Shame

Campbell. He was flanked by Sergeant Hardy on one side and Lieutenant Borman on the other. They all looked somber, funereal.
    “A warrant has been issued for the arrest of Gray Caleb Parker,” the sheriff said, “aka Caleb Parker, aka Cal Parker. He is wanted for questioning in the murders of Lita Jennings, Teresa Sanders, and Brandy Wein.”
    The shouting match started: “Sheriff!”
    Campbell held up a hand. “I ask that each of you refrain from asking questions until we’ve all had a chance to finish our briefing.”
    Elizabeth looked around the room, tried to take down details like a courtroom sketch artist. Flushed faces, she wrote, people unconsciously hugging themselves. Around me a shifting of bodies and heads. The reaction in here couldn’t be much more extreme had the sheriff announced that Jack the Ripper was alive and well and relocated in San Diego.
    It was the mythology of Shame at work, she thought. For whatever reasons, Gray Parker had found his way into the modern psyche. His bloodstains had been harder to scrub out than most.
    Elizabeth was glad that helping Anna Parker hadn’t made her persona non grata at the Sheriff’s Department, even if she no longer had special privileges. Earlier that morning, press credentials had been issued to her, but her request to go behind the scenes had been politely refused. Now that the secret was out, she no longer had leverage.
    She sat through the short briefing and heard nothing new. The media were apparently going to get only the sketchiest of details. Elizabeth resisted an urge to leave, her curiosity piqued by the two shrouded easels to the right of the lectern. A sheriff’s deputy had been positioned in front of the easels, his presence prohibiting any peeking.
    Elizabeth didn’t have to wait long for the unveiling. Campbell did the honors, pulling back the coverings and revealing two blown-up black-and-white photos. Gray Parker’s face still found its way into enough public forums to be recognizable. A stir passed through the room.
    The sheriff patted one of the photos with his left hand. “Gray Parker Senior,” he said, paused a moment, then patted the other photo with his right hand, “and Gray Parker Junior.”
    In her pad Elizabeth wrote, “The response by the Fourth Estate would have pleased a lynching mob. Did I condemn as easily? The sheriff’s presentation feels like a magic act. Only it isn’t a woman being sawed in half and put on display, but Caleb Parker.”
    “Questions?” asked the sheriff.
    “Is apprehension imminent?” a reporter asked.
    “We are confident of an early capture,” the sheriff said.
    “Was the word
shame
written on all the San Diego victims?”
    “We will not be commenting on the crime scene or answering any inquiries addressing the demise of the victims.”
    The magic act was over, she thought, though the sheriff tried to give the impression that there
was
still something up his sleeve. As the questions heated up, the sheriff quickly proved to be generous about handing off inquiries, especially the sticky ones, to his subordinates.
    Elizabeth found her attention divided between what was going on in front of the room and what was going on in the back. Cell phones had been pulled out, and stations and papers were being called.
    “That’s what I said, Shame’s son...”
    “Big story? No shit, Sherlock...”
    “Serial murders, three linked so far...”
    “Parker, spelled P-A-R...”
    An Asian American woman finished her call and dropped her phone into her handbag. She wore a lot of makeup, the better for the television camera. She was young but tried to appear older, had a face too serious for her years. The woman looked at Elizabeth, dismissed her, and then after a long moment came back to her again. Her expression asked, Where do I know youfrom? Elizabeth looked away, pretending interest in the press conference. The woman approached anyway.
    “Excuse me.”
    Elizabeth was forced to look up. Their eyes met.
    “Lisa Wong, KGSI-TV. I wonder if we might talk.”
    The reporter spoke very quietly, but her expression said,
Gotcha.
It was apparent she didn’t want to announce Elizabeth’s name in front of anyone else for fear of others recognizing her find.
    “Later, perhaps,” Elizabeth said, pantomiming interest in the news conference.
    The tactic didn’t work. Lisa took a seat next to her.
    “I still don’t understand,” asked a reporter, “how the suspect was in custody and then