The Narrows - Michael Connelly [31]
Woodall’s observations and recollections mirrored Buddy’s in all important details. Woodall also confirmed that on at least two specific instances during the trip he saw McCaleb take his meds, downing the pills and liquids with orange juice each time.
I took notes but knew they wouldn’t be needed. After an hour I thanked Woodall for his time and left him to his view of the Santa Monica Bay and the bloom of smog that rose beyond it on the mainland.
Buddy Lockridge was waiting for me out front in a golf cart I had rented. He was still brooding over my last-minute decision to interview Woodall without him. He’d accused me of using him to get the interview with Woodall. He was right about that but his complaints and concerns weren’t even on my radar.
We drove silently back to the pier and I turned in the cart. I told Buddy he could head home because I was going to be busy reading files the rest of the day and into the night. He meekly offered to help but I told him he already had helped enough. I watched him walk off toward the ferry docks with his head down. I still wasn’t sure about Buddy Lockridge. I knew I had some thinking to do about him.
Not wanting to fool around with the Zodiac I took a water taxi back to The Following Sea. I conducted a quick search of the master stateroom—finding nothing of note—and moved into the forward cabin.
I noticed that Terry had a compact disc player in the converted office. His small collection of music was mostly blues and 1970s rock and roll. I plugged in a more recent Lucinda Williams CD called World Without Tears and liked it so much I ended up letting it play over and over during the next six hours. The woman had long journeys in her voice and I liked that. By the time the power started faltering on the boat and I turned the music off I had unconsciously memorized the lyrics to at least three songs I could sing to my daughter the next time I put her to bed.
Back in McCaleb’s converted office, the first thing I did was go back to his computer and open the folder marked PROFILES.
It gave me a listing of six different files, all titled by dates in the previous two years. One by one I called them up in chronological order and found each to be a forensic suspect profile of a murder case. Written in the unadorned and clinical language of the professional, each profile drew conclusions about a killer based on specific crime scene details. It was clear from these details that McCaleb had done more than simply read newspaper articles. It was obvious he had full access to the crime scenes—either in person or more likely by photos and tapes and investigators’ notes. It was very clear to me that these were not practice runs worked up by a profiler who missed the job and wanted to keep in tune. These were the work of an invited guest. The cases were all from the jurisdictions of small police departments in the west. My guess was that McCaleb had heard of each case through news reports or other means and simply volunteered his help to the police department struggling with the case. Offer accepted, he was probably sent the crime scene information and he then set to work analyzing and drawing up the profile. I wondered if his notoriety helped or hindered him when he offered his talents. How many times was he turned down to be accepted these six times?
When accepted, he