They had spent as much time among the trees as they had in the actual playground.
Max turned her iPad to Lucy. “Here, this is a map of the Tommy Porter crime scene that my staff re-created.”
Tommy had been buried among the trees as well, but the trees framed the baseball diamond.
“Did Tommy like baseball?”
“I don’t know.”
“And Chris Donovan? Was the preserve important to him? Did he spend more time there than at the park?”
“I don’t see what you’re getting at.”
She didn’t know. Her head ached and she felt sick, and not just from lack of food and too much coffee. Her heart ached for what could have been had Justin lived.
“I might be too close to this,” she said.
“Maybe, or you might just be starving. I know I am, it’s after one and your brother and sister interrupted my breakfast. I never finished it, and I’m more of a bitch if I don’t eat regularly.”
Lucy almost smiled. “I don’t think you’re a bitch.”
Max laughed. “Then you’re in an elite crowd of one.” They crossed the park. “Tell me, what were you thinking back there?”
Lucy didn’t like sharing her theories until she fully developed them and could back them up with something more tangible than her gut instincts or the vague patterns she saw. “We need to find out if Tommy played baseball or if Chris hiked in the nature preserve.”
“Okay. I’ll do that—my associate David has been building a rapport with the families, he can get the information. Why?”
“Justin and I played in those trees more than at the playground. We made up games. Some of my happiest childhood memories were here. Justin loved climbing trees. He was so much better at it than me. I’m not afraid of heights, but I was always nervous. Justin would go as high as he could, and if he slipped or fell he didn’t care. He got right back up and did it again.”
She looked back at the trees. She could almost see Justin climbing the tallest tree. The happy Justin, the carefree Justin.
“I think,” Lucy continued, “that the killer buried her victims in a place they found joy. A child’s joy. A special place. And that means that she had been watching these boys for a long, long time.”
Chapter Nineteen
David was waiting for the detective who had been in charge of the Tommy Porter homicide investigation—who was now the assistant chief of police—when he received a message from Max.
Find out if Tommy played baseball. Plus, the print newspaper archives are not available online. Staff put in a request for print-outs, they’ll be ready for you at the paper before five.
No please. No thank you. Par for the course when dealing with Max, but he’d thought they’d gotten beyond the employer-employee relationship. They’d become friends. But ever since they’d returned from investigating the Ivy Lake cold case in Corte Madera, Max hadn’t shared much with him. Four months? Yeah, four months and he had the distinct impression she was giving him the cold shoulder.
A year ago he dreaded her opinion—because Max had an opinion on everything—now, he missed her commentary. Because while Max might lack tact—especially when irritated—her perception of human nature and behavior was both sharp and insightful. Her producer Ben often called her a human lie detector.
David wasn’t one for talking, especially about anything personal, but he might have to deal with this Max situation because something had happened, and he had the distinct impression she was angry with him. Which was odd, because when Max was mad, she never held back. Maybe he was wrong. But he didn’t think so.
A young female officer approached him. “Mr. Kane? Chief Carney can see you now.”
David followed the officer through a security door, then through the bullpen. He’d been in enough cop shops to recognize the buzz, though this building was nicer than most he’d been in.
Carney motioned for David to have a seat, then closed the door to his office. He was a large man with a shiny black scalp. David knew his record—Carney was fifty-three, had been a cop for thirty years after serving three years in the marines and completing two years of community college with his AA in business administration. He started as a beat cop in South Central L.A.—a dangerous territory even thirty years ago. He moved to Santa Barbara five years after, also as an officer, took his detective exam at the age of thirty, and was a detective for twenty years until the assistant chief retired and Carney was appointed.
Behind him were photos of family—lots of family. It appeared that he had four or five kids and at least one of them was married with children.
“You don’t look much like a reporter,” Carney said bluntly.
“I’m not. I just work for one.”
Carney grunted a laugh. “I wasn’t going to talk to you, but Officer McKnight called me direct. Said you were on the up-and-up and that he wanted to help if he could. Which means me talking about the Porter boy.”
“Yes, sir. Did Grant give you the details?”
“He did. The words ‘serial killer’ were used.”
David didn’t blame him for sounding skeptical.
“Do you know Andrew Stanton, the district attorney of San Diego?”
“Not personally, but I know of him.” He paused, as if accessing his memories. “He lost his son as well.”
“Yes, five years before Tommy Porter. There are more than a few similarities. Grant confirmed that Tommy was found with a stuffed animal.”
“He was.”
“So was Justin Stanton and at least one other victim we’re looking at. Max is working with the detective who investigated the Stanton case. He’s reviewing witness statements and interviews. I was hoping I could get a copy of the statements and interviews from the Porter case.”
“All public information has been released to the media. I checked with our PIO, and she indicated that NET had already received requested information.”
“Yes, the public information. The press packets. But the witness statements are key and those aren’t public. Max and a federal agent she’s working with believe that the killer knew her victims, either through the parents or through the victim. They also believe that she may have been interviewed because she lived near the victims or worked with one of the parents.”
“She. What evidence do you have that Tommy’s killer is a woman?”
“None.”
“Then—?”
“I’m going off what Max told me last night. We’re working different angles of the case, but the federal agent surmised that because of the manner of death—the victims were all drugged and unconscious prior to being suffocated while wrapped in a blanket; they were not sexually assaulted; they were buried with their favorite stuffed animal; and they were buried in a place close to home—that the killer is a woman.”
“A federal agent is working with a reporter?”
“I’m as surprised as you, sir.” More than a little surprised, but Max wanted this investigation and working with Agent Kincaid was the only way she was getting the access.