[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.”“She said she’d think about it.” Eustace had to figure a way to make Camille understand that she must not talk.Everything depended on her keeping quiet.“Are you okay?” J.D.asked Eustace.“Never better,” he said.“I’ll be in touch,” J.D.said.“Dixon, let’s head back to town.I’ve got some calls to make.”CHAPTER SIXTEENReports lay scattered across J.D.’s desk.He stared at them, trying to make sense of the information he’d gathered.It would be some hours before he had the autopsy report from Dr.Howell, and he was finding it difficult to fit together the pieces of Trisha Webster’s death.He thought about Dixon.She’d been sick at the body site, but she’d waited until she finished the photos and then gone off into the woods alone.He respected her need for privacy, and he thought for the first time that they might share more than a geographic location.His thoughts returned to Trisha Webster.The girl had been dead for some time.He knew that much.She’d been buried and then exhumed so her remains could be hung, gutted, and burned.It was a graphic crime scene.Outside J.D.’s office, Waymon was loud on the telephone, as usual.J.D.got his hat and keys and walked out into the hot afternoon.He walked down the street, hung a right at Main, and continued to the red brick newspaper office.Dixon had said she’d develop the photos right away.When he walked in, he saw that Linda Moore had been crying.She knew both girls, and he felt a fresh pang for all the suffering to come.“Do you know who did this?” she asked.“You have to find him.”“We’re still waiting on some evidence.” He wanted to say something reassuring, but he could not allay her fears or reassure her that justice would be done.“Angie’s dead, too, isn’t she?” Linda asked.“I don’t know for certain.” But he thought he did, based on statistics and experience.“Find the sick bastard who did this and kill him,” Linda said, reaching for a tissue to wipe her eyes.“Don’t bring him in.Kill him in the swamp like a rabid dog.”“Justice is going to be an empty word for Orie Webster,” he said, “and a lot of other people, too.”“Justice may be empty, but revenge will give the families some solace.”Linda was wounded and lashing out.He knew that nothing he said would help.“Where’s Dixon?” he asked.“She’s in the darkroom.” Linda put a hand over her eyes and rubbed.“She’s been waiting for you.”J.D.tapped on the darkroom door and entered a small space lit by a red light.Photographs spun in a tub of constantly circulating water.The eight-by-ten black-and-white images floated to the top and swirled away.“I made contact sheets, and I printed the ones I thought you might want,” Dixon said.“I’m not on the county payroll.I just thought I could expedite this one little thing.I want whoever did this to be caught.”The darkroom was small, and he stood so close to Dixon that his hip brushed hers whenever he moved.He reached for a photo in the wash and pulled it up dripping.It was a close-up of the cross sliced into Trisha Webster’s leg.“Robert Medino was right, wasn’t he?” Dixon asked.J.D.looked at the picture.This mutilation was beyond his ability to comprehend.“Whoever did this has some problems with religion.This is a ritual of some type.”“Have you talked with Medino?” Dixon asked.“I haven’t had any appetite for gloat.” He chanced a quick glance at her but didn’t see any reaction.“I was hoping he’d take his theory and march on down I-10.I guess that was a foolish wish.Have you gotten to know him any better?”“Not yet.”But she must want to.She’d be interested in another reporter.Journalism, like law enforcement, was a strong bond.“When will you have the photos finished?”“This evening.They should be dry about seven.Shall I bring them by the sheriff’s department? The color won’t be back until early tomorrow.I FedExed them to a private lab.”“If you could bring by what you’ve got, that would be great,” he said.“Do you have any leads on this guy?” Dixon asked.J.D.reached into his back pocket and brought out an envelope.“I have this.A mug shot of him.His name is Francisco Chavez.Fingerprints on a beer can from the river matched some prints in Eagle Pass, Texas.He’d been picked up on a charge of vandalism at a church six months ago.”Dixon examined the photo under the red light.“Will you give this to the Mobile media?” she asked.“I have to,” J.D.said.“It’s almost a week until the Independent is printed.I need immediate action.If the guy in the picture is the killer, television could be our best way of getting help from the public.”“I understand.But you’ll save an interview for me, right?”Her words made him smile.She did understand.“For you and you alone,” he answered.Dixon saw the lighted cigarette arcing slowly on the front porch swing.Robert Medino’s rental car was parked beneath the oaks.It had been after eight when she left the sheriff’s office, and Robert’s offer of a trip to the Gulf Coast had slipped her mind until well past the dinner hour.She’d called the B&B, but he’d been gone.Now here he was, on her front porch.The cigarette tip brightened, and Dixon found the idea of a cigarette tempting.She got out of her truck and walked to the front steps.“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” she said.“Things got busy.”“So I heard.The sheriff ought to cut out his deputy’s vocal cords.Waymon has been running his mouth.” Robert patted the swing beside him.“Have a seat and tell me all about it.” There was the slosh of liquid in a bottle.“I heard you were partial to Jack Daniel.”Dixon remained on the top step.“ ‘Partial to’ is a Southern phrase
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]