The Night Killer

photograph of the Watsons in their dining room. Variation on a theme. Same poses, different people. Pine dining room set instead of mahogany.
    The photographs of the Watson crime scene were clearer than the ones she took with her camera phone at the Barres’, and there were close-ups. She noted the hair first. There was the same ruffled-up hair on the tops of their heads, as if the killer had grabbed their hair with one hand, pulled back the head, and slit their throats. Next she looked at the blood splatter. It was remarkably similar to the Barre pattern. They were tied with duct tape to their chairs, same as the Barres.
    Both the Watsons were in their nightwear. It looked like they—just as had the Barres—had let the killer in while they were dressed in their nightclothes. If there was no break-in, then they had to know their assailant. Diane didn’t care how friendly these people were; you didn’t let strangers into your house in the middle of the night. Not dressed in your nightclothes.
    Their eyes were closed and they were leaning back, as if in comfortable repose.
    Odd.
    Why was that? Was that something the killer did? Then why didn’t he close the Barres’ eyes? Someone else closed their eyes and repositioned the bodies, perhaps? Someone found them dead and closed their eyes, thinking they were showing respect by doing it?
    Something to ask Travis about. Diane hoped it wasn’t someone in the sheriff’s office who did it. Perhaps it was just a difference in the way the Barres and the Watsons had approached their deaths and it meant nothing.
    She searched the room, grid by grid, the way she had with the Barre photographs. Nothing stood out. She didn’t find any footprint stains on the rug. No indication how the killer left.
    Diane took a breath and examined the close-up photographs of the Watsons. The wounds were deep—deeper than the Barres’ appeared to be. Sharper knife, or more confidence? She looked for any indication of tool marks that might be used to identify the weapon. There was only blood and flesh to be seen in the photographs.
    Leaving the close-ups, she called up the virtual tour David had put together. She explored the living room, but found nothing that stood out. She’d never been in the Watsons’ house and she had no way of knowing whether anything was missing. She looked for any place on a table or shelf where something might have been, but now was gone. Nothing. She noted that in both the living room and dining room, there were no doors or drawers left open. Everything was closed. What did that mean? Anything?
    No more photographs. Travis had taken pictures only of the dining room and living room, as she had at the Barres’. She had limited herself to taking only those photos because she wasn’t free to walk about the house in someone else’s crime scene. Travis was under no such restriction. She shook her head. He really was in over his head.
    Diane left the photographs and the vault. She’d had enough of grisly murder for the day. She locked up, checked in with David and Izzy, and drove home. All the way there, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being followed.

Chapter 22
    Diane got out of the car and looked back at the road, watching the vehicles go by, but nothing jumped out at her. No one slowed down; no one leaned out the window with a gun. But then, it was dark and almost all she could see were headlights. She smiled at herself and went inside. “Slick Massey has made me paranoid,” she whispered to herself as she locked the door behind her.
    She showered and put on comfortable clothes, which for her was a sweat suit. She looked at herself in the mirror and decided that she looked a little too casual. She slipped on a pair of jeans and a snug-fitting navy long-sleeved cotton T-shirt.
    Pronouncing herself suitably dressed, she started a late dinner of roasted vegetables and spinach-stuffed salmon. It was ready when she heard Frank come in the door and empty his pockets into the small ceramic tray that held his keys, change, a watch—all the things he used only outside the house. The clink of metal on ceramic had come to be a comforting all’s-right-with-the-world sound to Diane. She smiled and decided she was glad she’d dressed in something a little sexier than fleece. She served up dinner in the dining room with candles.
    “Is it my birthday?” asked Frank.
    “After looking at some of the stuff I’ve looked at all day, I thought it would be nice