Slidell phoned late in the afternoon. His mood made the morning’s seem happy-go-lucky.
Salter had gotten two calls before noon. One was from Ajax’s lawyer, Jonathan Rao, accusing the CMPD of denying his client the constitutional right to counsel. The other was from the judge who’d issued the search warrant—Rao had also reamed out Her Honor.
Since neither caller was happy, Salter wasn’t happy. After laying into Slidell, she’d relented and said he could re-interview Ajax. Wearing gloves made of very young goat. The session yielded nothing. The few answers Ajax gave were filtered through Rao. At three, both walked out the door. It was the last time anyone would talk to Hamet Ajax.
Slidell had received video from Walmart and Harris Teeter that covered the day Leal went missing. So far, he hadn’t spotted Ajax or his car. He planned to continue working through the footage.
I got through two reports, knocked off at five. Back home, I ate Bojangles’ chicken with Bird and watched a rerun of Bones. For some reason, the cat is nuts about Hodgins.
Slidell called again at nine. “He’s on tape.”
“Which one?”
“Walmart and the Manor.” Gloomy. Obviously not wanting Ajax to be there.
“LSA for Leal was 4:15 at the convenience store on Morningside.”
“Ajax was in the Walmart on Pineville-Matthews Road. Entered at 3:52. Left at 5:06.”
“Rush hour, and those locations are at least ten miles apart.”
We both gnawed on that.
“Maybe you were right.” Slidell sighed. “Maybe this douchebag don’t work alone.”
Or maybe. Just maybe.
I didn’t say it.
That night, sleep was elusive.
The rain was back. I lay in the dark, listening to drops hit the screen and patter on the sill. To the subtle hum of my bedside clock.
And thought the thought again.
Impossible.
I reviewed what I knew about serial killers. Their victims usually conform to a type. A tall blond woman. A teenage boy with short brown hair. Cher. A hooker. A homeless codger with a cart full of trash.
The individual means nothing to the killer. He or she is irrelevant, a bit player in a carefully constructed ballet. The dance alone matters. Each battement and pirouette must be carried out with precision.
The killer is both dancer and choreographer, in control at all times. Victims enter and leave the stage, interchangeable, bit players in the corps.
I thought about Pomerleau. About Catts. About the mad tango that had left so many dead in Montreal.
I thought about Ajax. To what sick music was he moving? Did he learn it from Pomerleau? Or did he compose the score himself?
In his subconscious, who might Ajax be killing? His daughters? His wife? The babysitter who seduced him and ruined his life?
Birdie jumped onto the bed. I scooped him close. He readjusted, settled, and head-bumped my palm. I stroked him and he started to purr.
Ajax was shopping when Shelly Leal disappeared. Did he have an accomplice? Was it someone at the hospital? If not there, where? Did he have a killing place, as Slidell believed?
Or.
I thought of the home on Sunrise Court. So architecturally right and yet so wrong. Lifeless. Sterile.
I pictured Ajax working crossword puzzles in his bed. Paying bills at his desk. Watching baseball or DVDs from the chartreuse chair. Alone. Always alone. A common pattern with serial killers.
In my mind, I went back through each room. Recalled not a single thing to suggest that Ajax had a life outside his home or the hospital. No woman’s robe in the closet. No Post-it on the fridge saying, Call Tom. No picture of himself with friends or co-workers. No reminder on a calendar to meet Ira for lunch. Nothing to suggest anyone in Ajax’s life cared about him. That he cared about anyone.
No. That wasn’t true. He’d kept the three photos. Old photos. Of whom? Had to be his wife and daughters. Was the woman the template for his victims? One of the girls? Why?
No one at Mercy knew Ajax. No one on his street. No one in New Hampshire or West Virginia remembered him.