The Night Killer

doesn’t quite understand about digital photographs. I guess he wants me to make sure you delete it from your computers.”
    Good luck with that , thought Diane. She wasn’t about to let it go . . . completely. She wouldn’t go into Rendell County to investigate, but she would look at the photographs and glean as much information as she could from them—and she would be a secret partner with Travis.
    David returned shortly and handed the card back to Travis. “I’ll have the reconstruction tomorrow,” he said.
    “Reconstruction?” asked Travis.
    “One of the things I need to show you,” said Diane.
    She rose from the table, gathered the report and evidence, and handed everything to Travis. She led him to the workstation David had vacated, pulled Travis up a chair by hers, sat down, and called up the Barre crime scene.
    Repeated viewings of the Barres in death did not desensitize her to the ghastly image of people she had known. It wouldn’t have been much easier if they were strangers, but it would have given her some emotional distance.
    She played the animated version for Travis. The androgynous figure appeared in the room—appeared because the photograph didn’t tell them how he or she got there. The killer slit Ozella’s throat, waited and slit Roy’s throat. Then he walked out of the room, followed by a window that came up reminding the viewer that there were no extra details in evidence of the exit.
    She heard Travis quietly whistle under his breath. “This is what happened?” he said. “How do you know? How do you know Ozella was killed first? How do you know the killer waited?”
    Diane flipped to the photographic view of the scene. She started in the dining room and took him through everything she had discovered by looking at the photographs. She pointed out Ozella’s milky eyes and told him what it meant—dead at least three hours, give or take. She showed him the reflection in the silver tray of Roy with his clear eyes.
    “Wow,” said Travis. He pulled out a notebook and wrote it all down.
    Diane showed him the blood spatter and what it might mean in terms of right- handedness of the killer. She showed him the indistinct tracks of blood on the carpet and floor.
    “I think he had covered his feet. Possibly with Tyvek. He may have even worn Tyvek coveralls,” she said, “to keep the blood off him.”
    “I can’t believe you can get all this stuff off the pictures,” he said, scribbling away.
    “If I had better photographs, I might find more,” said Diane. “It’s just a matter of looking for clues—and knowing what is a clue.”
    “You’ve really impressed me. You know, I’m gonna feel guilty taking credit for your work.”
    “Don’t,” Diane said absently. “One thing you might consider is that the Barres may have known their killer. I didn’t see evidence that anyone broke in the front door. Do you know if anyone broke in the back?”
    Travis shook his head. “It didn’t look like it. But the Barres were such friendly people. You know—build your house by the side of the road and be a friend to everybody. That was them. They might let a stranger in.”
    “If he looked like he was in a space suit?” said Diane.
    “You have a point there,” he said. “Is it easy to get those suits? That’s Tyvek, like the envelopes, right?”
    “Yes,” said Diane. “There was also a cigar box missing.”
    “Cigar box?” he said.
    Diane went to the panorama of the living room and highlighted the hutch where Roy Barre kept his collection. “I remember he showed me a cigar box filled with rocks. I don’t really remember what kind of rocks. Frankly, I wasn’t paying attention. But his children should know.”
    Travis nodded, staring unblinking at the photograph. “Roy Jr., their son, he lives in Helen. He’s been up to the place since the killings. Said he didn’t notice anything missing, but he was all freaked out. I could take him through the place again after the funeral. Roy’s kids’ll probably remember the box. Ol’ Roy liked to talk about the stuff he collected. His other kids, Christine and Spence, are coming in today or tomorrow. Christine lives in Virginia, I think, and Spence . . . somewhere in Tennessee.”
    “I’d like to speak with them,” said Diane.
    Travis nodded. “You thinking this box was a trophy?” he asked. “I mean, do you think this is one of them serial killers you hear about?”
    “I don’t know,” said Diane. “Maybe.”
    “I