Its a remote possibility, but we can't rule it out." "I'm listening."
"It's something we feel we have to consider, in light of your wife's history."
"History?"
"The bulimia, the shoplifting, the postpartum depression, the false accusations of spousal abuse against you. Her general psychological instability."
"I don't see how any of that explains how her fingerprints ended up on a pay phone in Oregon."
She hesitated. It was Lundquist's theory, one she didn't fully embrace. It pained her to repeat it. "It raises the possibility that she was there willingly."
"What the hell are you saying? She's an accomplice?" "Remote possibility. But yes."
"That's preposterous."
"It might explain why she's alive. Assuming she's alive."
"My wife is no killer."
"It could explain why there's no ransom demand." "Are you seriously considering this?"
"It is a theory."
"It's a terrible theory," he said sharply.
"I sincerely hope you're right."
"I know I'm right." His face was flushed, both from the wine and adrenaline. He said nothing for a minute or two, staring blankly at his empty glass. Finally, he spoke again, though he sounded a hint less sure of himself. "That just can't be."
Chapter Thirty-Three.
On Wednesday Andie decided to start at the very beginning: victim number one.
Fears that Gus's wife was a victim had shifted their focus toward the Beth Wheatley look-alikes, victims three, four and five. But if she was an accomplice, maybe the answer lay with the men--the first two victims.
Early that morning she arrived at 151 Chatham Lane, home of the late Patrick Sullivan. He had been the first of two brown-eyed fifty-one-yearold, Ford pickup truck-driving, divorced men to have been handcuffed in his living room, strangled on the couch, and stabbed exactly eleven times. A far cry from the three women found hanging in trees. If it wasn't for the same triple braided three-quarter-inch yellow nylon rope, police would never have made the connection.
Andie spent more than an hour at Sullivan's house, taking notes, some on paper and some mental. Detective Kessler acted as tour guide. He had been over the house thoroughly and repeatedly as part of his homicide investigation.
Around nine o'clock they finished and headed to the vacant home of Victor Millner, victim number two. The house was near the Sammamish River in north-central King County, an area popular with hot air balloonists who could be seen peacefully drifting overhead on most any summer day or clear autumn evening. Winters were another story. The day had started gray and stayed that way, showing occasional signs of movement from dull to threatening. No breeze to speak of. A light mist was floating more than falling, not near enough to warrant an umbrella. The slow and steady saturation had turned everything darker. The asphalt blacker. The canvas awning greener. Her mood gloomier.
Andie stood at the end of the sidewalk for the broad view. It was a relatively new single-family home, one more box in a building craze that had tripled the Redmond-area population in the last two decades. Structurally, it looked like many of the new frame houses in the same development. The most striking thing, however, was how strongly it resembled the first victim's house, miles away in a different part of town, a totally different neighborhood. The similarities weren't in the architecture or general design. They were in the details. The green awning that extended from the garage. The wooden flower boxes on the windowsills. The hanging plants and latticework around the front porch. Andie had read the police reports that had noted the curious similarities, but words could leave the reader with the impression that it was mere coincidence. She had seen the photographs, too, but they hadn't captured the feeling. A personal visit left no room for doubt. The killer had very specific criteria.
He profiled his victims.
"You just gonna stand in the rain?" said Kessler.
She started, her concentration broken. "I'm sorry, what?"
"You want to go in?"
"Yeah, of course."
She followed him up the sidewalk and climbed the three stairs on the front porch--the same number as the last house. Kessler pulled aside the crime tape and reached for his key. At that moment Andie focused on one of the major differences between the two crime scenes.
"No forced entry:" she said, thinking aloud.
"It's noted in the first officer's report," he said. "That shouldn't be news to you."
"It's not. My perspective is just changing a little." "How so?"
"One of the things Victoria Santos tried to reconcile was the fact that at Sullivan's house the lock had been picked and the door broken open. Here, there was no sign of forcible entry. Yet the crime scene looks exactly the same."
"It's probably like Santos said. He forced his way inside the first time, talked his way in the second. Both guys ended up handcuffed. It's the same ritual once you get the victim under control."
"That explanation makes sense if you're trying to understand why a work-alone killer would change his entry m. O."