Shame

faces were openly skeptical. Borman read the expressions around him. “Lottery odds, I know,” he said, “but we can’t be passive in this. We also can’t be unrealistic. Let’s stake out the local shrines.”
    It was the next logical grisly step, but Borman looked none too pleased at having to concede another murder.
    “We got any local shrines?” one detective asked.
    “My wife would tell you Nordstrom’s,” said another.
    Much-needed laughter swept through the room.

6

    S ERGEANT DEAN EICK was the case agent for the Lita Jennings homicide. Because the same murderer appeared to have killed Teresa Sanders, Eick had also been made the lead investigator for that homicide. As the case agent, he had responsibility for assembling what all the investigators referred to as “The Book.” Most case agents no longer compiled The Book and instead stored case information in a computer file. Eick was old school. He still believed in keeping a paper version of the investigation.
    The sergeant was short and stocky and had the figure of a fire hydrant. When Eick was instructed by Lieutenant Borman to allow Elizabeth access to The Book, his suddenly red face made him look that much more like a fire hydrant. Allowing outsiders access to The Book just wasn’t done. Sometimes consultants were brought in on cases, but they were only given access to that part of the investigation they might shed some light on.
    “I’d also like the crime scene photos,” said Elizabeth.
    Just short of breathing fire, Eick said, “You would, would you?”
    Elizabeth nodded.
    Eick’s foot pawed the ground—a bull wanting to charge. His complexion turned even redder, if that was possible.
    “Follow me,” he finally said.
    The two of them walked over to a nearby office. A woman looked up from her computer keyboard. “Louise Coleman,” Eick said as way of introduction, “Elizabeth Line.”
    The women nodded at one another.
    “Ms. Line is going to be confined to your office, Louise. She will have access to The Book. She may take notes, but there is to be no photocopying and no photographing of material. The Book is to stay in your office the entire time, and when Ms. Line is finished with it, I want it secured in Evidence. While in possession of The Book, Ms. Line is not allowed to leave the confines of this office unaccompanied. Is that understood?”
    Louise didn’t look intimidated. She gave the sergeant a wink and said, “You can count on me, Dean.”
    Eick pointed to a vacant chair and desk, then reluctantly relinquished The Book. With a disgusted shake of his head, he left the office.
    Louise craned her neck, making sure the sergeant was out of hearing range, before saying, “Confined to my office. That’s a first. Old Dino spent too many years in the marines. Word is that he even starches his boxers.”
    Short, stout, and gap-toothed, Louise was on the long side of middle age but still quite certain she was irresistible to all the sheriff’s deputies. In that she might have been right.
    “Can I get you a cup of coffee?” asked Louise.
    “No, thank you.”
    “So you’re the one who writes about all this murder stuff?” she asked.
    “Yes.”
    “Why?”
    Elizabeth had to laugh. It was a question she had asked herself many times but not one she could remember anyone asking her.
    “You want the short answer,” Elizabeth asked, “or the long answer?”
    “I’m a civil servant,” Louise said. “Let’s go with the long.”
    “I write because it helps me to understand. I write because it fills my own needs, as well as the needs of my readers.”
    Elizabeth paused for a moment, “I write the books to bring a certain justice to the dead, to show that their lives were more than the brutal act that ended them.”
    A bad cause requires many words, Elizabeth thought. Noble sentiments or not, her explanation had been windy. Louise apparently thought the same thing. She gave Elizabeth a sideways glance.
    “What’s the short answer?”
    “I’m nosy,” said Elizabeth.
    “Thought so,” Louise said.
    Elizabeth repositioned The Book on her desk. It was at least three inches thick. Heavy reading, literally.
    “If you need anything, just ask,” said Louise.
    “Thank you.”
    Louise went back to her typing, while Elizabeth immersed herself in The Book. Lita Jennings had been a junior at the University of California at San Diego, the daughter of well-to-do parents, her father a surgeon, her mother an interior designer.