Roadside Crosses

especially with their children. We have to be careful with our children, you know.”
    Dance noted the hand gesture, heard the slight hitch in his throat. She knew his liar’s mannerisms by now. “Ken? We have no time for this.”
    O’Neil unleashed his handcuffs.
    “No, no. I . . .” The head dropped in complete surrender. “I made some bad business deals. My loans got called and I can’t pay them. So I . . .” He sighed.
    “So you lied to be a hero? Get some publicity?” O’Neil’s face registered disgust as he glanced at the news crews, cordoned off, fifty yards away.
    Pfister began to protest. Then his hand drooped. “Yes. I’m sorry.”
    O’Neil jotted something in his notebook. “I’ll have to speak to the prosecutor about this.”
    “Oh, please . . . I’m sorry.”
    “So you didn’t see him at all, but you knew somebody had just left the cross and you knew who it was.”
    “Okay, I had an idea. I mean, yes, I knew.”
    “Why did you wait hours before telling us?” she snapped.
    “I . . . I was afraid. Maybe he was still waiting around here.”
    O’Neil asked in a low, ominous voice, “It didn’t occur to you that telling all that crap about ritual sacrifices might’ve sent us in the wrong direction?”
    “I thought you knew all those things anyway. The stories were in that blog. They have to be true, don’t they?”
    Dance said patiently, “Okay, Ken. Let’s start over.”
    “Sure. Anything.”
    “Were you really in that meeting?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    He was so deeply into the last stage of emotional response in interrogation—acceptance and confession—that she nearly laughed. He was now the epitome of cooperation.
    “And what happened then?”
    “Okay, I was driving along and I pulled off on the side road here.” He pointed emphatically at his feet. “When I made the turn there wasn’t any cross. I made a couple of phone calls, then turned around and drove back to the intersection. I waited for traffic and looked up the road. There it was.” He pointed again. This time at the cross. “I didn’t see him at all. The hoodie and everything? I got that from the blog. All I can say is that I didn’t pass anybody on the shoulder, so he must’ve come out of the woods. And, yeah, I knew what it meant. The cross. And it scared the shit out of me. The killer had just been there, right in front of me!” A sour laugh. “I lockedthe doors so fast. . . . I’ve never done anything brave in my life. Not like my father. He was a fireman, volunteer.”
    This happened often with Kathryn Dance. The most important aspect of interrogation and interviewing is to be a good listener, nonjudgmental and aware. Because she honed this skill daily, witnesses—and suspects too—tended to look at her as a therapist. Poor Ken Pfister was confessing.
    But he’d have to lie down on somebody else’s couch. It wasn’t her job to explore his demons.
    O’Neil was looking into the trees. Based on what Pfister had originally told them the officers were searching the shoulder. “We better check out the woods.” An ominous glance at Pfister. “At least that might be helpful.” He called several deputies after him and they headed across the road to search in the forest.
    “The traffic you waited for?” she asked Pfister. “Could the driver have seen anything?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe, if Travis was still there. They’d have a better view than me.”
    “You get a license number, make?”
    “No, it was dark, a van or truck. But I remember it was official.”
    “Official?”
    “Yeah, it said ‘state’ on the back.”
    “Which organization?”
    “I didn’t see. Honest.”
    That could be helpful. They’d contact all the California agencies that might’ve had vehicles in the area. “Good.”
    He seemed ecstatic at the faint praise.
    “All right. You’re free to go now, Ken. But remember there’s still an open complaint against you.”
    “Yes, sure, absolutely. Look, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean anything bad.” He scurried off.
    As she crossed the road to join O’Neil and the team searching the woods, she watched the pathetic businessman climb into his dinged car.
    The stories were in that blog. They have to be true, don’t they?
    SHE WANTED TO die.
    Kelley Morgan was silently asking that her prayers be answered. The fumes were choking her. Her vision was going. Her lungs stung, eyes and nose were inflamed.
    The pain . . .
    But more horrifying