Sol was right, Reed thought.
Naomi Kittle’s homicide was different.
It didn’t quite fit into the same mold as the other murders attributed to the Savannah Slasher.
As he drove through the dark, from the crime lab to the station house, Reed reviewed the differences.
For one thing, the murder hadn’t occurred in Naomi’s home. Unlike the previous victims, Naomi’s body had been moved. She’d died somewhere else and been taken to the LaRoux property and hung upside down in that weird hut.
While examining the body at the hut, the medical examiner had pointed out that the lividity on Naomi’s body, the blood pooling on her back, indicated that she’d died lying down, not suspended from the crossbeam at the crime scene. Also, although there was a wound on her throat, like the other victims, there was also bruising on her neck. And yet she hadn’t been dead long before she’d been hung and Nikki had found her. Some partially coagulated blood had drained from her nose and mouth and onto Nikki as well at the rocks rimming the fire pit. There hadn’t been much blood, and the ME decided what little had drained was the work of gravity rather than a beating heart.
But why would someone go to the trouble of taking her to the LaRoux property? What was the point of that? Why would someone try to make this homicide look like the others, try to camouflage it?
He didn’t like the direction of his thoughts.
Hadn’t liked where they’d taken him in these early-morning hours.
Had discovered some answers in the wee hours that took him down the dark, lonely road of truth.
He pulled into the station’s lot and parked in his usual spot. As he climbed out of his Jeep, he felt a twinge in his back, a sharp pain that was a reminder of his fight with Jamison. At least now he better understood his friend’s mercurial temperament.
But it didn’t bode well.
Frowning, he pocketed his keys and went inside. Even though it was long before dawn, officers were on duty, a few milling through the station house, bits of conversation audible. He found a pot of still-warm coffee in the break room and took the time to pour himself a much-needed jolt of caffeine before heading to his office.
And facing the damned music.
Sol was at her desk, a cup of tea steaming near a stack of papers.
“You didn’t go home?” he asked.
“Just to check on Princess.”
Oh. Right. The cat. Once owned by Mavis Greenlee.
“She’s doing fine,” Sol added with a grin. “Thanks for asking.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, but he couldn’t scare up any humor tonight, and it must’ve been infectious, because she turned serious.
“I knew I wouldn’t sleep, so I came back. Thought I’d check out a few things.” She was staring at the computer screen again, split into four sections, each frame a picture of an etched rock discovered at a crime scene. “What about you?”
“I tried. Failed. Maybe dozed for a couple of hours.” But he’d tossed and turned, the image of Naomi Kittle’s body burning through his brain. The questions about her death, the disparities from the other murders, were like sharp needles burrowing into his subconscious.
Nikki, too, had been restless, unable to sleep. She’d been in and out of the bed, alternately trying to catch a few winks or throwing off the covers and going up to her office, the new dog tagging after her.
“I thought about what you said at the Kittle murder scene,” Reedsaid, cradling his cooling coffee and taking a seat on the corner of his desk. “That it’s different from the rest.”
“It is.”
“I know. I agree. Let’s talk it out.” Although he had come to the same conclusion, he wanted her insight, her take on things, as she invariably came at a crime from a different perspective, one he found insightful, if not in keeping with traditional detective work. A good thing, he decided.
“Okay, but it’s not just the scene that’s different,” she clarified. “The entire homicide isn’t like the others, or at least has a lot of disparities. You heard what the ME said last night.”
“Right. We know the body was moved.”
“Uh-huh. And the rocks are different. Take a look.” She showed him images of the stones found at all of the crime scenes. All polished to a shine, all about the same size.
“What am I looking for?” he asked.
