Shame

She met Gray Parker in an Albuquerque park late one afternoon. She heard him calling out, ‘Anubis, Anubis.’ Then he approached her and asked if she’d seen his dog. Heidi helped him look. When she ventured into some brush, he strangled her with a leash.
    “For those who know their Egyptian mythology, Anubis was the jackal-headed god who escorted the dead to judgment. Perhaps that had some bearing on where Parker transported the body. He took Heidi to the El Santuario de Chimayo, a famous shrine, sort of the Lourdes of New Mexico. For almost two hundred years people have been taking pinches of clay from a small well there, believing it has healing properties. And during Easter weekend a few tons of local dirt are brought in and blessed by the priest. Miracle dirt, people call it. They take it home in plastic bags.”
    Elizabeth remembered the room at the church that was overflowing with crutches, braces, and medical equipment, items left behind by those who thought the clay had cured them. She had visited on a warm summer day, had gone inside and marveled that there were so many lit candles in such a small shrine. Then, as now, there was no shortage of people looking for a miracle. Inside and outside were signs of heartfelt offerings: beads, makeshift crucifixes, photos of loved ones, cut-out pictures of the Baby Jesus, and drawings of the Virgin Mary.
    “Breaking into the church would have been easy, Parker told me. He had considered laying Heidi beneath one of three large reredos, antique paintings that look much like orthodox icons,but instead he placed her upon a cement altar in the amphitheater behind the church. It’s a beautiful spot, with a canopy of oak trees and a stream running behind it.
    “I’ve often wondered if Gray was asking God for the ultimate in miracles, bringing Heidi back to life. He found holy places for all of his New Mexico victims, shrines of nature and man. It was as if he were giving his victims a chance to recover. All they had to do was get up, or better yet, tap into the holiness around them and overcome their circumstances.”
    But the women disappointed him, Elizabeth thought, as women always had. They deserted him, or so Gray thought, and then compounded that treachery by not coming back to life.
    She lifted up a copy of her book, covering her youthful picture with her hand. “I hope there might be something in this book that can help you in your current cases. For those who prefer to skip the reading and go right to the source, I’d be glad to answer any questions.”
    The bodies in the room shifted. Elizabeth looked around the table. The silence seemed condemning. I didn’t reach them, she thought. I should have dug deeper and said more. Then, to her relief, a hand was raised. She acknowledged the questioner with a nod.
    “I was wondering, ma’am, if you had any theories on why Mrs. Sanders’s body wasn’t moved like the Franklin woman’s.”
    The speaker, in his late twenties, was younger than everyone else in the room. Elizabeth decided she could forgive him for calling her “ma’am.”
    “I haven’t had a chance to read the case files, Detective. That said, I’ll hazard a guess. There was a nine-one-one call, I understand. It’s possible the murderer was disturbed by the caller. It’s also possible there wasn’t an appropriate petroglyph site in San Diego. From what I know, the murderer appears to be picking and choosing how he emulates the original Shame homicides. It’s possible he didn’t feel compelled to move Mrs. Sanders’sbody and also possible he didn’t want to assume the risk of such a move.”
    Another sheriff’s detective, the one lying on the sofa, spoke. Both his words and bearing were contentious. “Jennings and Sanders don’t match up physically with Gleason and Franklin.”
    “No, they don’t.” Elizabeth’s response was firm. “And I’m sure there are other differences in the two sets of murders. But those might be clues in themselves.”
    The woman detective spoke, not to Elizabeth, but to the group. “If this guy’s out to get college students, he’s not going to have any shortage of targets. The county has over a dozen major colleges. Last figure I heard, there were more than fifty thousand women enrolled in college courses in the San Diego area.”
    The number hung in the air, daunting them.
    “We could run some decoys at popular college hangouts,” said Lieutenant Borman, thinking aloud.
    Nothing was said, but