Xo

footprints/vehicle tread marks
    • Tuesday. Emerson High School stadium, PA system facility
    —no friction ridge prints
    —no footprints/vehicle tread marks
    —unique trace recovered
    —calcium powder
    — Determined likely to be human bone dust
    • Tuesday. Park across from Mountain View Motel
    —Marlboro cigarette. DNA analysis requested
    —fishing line trip wire, generic brand
    —no friction ridge prints
    —no footprints/vehicle tread marks
     
    • Wednesday. Edwin Sharp’s house
    —outside:
    —boot print probably cowboy-style, unable to determine size, male or female
    —no vehicle tread marks
    —unique trace materials
    —triglyceride fat (lard)
    —2700K color temperature (yellowish)
    —melting point: 40–55 degrees F
    —specific gravity: 0.91 at 40.0 C
    — Determined likely to be neatsfoot oil, treatment for leather sports equipment, tack and gun slings
    —fungus
    — Determined likely to be used in place of chemical-based fertilizers
    —chemicals: limonite, goethite and calcite
    — Determined likely to be gangue, ore collection and processing by - product
    —mineral oil, with lime sulfur
    — Determined likely to be organic pesticide
    —calcium powder
    — Determined likely to be human bone dust
    —ammonium oxalate
    —inside:
    —latex gloves, not associated with those at Prescott homicide
    —household cleaning materials (to eliminate trace?)
    —no cigarettes, matches or lighters, odor of cigarettes
     
    It was then that Dance’s mobile buzzed. She regarded the text with a frown. “I’ll be right back,” she told the others.
    She walked outside and into the parking lot of the sheriff’s office. She nearly laughed to see P. K. Madigan undercover—he was now in khakis, a plaid shirt and tan vest, the fishing cap and mirrored aviator sunglasses.
    Dance smiled. “Hi, I—”
    But Madigan interrupted and said urgently, “We’ve got a situation. I mean, you ’ve got a situation.”
    “Go on.”
    “I’ve spent the last sixteen or so hours online, looking up everything I could find about Edwin, Kayleigh, fans … everything.”
    This was the assignment Dance had given P. K. Madigan, the job she’d described as “unpleasant,” since it involved sitting at a desk, not the greatest job in the world for an active law enforcer like the chief detective, who seemed to enjoy fieldwork, unlike a lot of his counterparts. But Dance believed it was important to continue to monitor Edwin’s onlineactivity, and to find any new posts and sites he visited. With their limited manpower, she’d enlisted Madigan.
    “Where’s Edwin now? He under surveillance?”
    “He was. I’ll check,” Dance replied and placed a call. She posed the question to Dennis Harutyun, who was probably a bit mystified by Dance’s disappearance. But he didn’t query her; he just said, “Hold on.” A moment later he came back on the line. She heard frustration in his voice. “This is odd. Edwin went to the mall—Fashion Fair on Shaw. Parked in the lot near East Santa Ana. The deputy thought Edwin’d lose him in the stores so he stayed with the car. That was two hours ago. He hasn’t been back.”
    “He knew he was being tailed and he jumped.”
    “Probably.”
    “Okay. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
    After she disconnected she told this information to Madigan, who grimaced hard. “Hell.” Then he asked, “You had any evidence suggesting he’d become violent?”
    “No.” Dance explained that she’d interviewed him, then added, “But people like that keep a tight lid on their emotions. Something can push them over the edge real fast.”
    “Well,” Madigan said urgently, “I’m pretty worried about something. A half hour ago there were some postings on some of Kayleigh’s fan sites. Anonymous, but they were sites where Edwin has posted in the past. The posts were the same, saying something to the effect of, ‘Watch the news, Kayleigh. Maybe you’ll finally understand how much I love you.’”
    “John Hinckley.”
    “Yep. I remember what you told us in the first briefing.”
    That occasionally a stalker had a total break with reality and when he gave up hope that he’d be with his love, he’d kill someone to cement himself in her thoughts forever.
    “Here’s the URLs of those sites.” Madigan handed her a sheet of yellow-lined paper. “Have Computer Crimes track ’em down and see where they were made from.”
    “Thanks, Chief.”
    “No,” he said, offering a wan smile,