Emily Kenyon 01 - A Cold Dark Place

cruel game a sick manipulator like Dylan Walker plays with a lonely woman”
    Christopher seemed to understand. “The only problem with this is that Bonnie Jeffries never had any kids of her own. Black market babies?”
    “I’m not sure. But she did have those baby pictures. Remember? There were photos of kids that meant something to her.”
    “A lot of adoption agency people keep a wall of fame. You know the place where they can stick up all the photos so they can feel good about what they’ve done”
    “Yes, but this was at her home. That makes it even more personal”
    Emily looked down at the names in her notebook: Herb La Sift, Eddy Bunt, Johnny “Ace” Wage. “Maybe there is a little game of sorts going on here” She and Jenna had played Scrabble every night when Jenna was in seventh grade and going through that awkward “no one likes me” phase that afflicts so many prepubescent girls. That all changed, good or bad, when Shali Patterson decided to make Jenna her “new” best friend.
    “Eddy Bunt is an anagram for Ted Bundy,” Emily said.
    Bundy, of course, was the superstar serial killer of the 1970s, having been the prime suspect in dozens of murders of pretty young women from the Northwest, Colorado, and eventually Florida where he met his fate strapped into Old Sparky, the electric chair. She glanced over at Christopher, who had a dumbstruck look on his face. “Remember her book collection? How her reading material seemed to indicate a preoccupation with serial killers?”
    He did-the mostly red and black volumes filled the dead woman’s shelves-Lethal This, Deadly That, Fatal Whatever. “To know one is to love one, I guess. And yes, I remember. You get that by just looking at the letters?”
    Emily shrugged; it wasn’t exactly a gift, but merely a practiced ability.
    “Yes, but the others are more difficult. Nothing’s popping out at me. She tore some squares of paper and wrote one of each letter of Johnny “Ace” Wage’s name. “You work this one”
    He took the pieces of paper and stretched them out on the floor.
    “I’ll do Herb La Sift,” she said.
    “You’re not going to time me, are you?”
    He grinned. “Good, because I’m not a right-brain guy.”
    “I know.” Two minutes later, Emily had her puzzle figured out. “I think I took the easy one,” she said. “This one’s Albert Fish.”
    “Fish?” Christopher looked at her blankly. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
    “He should. Think fava beans and a nice Chianti.”
    “Hannibal Lecter?”
    “Yeah, the original. He was convicted in the thirties. Killed a dozen or more boys and ate them”
    “Lovely.”
    She looked over Christopher’s shoulder. “I ought to be on Wheel of Fortune or something. I’ve got yours done”
    “Thanks for nothing,” he said. “Who’s this gem?”
    “John Wayne Gacy.”
    “Jesus, everyone’s favorite clown, that one”
    He was right. At least every psycho’s favorite clown. Gacy was the suburban Chicago serial killer who had raped and murdered thirty-three young men and boys. While he was hobnobbing with the Jaycees and donning his clown costume he wore to visit sick children, he was burying body after body in his crawl space.
    “Seems like Bonnie was the creative type,” Emily said.
    Christopher scooped up the slips of paper. “More like deranged “
    Emily searched Christopher’s dark eyes. If she was looking for comfort, she found it. Understanding, too. But she also felt something just then that she hadn’t counted on. For the first time, she saw him as man, not a coworker. A supporter, not a colleague helping her because he’d been paid to do so. She knew the rest of the world viewed law enforcement as one big club bound forever in blue, but that wasn’t always so. As in any profession, insecurities, competitiveness, and jealousies play a role in how those with a badge treat one another.
    After the Kristi Cooper debacle, Emily Kenyon had learned how frail support and loyalty really could be. It was like a thin string, stretched and snapped. Several of her friends made derisive comments about her during the investigation, which ultimately exonerated her. In a way she learned how hard it was for a defendant to recover his or her good name after an acquittal. Once the bell has rung, it can never be completely silenced. Even David made cruel remarks about how she’d let the heat of it all steal her wits, how she shouldn’t have done what she did.
    But never