The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [126]
“The repetitive nature,” Vail said. “And the amount of time he spends with the body. It’s excessive, taken to the extreme. The need for perfection. To him, the victim is an art medium, the crime scene his canvas.”
“And this locket?” Robby asked. “Where does that fit in?”
Bledsoe said, “I’ve got copies of the locket photos being circulated to area jewelers, in case any of them recognizes either the piece itself or the style of design. Maybe we’ll get lucky and someone has seen something like it before.”
“What about Linwood’s husband?”
“We faxed him a photo. Claims he’s never seen it before. I’ve got a uniform taking a color photo over there to be absolutely sure.”
“Freaking weird if you asked me,” Sinclair said.
Manette brought both hands to her hips. “Like any of this is normal?”
Sinclair shrugged, conceding the point.
Bledsoe collected the photos and handed them to Manette. “Pin these up on the wall, will you?” To Sinclair, he said, “What’ve we got on the blood angle?”
“We’re building a database. Guy in my office is running what we’ve got. Some hits on infected male Caucasians in the target age range. We narrowed the list by eliminating one who was dead, another who’s a double amputee from diabetes, and one who was confined to a hospice with advanced AIDS. The remaining seven we’re checking out. No obvious ties to any of our vics, but we’ve got a lotta ground to cover. Still got a little more than half the labs and hospitals to hear back from.”
“I’ve got a list of painters,” Robby said. “And carpenters, potters, sculptors, glass blowers, graphic artists, and interior designers. Last count we were up to forty-one hundred names.”
“I told you,” Bledsoe said.
“May not be so bad. Next step is to cross-reference them all. Once we start mixing in all the parameters, the numbers should drop off and leave us with something manageable.”
“When can we have everything collated?” Bledsoe asked.
Robby looked up at the cottage cheese ceiling, his mind crunching numbers and estimating tasks. “I’d say three, four days. If everyone gets me their lists by tomorrow.”
A groan erupted. Bledsoe raised his hands. “Hey, the longer we take to develop suspects, the longer this guy’s free to roam. And the more women are at risk. I don’t like body counts. As it is, I’m frustrated as hell we haven’t been able to run in any mopes for questioning.”
The phone rang and Bledsoe moved to answer it. He nodded at Vail, then tossed her the handset. It was the office manager at the last assisted care facility on her list that could take her mother. She had only seen photos of the place on their website, as she had not had time to tour the facility. But the woman was now assuring her that Silver Meadows was among the finest in the state, and that Vail “absolutely had to come see it for herself.” Vail told her she would, then hung up.
She didn’t bother telling the woman the only other facility on her list was not a viable option, that Silver Meadows was her last hope. She stood in the kitchen and thought of her mother, when it finally hit her: with her mother’s mental acuity fading, her childhood house due to be sold, and her biological mother dead, the last links to her past were wilting away, drying up, and crumbling like a spent rose.
Vail made her way out of the kitchen and into the main room of the op center, where everyone had left except for Robby, who was sitting on the edge of a desk, waiting for her.
He stood and walked toward her. “Everything okay?”
She nodded, but she knew her face was betraying her. “Guess as I approach middle age, I’m having a hard time coming to grips with the issues that crop up.”
“Your mother?”
“Kind of a role reversal. In some ways, she’s like a child now—and I’m the parent. That visit the other day was like cold water in the face. It really shook loose some old memories, got me thinking.” She rubbed at her forehead. “Going through all her stuff is going to be tough. Who knows what I’ll find. Like that photo album.”
Robby leaned a shoulder against