Silent Screams - C. E. Lawrence [8]
“We’re taking care of that. They live in Jersey somewhere, I think?”
“Yeah—Nutley.” He swallowed again and took another sip of coffee.
“Did she have any special friends at church?”
“Not that I can think of. A couple of girlfriends. She didn’t really socialize all that much. She did volunteer to feed the homeless at the church once a month.”
“Did you go with her?”
“Sometimes.”
“You mentioned her girlfriends—are they religious?”
“I don’t think so.”
“But Marie was?”
“Yeah. She wore a cross around her neck all the time.”
“Can you describe it?”
“Uh, yeah…it was plain gold—oh, with a tiny little pearl in the center.”
“A white pearl?”
“Yeah. She never took it off.”
Lee felt his heart quicken. He carried a clear image of Marie as she was in death, and he could swear that when they found her there was no cross around her neck.
“Never?”
“No. She kept it on even in the shower—said it was like keeping Jesus with her all the time. I remember it scratched me one time when we were…” His face crumpled, and his thin shoulders sagged under the weight of his grief. “Oh, God, oh, God!” He collapsed sobbing, burying his head in his arms. Lee laid a hand on his shoulder just as Butts reentered the room.
“Come on, kid, we got a car to take you home.”
Ralph raised his head and looked up at the detective through tearstained eyes.
“You don’t have any more questions?” He sounded disappointed.
“Not right now. We know where to find you if we do.” Butts spat out a piece of cigar into the trash can and handed Ralph a business card. “Give me a call if you think of anything else. Especially if you have any ideas about who this other guy might be. Sorry you had to go through this.”
“That’s okay,” said Ralph, clutching the coffee cup as he stood up unsteadily.
“Officer Lambert here will take you home,” said Butts, indicating a thin, sallow-faced policeman standing just outside the room.
“Can you make it okay?” asked Lee.
“Yes, thank you—I’ll be all right,” Ralph replied, and followed Officer Lambert meekly down the hall.
“I know what he took,” Lee said as soon as the boy had gone.
“Who took what?”
“The killer. I know what he took as a souvenir.”
“Oh yeah? What?”
“The gold cross—the one she never took off.”
“But there was no cross on her when we found her.”
“Exactly.”
Butts rolled his eyes. “Okay. So all’s we have to do is find some pervert wearing this girl’s cross.”
“No, he wouldn’t wear it himself. He would either put it away in a drawer or give it to a woman in his life—someone important to him, someone he wants to impress.”
Butts shuddered. “Kinda like my cat bringing in a mouse head and dropping it on my pillow.”
“That’s a good analogy, actually.”
“Do creeps like this have girlfriends?”
“Some of them do. I doubt this guy does, though.”
“A sister, maybe?”
“Maybe. He’s an introvert, though, and my guess is that if he gives his trophy away to anyone, it’ll be to his mother.”
Butts shivered again. “Oh, man, that’s just too weird.”
Lee felt his own spine tingle as a thin finger of dread wound its way up his back. “Yes. We’re dealing with someone who is profoundly disturbed.”
“You can call it what you want, Doc,” Butts replied. “I call it creepy.”
Chapter Three
An hour later Lee entered his empty, darkened apartment on East Seventh Street, savoring the stillness before turning on the hall light. He removed his coat, hanging it on the Victorian bentwood coatrack, a gift from his mother. She loved all things Victorian: burgundy velvet drapes, satin-lined Chinese scarves with fat laughing cherubs, lace curtains, painted china tea sets, opera capes. Men were unreliable, and would come and go, but the Victorian era had a solid, carved-oak heaviness that she seemed to find comforting.
“Well, it’s a theory, anyway,” Lee muttered as he walked to the kitchen.
His piano sat in the corner under the window, waiting for him. But right now he wanted a cup of coffee, strong and bitter and hot, with a dollop of milk