Angel Fire - Lisa Unger [46]
“So again, why are we assuming that these people are not holed up in a crackhouse somewhere?” asked Jeffrey.
“Again, because they took nothing with them. Their bank accounts have not been touched since they disappeared. They really did seem to be back on track.”
“So then we are assuming that our alleged serial killer killed or abducted both husband and wife from their home. There’s no precedent for that.”
“Son of Sam.”
“David Berkowitz killed couples in their cars with a gun and ran away. He didn’t break into people’s homes, incapacitate or kill both of them, and then remove them somehow from the scene—leaving no evidence. That’s a huge undertaking, highly organized and taking tremendous motivation. Whatever this guy wants, he wants it bad enough to take outrageous risks and perform complicated assaults and abductions. He must have unquestioning faith in his agenda to have such a high-maintenance signature.”
“So if you were going to kill or abduct a couple how would you do it?”
“I would stalk them to determine when they were the most vulnerable. Wait for the perfect opportunity, neutralize the greater threat, and then overpower the weaker. Man first, woman second, under normal circumstances. I would have a van or truck parked close to the point of assault because dead or unconscious people are very heavy.”
“So you’d have to be smart, organized, and fairly big and strong.”
“I’d say so.”
“Well, I guess that rules you out as a suspect.”
“Very funny.”
Maria Lopez had been picked up twice for prostitution. But she hadn’t walked the streets in years and was a waitress at a local restaurant called Blue Moon Café. Last night, she had left work at eleven P.M. dressed to go out. She went to Smokey’s Sports Bar on Highway 434 that she frequented more or less nightly. She left with a man named Mike Urquia, who the police had picked up that afternoon and was being questioned as Lydia and Jeffrey spoke.
Hair, fibers, blood samples, and fingerprints had been collected at the Lopez scene and sent to the state lab for analysis. But it would take at least twenty-four hours for any results to come back. Even then most of what had been found would only be useful to eliminate or confirm suspects. Unless they got very lucky, for example, a carpet fiber that came from a very rare rug, only sold in a certain location … something like that. Or in the best case scenario, the offender had a prior record and the prints could be matched to someone already entered in the FBI database. DNA results could take months, not like on television where they came back in hours.
“So it may be that Mike’s our man,” said Jeffrey.
“I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
“I just don’t.”
“Well, okay, then. Maybe you should get a job with Psychic Helpers.”
“For starters, he’s Hispanic. There aren’t too many Hispanic serial killers.”
“Richard Ramirez.”
“It’s not him.” Lydia was firm, and Jeffrey had only been playing devil’s advocate.
She placed the final index cards on the board and the final red pin on the map.
She stood back and looked at them, wondering what it was they had in common. The problem child. The abuser. The abused. The prostitute. She could catch the scent of these lives, but their life force, their personal essence remained elusive.
“It’s hard to really get a sense of these people. Whoever gave the cops their information was distant, on the outside looking in, neighbors, bosses, social workers. No intimates, no friends except for Shawna Fox’s boyfriend, and