“I don’t know who’s behind this,” Dance said, “but if it’s a stalker, like Edwin, I think he’s going to keep killing.”
“Oh, Kathryn,” Kayleigh whispered. “Again? He might hurt somebody else?”
Committing murder was rare among stalkers but in her years as a reporter, a jury consultant and a cop, Dance had learned that when it came to violent crime, an outlier could kill you just as dead as a perp who fell smack in the middle of the bell curve. “The basis for stalking is repetitive, obsessive behavior. I think we should assume he’s going to make more calls and more people will be at risk. I’d get a wire on Kayleigh’s phone. And let’s look at the other verses of that song and find out who or where he might attack again.”
Madigan asked, “But why would the perp do that? What’s in it for him?”
Dance replied, “I don’t know. Some stalkers are simply psychotic.”
“Sounds kinda far-fetched,” Madigan said. Mostly he seemed irritated that Dance had upset Kayleigh.
“I think it’s important.”
“Seems you do.” The chief detective took a call, listened and said to Kayleigh, “That was one of the patrols. They cruised past your house and didn’t see him or his car.”
“Where is he, where did he go?” Kayleigh sounded panicked.
“They don’t know.”
Madigan looked at his watch. He told Harutyun to go outside and make a statement to the reporters. “Don’t give ’em anything specific, only Bobby’s name. Being investigated. Apparent accident. You know the drill. And keep people outa here.” Madigan apparently didn’t think Deputy 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 altogether. Her impression was that he was surprised she hadn’t done as he’d hoped—got bored playing small-town cop and just gone away.
No such luck.