Walt comes storming over as soon as our noses breach the door. He’s waving copies of the Sacramento Bee, the Redding Record Searchlight, and the San Francisco Chronicle. The one story title that’s fully visible reads “Serial Killer Stalks Northern CA.”
“Three so far,” Sheriff Gant says, slamming the papers down on a desk in front of us. “Two front-page stories and a page-two. Plus, I’ve got voice mail from a dozen newspapers, radio stations, and TV stations … and the day hasn’t even started. This is about as inside as it gets; they even list the victims by last name, first initial, and age. That came from someone familiar with the investigation.”
“Why don’t they just list their full names?” I mutter. “The damage is already done.”
Jimmy snorts. “This way they can claim they’re protecting the privacy of the victims’ families.” He looks at Walt. “Any idea who leaked it?”
The sheriff shakes his head. “I hope it wasn’t one of mine; I’d like to think they have better sense than that, but I can’t be a hundred percent sure.” He suddenly squints his left eye until it’s half closed, smashing down the corner of his mouth. There’s a queer look on his face. “There was something … now that I think of it; it had to come from the source.” He fishes through the stack of newspapers and retrieves the Sacramento Bee. Laying it flat on the desk, he quickly flips through to page A8, where the story continues from its front-page introduction. There, embedded in the text, garnishing the story, is a crisp and revealing black-and-white photo.
My mouth falls open. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”
Jimmy’s fingertips are white from pressing into his temples. He stares silently at the image, an image showing two men in FBI Windbreakers at the scene of one of the body dumps.
“That’s a good picture of you,” I say in a soft, sarcastic voice. Then, with a frown, “My hair’s all messed up. Why does that always happen to me when we’re in the woods, yet you always look like you just walked out of a salon?”
“I go to an old-fashioned barber in Lynden, not a salon.”
“Still, you’ve got that whole GQ thing going on.”
The article doesn’t name us, but our faces are plain to see and the pack of hungry hyenas cloistered in their vans out front won’t have any problem putting two and two together; more specifically, the two faces in the picture and the two of us.
Looking closer at the image, I notice a fallen log in the background, ripe with fungi, sheared on one end where the wind had snapped the upper part of the tree off in some year past. The forest floor is thick with pine needles and last year’s leaves. I remember the smell. “That’s where Sarah Wells was found, just outside of Weed toward Mount Shasta.”
“You’re sure?”
“I never forget a forest. They’re like nightmares with leaves.”
Jimmy’s thinking now. “We had to hike in a ways—” He snaps his fingers and turns toward me, holding his right hand like a gun and rocking it back and forth. “Remember that female park ranger? Her uniform didn’t fit right, it made her look lopsided?”
“Really tall?”
“Yeah. She had a camera with her, but I don’t remember her taking any pictures. What was her name … Harper … Harbor…?”
I can picture her in my mind: mottled tan with a trace of turquoise and the texture of beaded glass. “Hooper, wasn’t it?”
“Hooper! That was it.”
“Where’d she get this level of information, though?” Walt asks. “Her only involvement was during the recovery of the body last year, and then taking you two back to the scene.”
I walk over to the bulletin board next to the coffee machine and extract a red pin holding a single-page flyer. Handing the paper to Walt, I say, “Every law enforcement agency in northern California, including the U.S. Forest Service, got a copy of this.”
The flyer, issued by the Shasta County Sheriff’s Office, alerts law enforcement to a possible serial killer—Sad Face—and asks for information on any similar cases. It lists victims and locations, and has an excerpt from a preliminary profile of the killer.
“Damn.” Walt sighs. “How’s this going to affect the investigation?”
“I don’t know, Sheriff,” Jimmy answers honestly. “These guys are going to be all over us from here on out. We’ll just have to deal with it the best we can. You’re going to have to talk to them at some point, though.”
The room is silent a moment, then, in a beaten-down voice, Walt says, “Sorry ’bout the flyer.”
“No need to be,” Jimmy says strongly. “That’s standard procedure. You wouldn’t have been doing your job if you didn’t send one out. The only one who needs to apologize—and lose her job—is the person who gave that photo and the information to the press, whether it’s Ranger Hooper or someone else.”
“It’s just the media,” I add. “We’ll deal with it.”
It’s not the first time.
*
“Twenty-ounce mocha, single-shot, decaf, one percent milk with no whip,” I say when I reach the counter.
“Single-shot and decaf,” the barista chides, a quirky smile blossoming between her nose and chin. “Sure you don’t want some coffee with your coffee?”
Before I can respond, I hear Jimmy pipe up behind me.
“He doesn’t like coffee.” It’s a programmed response he’s used a hundred times over the years to defend my honor, and my coffee. His voice is flat and the comment so ingrained that in three minutes he won’t even remember having said it. His eyes are tight on his cell phone screen, never looking up.
That’s Jimmy.
Mr. Multitask.
“That’s a pretty complicated drink for someone who doesn’t like coffee,” the barista purrs, turning her brown eyes back on me. “How’s that happen?”
“I was forced into a coffee shop against my will … repeatedly.” I tip my head toward Jimmy.
She has Heather’s laugh and a beaming smile. Her name tag says Gail, but she seems more like a Susan or a Kathy … at least, more like a Susan and a Kathy that I know, I can’t speak for them all.