The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [66]
Bledsoe made a couple of notes on the board. “Good. Hernandez, you were doing the employee lists.”
“Still gathering info. But I’ve got a few things I’m working on. Hits on three registered sex offenders. I’m running their sheets and talking to co-workers. I’ve got appointments with the personnel managers to correlate work shifts, days off, days called in sick, and so on.”
“Interviews with victim families, friends, neighbors . . . we’re all doing that. Anybody still have open appointments?”
“I’ve got one parent to follow up with,” Manette said. “Parents are divorced, father’s out of town.”
Bledsoe made some notes on the whiteboard, then recapped the marker. “Ex-cons with facial disfigurements? Who’s got that?”
“Mine,” Sinclair said. “Had thirty-five to choose from. I’ve still got a dozen to get through, but so far it’s a dead end. A few are dead, six or seven are in the slammer again, and the rest had solid alibis.”
“Anything on the massage therapy angle?”
“Nothing,” Sinclair said.
“I got myself a free massage from a major hunk,” Manette said.
“I’m happy for you,” Bledsoe said. “I owe all of you the soil analysis on Sandra Franks’s place. Lab said it was all native to the area, mainly from the vic’s backyard.” He tossed his marker on the desk in front of him. “Make sure Vail gets your VICAP forms so she can correlate all the victimologies. Maybe there’s something in there.”
Manette snorted. “That’d be real helpful, seeing as we got dick right now.”
“Oh,” Bledsoe said. “Something else on Franks. Autopsy and x-rays showed antemortem bruising on her right cheek as well as a broken nose. Appears the UNSUB punched her.”
Robby leaned forward. “That’s new. Maybe something tipped her off and she and the UNSUB got into it. She was into working out, maybe she fought back and landed a good shot. Any defensive wounds?”
Bledsoe consulted a pad in front of him. “No, but the left hand is missing. If she punched him with her left hand, there’s no way to know.” He turned the page. “And she is—was lefty.”
“So maybe our offender has a big, ugly bruise on his face,” Sinclair said.
Bledsoe pursed his lips. “Without any suspects, I’m not sure that helps us. Makeup can hide shit like that, and in a few days it’ll be gone.” He tossed down the pad. “Okay, keep your same assignments for today’s vic, Denise Cranston. Anything else?” With everyone remaining silent, Bledsoe said, “Let’s get back at it.”
twenty-eight
He stood beside the potter’s wheel, watching the blonde place her hands on the wet clay. The last of the other students had just left, the door clicking shut behind him. The studio was quiet, except for the hum of fluorescent lights.
The blonde looked up at him with round, sapphire blue eyes. “Can you help me with this?”
He hesitated for a second. If only you knew, bitch, if only you knew. He put on his best smile, the one he used for his students, and said, “Sure.”
She was new; this was only her second class, and he’d already covered the nuts and bolts of modeling, painting, and firing . . . the usual beginner’s course. He liked to hit the basics as fast as he could, then let them get their hands on the clay, because there was simply no substitute for feeling the slippery stuff slither between your fingers. He always tried to gauge his students’ artistic abilities by their reaction to the consistency of the clay. What they did with it once they got their hands on it told him a great deal about them.
This one liked the clay’s cold wetness; he could tell that. But as to her ability . . . he didn’t think there was much promise. But she wanted to stay after class to try the wheel, which surprised him.
It’s amazing, really, how trusting some people are. Especially the bitches. They think they’re immune to all the bad things that can happen. They go places alone at night, the supermarket or the ATM, thinking they’re safe. Thinking that nothing will