Stanning was up to the task.
He dismissed Dance too, in a stony voice, impatient: “And now, if you could get to that interviewing, I’d sure appreciate it, Kathryn.”
Dance hugged Kayleigh once more. She then accompanied Harutyun toward the exit.
“Thanks for talking to him about the light, Detective Harutyun.”
“Made some sense. Call me Dennis.”
“Kathryn.”
“I heard.” Deadpan delivery.
They both nodded at a somber Darthur Morgan as they passed. His eyes left Kayleigh for a mere portion of a second.
In a few minutes the two were pushing out the front door of the facility.Dance was grateful to be in scorch-free air again, even if it was searing hot. Harutyun’s square face, though, registered distress. The line of his shoulders had changed too. He was looking at the clutch of reporters and TV vans. Dance understood he’d rather be chasing down a perp in a dark alley than handling this duty. Public speaking, perhaps. A major and universal fear.
Dance slowed, typing an email into her phone. She sent it on its way. “Detective?”
The columnar man stopped, wary but seemingly grateful for any delay in confronting the media.
She continued, “I just downloaded a set of the lyrics—Kayleigh’s song, the one she heard on her phone last night.”
He seemed unsure of where this was going. “And I’ve forwarded a copy to the Detective Division. To your attention.”
“Me?”
“I’d really appreciate it if you’d look over the second verse—well, all of them, but the second verse right away—and let me know if you can think of any places it could mean, where a perp might decide to kill somebody else, based on the words. Like the concert hall in the first verse. It might be impossible to guess the scene in particular but if we can just narrow it down a little we’d have a head start if he calls again.”
A hesitation. “I could check with Chief Madigan about that.”
Dance said slowly, “You could, sure.”
Harutyun, not looking her way, surveying the reporters: “The Chief’s got the best forensic outfit in the Valley, better than Bakersfield’s. And his arrest and conviction rate’s in the top ten percent in the state.”
“I can tell he’s good,” she said.
Eyes still on the voracious journalists. “I know he’d appreciate you getting him statements from those witnesses.”
Dance said firmly, “Look over the lyrics. Please.”
Swallowing, the big detective didn’t respond but stepped forward reluctantly to meet the pack of hungry wolves.
Chapter 11
BOBBY PRESCOTT’S TRAILER was an impressive double-wide. A Buccaneer company Cole model, about fifty feet by twenty-five or so, Kathryn Dance guessed. Tan exterior, white trim.
It was, yes, a mobile home but a crumbling cinder-block foundation certified that it wasn’t very. The dry ground around it was cracked and beige, the grass losing the battle but some hydrangeas and boxwood putting up a good fight.
The scene wasn’t crowded. Only law enforcers, some curious children with bicycles or skateboards and a few older spectators were present. Most adults were either not interested or didn’t want to draw attention to themselves. It was that sort of neighborhood. There were no other residents in the trailer; TJ had reported that Bobby Prescott was unmarried and had lived here alone.
It was 1:00 P.M. , the sun at a September angle, but the air was still hot as July.
Two FMCSO cruisers were parked in the front and Dance nosed past them to the carport and climbed out of the Pathfinder. Chief Detective Madigan and Dennis Harutyun were standing together, talking to the kids. Well, they had been doing so. Now they were focused on her.
The mustachioed detective nodded noncommittally.
His boss said, “Ah, Kathryn.” Not even a faux smile from Madigan. Beneath the leaf-thin veneer was anger—at her and probably at himself for having to play the politics game and not being able to simply kick the CBI agent out
He dismissed Dance too, in a stony voice, impatient: “And now, if you could get to that interviewing, I’d sure appreciate it, Kathryn.”
Dance hugged Kayleigh once more. She then accompanied Harutyun toward the exit.
“Thanks for talking to him about the light, Detective Harutyun.”
“Made some sense. Call me Dennis.”
“Kathryn.”
“I heard.” Deadpan delivery.
They both nodded at a somber Darthur Morgan as they passed. His eyes left Kayleigh for a mere portion of a second.
In a few minutes the two were pushing out the front door of the facility.Dance was grateful to be in scorch-free air again, even if it was searing hot. Harutyun’s square face, though, registered distress. The line of his shoulders had changed too. He was looking at the clutch of reporters and TV vans. Dance understood he’d rather be chasing down a perp in a dark alley than handling this duty. Public speaking, perhaps. A major and universal fear.
Dance slowed, typing an email into her phone. She sent it on its way. “Detective?”
The columnar man stopped, wary but seemingly grateful for any delay in confronting the media.
She continued, “I just downloaded a set of the lyrics—Kayleigh’s song, the one she heard on her phone last night.”
He seemed unsure of where this was going. “And I’ve forwarded a copy to the Detective Division. To your attention.”
“Me?”
“I’d really appreciate it if you’d look over the second verse—well, all of them, but the second verse right away—and let me know if you can think of any places it could mean, where a perp might decide to kill somebody else, based on the words. Like the concert hall in the first verse. It might be impossible to guess the scene in particular but if we can just narrow it down a little we’d have a head start if he calls again.”
A hesitation. “I could check with Chief Madigan about that.”
Dance said slowly, “You could, sure.”
Harutyun, not looking her way, surveying the reporters: “The Chief’s got the best forensic outfit in the Valley, better than Bakersfield’s. And his arrest and conviction rate’s in the top ten percent in the state.”
“I can tell he’s good,” she said.
Eyes still on the voracious journalists. “I know he’d appreciate you getting him statements from those witnesses.”
Dance said firmly, “Look over the lyrics. Please.”
Swallowing, the big detective didn’t respond but stepped forward reluctantly to meet the pack of hungry wolves.
Chapter 11
BOBBY PRESCOTT’S TRAILER was an impressive double-wide. A Buccaneer company Cole model, about fifty feet by twenty-five or so, Kathryn Dance guessed. Tan exterior, white trim.
It was, yes, a mobile home but a crumbling cinder-block foundation certified that it wasn’t very. The dry ground around it was cracked and beige, the grass losing the battle but some hydrangeas and boxwood putting up a good fight.
The scene wasn’t crowded. Only law enforcers, some curious children with bicycles or skateboards and a few older spectators were present. Most adults were either not interested or didn’t want to draw attention to themselves. It was that sort of neighborhood. There were no other residents in the trailer; TJ had reported that Bobby Prescott was unmarried and had lived here alone.
It was 1:00 P.M. , the sun at a September angle, but the air was still hot as July.
Two FMCSO cruisers were parked in the front and Dance nosed past them to the carport and climbed out of the Pathfinder. Chief Detective Madigan and Dennis Harutyun were standing together, talking to the kids. Well, they had been doing so. Now they were focused on her.
The mustachioed detective nodded noncommittally.
His boss said, “Ah, Kathryn.” Not even a faux smile from Madigan. Beneath the leaf-thin veneer was anger—at her and probably at himself for having to play the politics game and not being able to simply kick the CBI agent out
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