ARE ON THE FREEWAY HEADING BACK TO ALEXANDRIA. We don’t have much company on the road; just a few other night-drivers who, like us, probably wish they were in bed.
Alan is silent as he drives. We have the heaters blowing full tilt to deal with the cold. Darkness has really settled in, darkness and silence and still .
“What is it about the cold that makes things seem more quiet?” I wonder out loud.
Alan glances over at me and smiles. “Things are more quiet. You’re used to Los Angeles. Doesn’t get cold enough there to drive
Callie considers this, nods in agreement. “Point taken.”
We move down the single aisle. The 737-800 has the classic seating arrangement, rows of three seats on either side. The air is cool but not cold yet. Airplanes hold heat well. We arrive at 20F.
“How far did their Crime Scene Unit get, Callie?” I ask.
She flips through the file. “Full photographs, with good coverage both before and after removal of the body. They collected her luggage, which is down there in the hangar. That’s about it.”
“Someone jumped on this one fast,” Alan observes.
I take a moment and look. Nothing fancy, nothing psychic. This is it, right here, the place where one human being murdered another. A life ended in that seat by the window. If you believe in the soul, and I do, this is the location where the essence of the who of Lisa Reid disappeared forever.
I’m struck, as always, by how inadequate the location of death is when compared to the truth of death itself. I saw a pretty young woman once, staked out in the dirt. She was naked. She’d been strangled. Her tongue lolled from her swollen, beaten mouth. Her open eyes stared at the sky. She still had some of her beauty, but it was fading fast, being eaten around the edges by the coming entropy. Dead as she was, she still put the dirt to shame. There was no forest, no ground, and no sky, there was only her. No canvas exists that can really add to an ended life; death frames itself.
“I see blood on her seat cushion,” Callie observes, jarring me from my thoughts. “Easiest thing to do will be to just take the whole cushion. Take hers, take his, then search for prints. That’s a good avenue. It would have stood out if he’d worn gloves. Then vacuum everything for trace. That’s pretty much going to be it.”
“I think he would have taken something,” James notes.
I turn to him. “What?”
“A trophy. He left something in her, the cross. He’s into symbols. He needed to take something.”
Not all serial killers take trophies, but I agree with James. It feels right.
“Could have been anything,” Alan says. “Jewelry, something from her purse, a piece of her hair.” He shrugs. “Anything.”
“We’ll go through her belongings, see if something obvious is missing,” I say.
“It’s only getting colder, so what’s the game plan, honey-love?”
Callie’s right. I’ve started to get the smell of him but there’s nothing else here that’s going to help me.
“You and James are going to stay here and finish processing the scene. Call me when you’re done. Alan, I want you to drop me off at Lisa’s place, and then I want you to interview the witnesses. Flight attendants, passengers, anyone and everyone. Follow up on how he bought his ticket as well. Did he use cash? A credit card? If he used a credit card, it was probably a false identity. How’d he make that happen?”
“Got it.”
Callie nods her assent.
I take a final look at the window Lisa had died next to, turn, and walk away from it forever. It’ll fade eventually, I know. Someday I’ll be sitting at a window seat on an airplane and I won’t even think of Lisa Reid.
Someday.
6
ALAN AND I ARE ON THE FREEWAY HEADING BACK TO ALEXANDRIA. We don’t have much company on the road; just a few other night-drivers who, like us, probably wish they were in bed.
Alan is silent as he drives. We have the heaters blowing full tilt to deal with the cold. Darkness has really settled in, darkness and silence and still .
“What is it about the cold that makes things seem more quiet?” I wonder out loud.
Alan glances over at me and smiles. “Things are more quiet. You’re used to Los Angeles. Doesn’t get cold enough there to drive
Similar Books
