“Well, then, you must have done it right.”
“I have to say,” I begin, choosing my words carefully, “I’m a little shocked at how cavalier you are about the qualifications of your remodel crew. One poorly laid tile can absolutely ruin a remodel. I even read that if you don’t—”
“Stop! You’re not getting out of it, Steps,” Jane says in rapid-fire. “Jimmy doesn’t want to pony up and hire a licensed and bonded expert, which is fine. I get it. It’s a lot of money. But if I’m letting amateurs work on my kitchen, I want at least two brains trying to figure out how to spread the mortar and hang the cabinets. Between the two of you, I should get a usable, perhaps functional, maybe even a beautiful, kitchen.”
Silence.
“Wow,” Jimmy mumbles. “I feel so emasculated.”
“Harsh,” I say. “Just give me the word, Jimmy, and I’ll go all spider monkey on her. I’m pretty sure I can take her.”
“I’m pretty sure you can’t,” Jimmy replies.
“Wow,” I whisper. “I feel so emasculated.”
CHAPTER TEN
June 22, 12:17 P.M.
“Eleven possible victims,” Diane says. “Seven bodies recovered so far, that includes Alison Lister. The other four are listed as missing persons, but their physicals and the MO appear to match.”
All but three of the chairs have been removed from the conference room and pushed out into the hangar. Eleven stacks of paper of varying heights line the elegant mahogany conference table, stretching in single file from one end to the other. One of the stacks, the second from the door, I recognize immediately from the photo resting on top: the Alison Lister case.
The other stacks appear to be in reverse chronological order with a summary and photo on top—courtesy of Diane’s meticulous attention to detail. In front of Alison, in the number one position, or number eleven depending on which way you approach things, is twenty-four-year-old Lauren Brouwer, a brunette who went missing in Oroville just two months ago. The police report contains scant information spread out over a couple dozen pages. As I glance down the line, I note that all of the women are in their late teens to early twenties; all are brunette, with hair color ranging from the darker brown tones to black.
But Alison Lister was a natural blonde.
Two photos grace the top of Alison’s stack: one is her driver’s license, issued two years ago, which clearly shows her shoulder-length blond hair. On top of this, however, is a second photo, a more recent photo.
“Where’d this come from?” I ask Diane.
“The Redding Record Searchlight, February third of this year; I pulled it from an archived article. The photo’s not that great.”
“It’s good enough,” I say.
The four-hundred-word article from the business section of the Record Searchlight trumpets the recent announcement that PizzaZ, Alison Lister’s employer, planned to open two new stores, one in Redding, another in Anderson. More importantly, Alison’s name and picture are attached to the article. She’s smiling at the camera as she tosses pepperoni onto a large pizza, her distinctly brunette hair pulled back into a ponytail behind her. Brunette, not blond.
“Did any of the other victims dye their hair?”
Diane hesitates. “I don’t think so.”
“We have their driver’s license photos,” Jimmy says, gesturing to the case files on the table. He starts going down the line, reading from each printout. “Brown … brown … brown … black … brown … wait, here’s another blonde. Tawnee Rich out of Susanville.”
“She’s one of our missing persons,” Diane says immediately. “I think she’s also one of the anomalies.”
“Anomalies?” I say, but Diane is already punching keys on her laptop.
In less than ten seconds—which is a lot longer than you’d think, especially when you’re watching someone who types at ninety-plus words per minute—she says, “Here it is,” and turns the laptop to face us. On the screen is a chart of the dead and missing girls, along with some basic biographical information and a column listing the times between abductions. The first victim, Valerie Heagle, went missing fifty-seven months ago. Thirteen months later Jennifer Green went missing, nine months after that it was Tawnee Rich, but only a month later the fourth victim, Leah Daniels, was kidnapped out of Eureka.
“One month,” Jimmy says. “What didn’t he like about Tawnee?”
“Her hair,” I say. “He was expecting a brunette. When he found out she’d dyed her hair, my guess is he scalped her and cut off her head with a hacksaw, just like he did Alison Lister.”
“Then he went hunting for a natural brunette and Leah Daniels caught his attention.” Diane taps the laptop screen, saying, “It’s almost the same pattern with Lauren Brouwer, who was kidnapped just two months after Alison.”
“Of the seven bodies found,” I say, “were any others scalped?”
Diane shakes her head. “No, just Alison.”
“How is it we never got called in on any of these?” Jimmy says.
“We did,” Diane replies. “Natalie Shoemaker. Lake Washoe. Remember?”
“Aside from that.” There’s an edge to Jimmy’s voice. “Nobody noticed that nearly a dozen women had been kidnapped and murdered in less than five years?”
“The crime scenes are spread out over three states and nine counties,” Diane says. “This guy’s no dummy. My guess is he’s done some serious time, and probably for something where the evidence ensured his conviction. He’s not taking any chances this time around and is spreading the crime scenes around, which means he also knows that law enforcement has a poor track record of sharing information between jurisdictions.”