“Come on now,” Turner said, sliding the words into his jive on purpose. “Don’t it freak you guys out that she can come up with crap like that so casually?”
Maggie had worked with Preston Turner and Richard Delaney before. Turner was the charming one – linebacker frame that stopped the bad guys but a wide smile for the ladies and a knack of being the life of any party. Delaney was the quintessential Southern gentleman, crazy about his wife and two kids. His idea of relaxing was to loosen up his tie – not take off, of course. Just loosen it.
“No forced entry.” Delaney was examining the doorjamb. “I didn’t see any broken windows. Chances are they let him in.”
The bloody steps seemed to start at the upside down body. They backed up, they turned around in small smeared circles then headed in the other direction.
“If he didn’t bring restraints maybe he didn’t bring the weapon either.” Maggie followed the steps. They turned to go down the hallway. She continued to the kitchen.
What were the chances that he used a knife from the victims’ own utility drawer? It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. A wood block with knives sat on the counter by the sink. Several were missing from their slots.
It was difficult to concentrate with the buzz of flies. Despite putting distance between herself and the hanging victim the smell was strong in the kitchen, too. But it was different. Less metallic. More like sour milk.
Cunningham was already at the table when Maggie turned to take a closer look at what had the flies so interested.
“Did he interrupt lunch or dinner?” Cunningham asked.
“Only one plate.” Maggie noted.
“Melted ice cream?” Cunningham pushed his eyeglasses up and bent over it, waving off a couple of flies not pleased with his presence.
Maggie joined him but already the smell was making her nauseated again.
“Pie alamode,” she said just as she realized that there was something added on top.
This time there was no pushing back the bile. She covered her mouth with her hand and raced out the door, barely getting down the steps. The retching seemed to last forever until there was nothing left in her stomach. She felt a hand on the back of her neck, the soft swipe to remove a strand of hair from her cheek and then she saw Cunningham’s polished shoes peeking out from the protective covers. As much as her stomach hurt, the embarrassment hurt more.
All of that was shortlived. Still on her knees she had a perfect view of the storm cellar about fifty feet away. At this angle she could see the heavy wood door was tilted open several inches. Just enough for someone inside to be watching them.
Chapter 5
Maggie eased herself up, grateful that Cunningham didn’t offer to help. He was pretending this was no big deal and yet she could see concern in his furrowed brow.
She waited until her back was turned to the storm cellar. Waited for Cunningham’s eyes to meet hers. Then she said as quietly and slowly as she could, “We’re being watched.”
He didn’t flinch. Kept his eyes on hers. Slowly he shifted his weight, spreading his feet a little farther apart. All of this done casually as though they were simply chatting. He crossed his arms and she saw his fingers tuck in close to his shoulder holster.
Maggie’s mind was racing trying to remember if she had noticed another door to the trailer. There had to be one. The clothesline was in the backyard. She remembered a small utility room – sink, washer and dryer. No windows. Dark. She pictured Delaney coming out announcing that there had not been any forced entry.
“Ready to go back inside?” Cunningham asked.
His eyes darted around now but his head stayed tilted as if he were listening intently to her.
She nodded.
Even as they stepped up into the trailer she noticed that he followed her moving sideways and never turning his back until the last second.
“Where?” he asked as soon as the door was closed.
“The storm cellar.”
Maggie was already walking past Turner and Delaney to where she remembered the utility room.
“What’s going on?” Turner asked.
“Agent O’Dell thinks we might have company in the cellar.”
“Crap!”
“Wouldn’t be the first time a killer came back to watch,” Cunningham said. “But would he choose a place where he could get trapped in?”
Maggie’s pulse was racing. With her stomach empty the smell didn’t affect her as much. The buzzing flies still set her on edge. It took her a second to realize Cunningham was asking her and waiting for a response.
“They don’t believe they’ll get caught. Edmund Kemper met with his psychiatrist while he had a body in the trunk of his car. Berkowitz started fires then stood and watched with other bystanders.” Her husband Greg hated that she could conjure up this kind of trivia with little effort. But here and now, it could justify their next move.
“Then we proceed like it’s him,” Cunningham told them.
“If we can approach from the backyard he won’t be able to see us.” Maggie headed for the utility room and the others followed.