One of the Crime Scene officers called, “Didn’t find any significant physical evidence, sir.”
O’Neil nodded and together he and Dance returned to their cars.
Dance noticed Boling was standing beside his Audi, hands clasped in front of him and his shoulders seemed raised slightly. Sure signs of tension. Murder scenes will do that to you.
She said, “Thanks for coming out here, Jon. This was above and beyond the call of duty. But it was helpful to get your thoughts.”
“Sure.” He sounded as if he was tyring to be stoic. She wondered if he’d ever been to a crime scene.
Her phone rang. She noticed Charles Overby’s name and number on Caller ID. She’d called earlier and told him about this killing. Now she’d have to tell him that the victim hadn’t been guilty of cyberbullying, but was a true innocent bystander. This would throw the area into even more panic.
“Charles.”
“Kathryn, you’re at the latest scene?”
“Right. It looks like—”
“Did you catch the boy?”
“No. But—”
“Well, you can give me the details later. Something’s come up. Get here as soon as you can.”
Chapter 20
“ SO THIS IS the Kathryn Dance.” A big ruddy hand encircled hers, holding it until the bucket of propriety had been filled and then releasing.
Odd, she noted. He hadn’t put as much emphasis on the article as you’d expect. Not the Kathryn Dance. More like: So this is the agent.
Or, this is the chair.
But she ignored the curious descriptive since kinesic analysis wasn’t a priority at the moment; the man wasn’t a suspect, but was, as it turned out, connected to the CBI’s boss of bosses. Resembling a college line-backer gone into politics or business, fiftyish Hamilton Royce worked in the attorney general’s office in Sacramento. He returned to his chair — they were in Charles Overby’s office — and Dance too sat. Royce explained that he was an ombudsman.
Dance glanced at Overby. Itchily squinting toward Royce out of deference or curiosity or probably both, he didn’t offer anything else to flesh out the visitor’s job description — or mission.
Dance was still angry about her boss’s carelessness, if not malfeasance, in suborning Robert Harper’s covert operation in the CBI file room.
Because she’s innocent, of course. Your mother’d never hurt anyone. You know that… .
Dance kept her attention on Royce.
“We hear good things about you in Sacramento. I understand your expertise is body language.” The broad-shouldered man, with dark sweptback hair, was wearing a slick suit, its color a blue just the regal side of navy and therefore suggestive of a uniform.
“I’m just an investigator. I tend to use kinesics more than a lot of people.”
“Ah, there she goes, Charles, selling herself short. You said she’d do that.”
Dance offered a cautious smile and wondered what exactly Overby had said and how cautious he’d been in offering or withholding praise of an employee. Evidence for job and raise reviews, of course. Her boss’s face remained neutral. How hard life can be when you’re unsure.
Royce continued jovially, “So you could look me over and tell me what I’m thinking. Just because of how I cross my arms, where I look, whether I blush or not. Tip to my secrets.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that,” she said pleasantly.
“Ah.”
In fact she’d already come up with a tentative personality typing. He was a thinking, sensing extravert. And probably had a Machiavellian liar’s personality. Accordingly Dance was wary.
“Well, we do hear good things about you. That case earlier in the month, that crazy man on the Peninsula here? That was a tough one. You nailed the fellow, though.”
“We caught some lucky breaks.”
“No, no,” Overby interrupted quickly, “no breaks, no lucky. She out-thought him.”
And Dance realized by saying “luck,” she’d suggested a criticism of herself, the CBI’s Monterey office and Overby.
“And what do you do exactly, Hamilton?” She wasn’t going for a status-defining “Mr.,” not in a situation like this.
“Oh, jack of all trades. A troubleshooter. If there are problems involving state agencies, the governor’s office, the assembly, even the courts, I look into it, write a report.” A smile. “A lot of reports. I hope they get read. You never know.”
This didn’t seem to answer her question. She looked at her watch, a gesture that Royce noticed but that Overby did not. As she’d intended.
“Hamilton is here about the Chilton case,” Overby said, then looked at the man from Sacramento to make sure that was all right. Back to Dance: “Brief us,” he said like a ship captain.
“Sure, Charles,” Dance replied wryly, noting both his tone and the fact Overby had said “the Chilton case.” She’d been thinking of the attacks as the Roadside Cross Case. Or the Travis Brigham Case. Now she had an inkling as to why Royce was here.
She explained about the murder of Lyndon Strickland — the mechanics of the killing and how he figured in the Chilton blog.
Royce frowned. “So he’s expanding his possible targets?”
“We think so, yes.”
“Evidence?”
“Sure, there’s some. But nothing specific that leads to where Travis is hiding out. We’ve got a joint CHP and sheriff’s office task force running a manhunt.” She shook her head. “They’re not making much progress. He doesn’t drive — he’s on a bike — and he’s staying underground.” She looked at Royce. “Our consultant thinks he’s using evasion techniques he learned in online games to stay out of sight.”
“Who?”
“Jon Boling, a professor from UC-Santa Cruz. He’s very helpful.”
“And he’s volunteering his time, no charge to us,” Overby slipped in smoothly, as if the words were oiled.
“About this blog,” Royce said slowly. “How does that figure in, exactly?”
Dance explained, “Some postings have set the boy off. He was cyberbullied.”