I arrived first. At nine P.M. on a Monday, the place was quiet.
Knowing Slidell would go batshit if I did anything but breathe, I settled in the waiting area, hoping no one there had anthrax or TB.
Across from me, against one wall, a man in full-body camouflage clutched a shirt-wrapped hand to his chest. To his left, a kid in a tracksuit observed me with crusty red eyes.
Down the row to my right, a girl held a swaddled baby who wasn’t moving or making a sound. I guessed the girl’s age at sixteen or seventeen. Now and then she patted or bounced the still little bundle.
Beyond the girl, a woman coughed wetly into a wadded hankie. Her hair was thin and gray over a shiny pink scalp, her skin the color of uncooked pasta. The fingers on one hand were nicotine yellow.
I focused on the staff, reading names when anyone came into view. Soon spotted one of our targets.
A tall, doughy guy with a stringy blond pony wore a tag identifying him as E. Yoder, CNA. When Yoder passed me to collect Crusty Eyes, I noticed that his arms were flabby and covered with freckles.
Ten minutes passed. Fifteen.
The old woman continued her phlegmy hacking. I was considering relocation when Slidell finally came through the door. I got up and crossed to him. “Yoder’s here. I haven’t spotted Neighbors.”
“I talked to her.”
“What?”
“She’s a cretin.”
“Where did you see Neighbors?”
“Does it matter?”
I drilled Slidell with an inquisitional stare.
“In the lobby.”
“And?”
“She handles a lot of patients with bellyaches and scrapes.”
“That’s what she said?”
“I’m paraphrasing.”
“Why is she a ‘cretin’?” Hooking air quotes.
“She’s twenty-four, has a husband and three kids, wasn’t working at Mercy when Nance or Estrada were killed.”
“That makes her a cretin?”
“She’s been outside the Carolinas once in her life, on a school trip to D.C. Thinks the Lincoln Memorial is one of the seven wonders of the world. Never been on a plane. Doesn’t own a computer. You getting the picture?”
I was. Jewell Neighbors didn’t fit the profile of a child killer. Or a child killer’s apprentice.
“And note the pronoun. As in female.”
“You’re assuming no one else is involved.”
Now I was the recipient of a questioning stare.
“A woman would be less threatening.”
“So a woman recruits victims.”
“Maybe here, in person. Maybe online.”
“And why would she do that?”
“It’s not impossible.” Defensive. “Pomerleau did it for Menard.”
“If our perp’s getting help, it ain’t Neighbors. Or Oxendine. And Nesbitt wasn’t around for Nance or Estrada.”
“If Estrada is even linked.” I thought a moment. “Nesbitt was nineteen in 2009. Where was she?”
“I’ll ask.”
“What did she say about Ajax?”
“Kept to himself, didn’t schmooze in the lunchroom, didn’t attend social events. She never saw him outside the workplace. Didn’t know him at all. Same picture I got from Neighbors.”
“Ajax is a loner.”
“Yes. Now you mind if I talk to a guy has history?”
“What does that mean?”
“I ran Yoder. He’s got a jacket.”
“For what?”
“Two 10-90s.”
“Who did he assault?”
“A guy in a bar.”
I started to ask a question. Slidell cut me off.
“And a seventeen-year-old kid named Bella Viceroy.”
CHAPTER 31
ELLIS YODER WASN’T openly hostile. Nor was he terribly forthcoming.
After badging him and vaguely explaining me, Slidell asked to speak in private. Yoder led us to an unoccupied office.
Slidell opened with the arrest record. “Remember Chester Hovey? The guy whose face you retooled with a bottle?”
“The guy who smashed my girlfriend onto a windshield to feel up her tits. You know where Hovey is now?”
“I don’t.”
“Doing time for slapping a hooker around.”
“And Viceroy?”
“Bella.” Yoder wagged his head slowly. “That what this is about?”