Jonathan Kellerman - Victims

He resumed his march.

I said, “Who’s the victim?”

His jaw was tight; the answer came out hoarse and strangled.

“Think plural. This time the bastard doubled his fun.”

The house was a low, wide ranch on a street of similar structures in a no-name neighborhood of West L.A.

The man had been found in the backyard, lying on his stomach, wearing a black silk bathrobe. Deep stab wounds concentrated in a tight circle at the center of his chest. A couple of coup de grace throat slashes had severed the right jugular and carotid and the trachea.

No disembowelment, nothing similar to Vita and Quigg. I watched as Milo examined the body.

The man’s hair was long, dark, and wavy. His mustache was clipped precisely. Thirty to forty, good-sized, well muscled.

No effort to clean up the blood; the grass beneath the body was glazed a slick, unpleasant brown. No shredded lawn or damaged shrubs or other sign of struggle.

No blow from behind; this time, the C.I. had probed under the hair immediately, found no swelling or bruising.

The killer had taken on a serious foe face-to-face, dispatched him easily.

Maybe darkness had been his ally.

Milo circled the body for the fourth time.

The crime scene techs had finished their initial work and were waiting for him before leaving. Deputy Chief Maria Thomas had taken her time calling him to the scene.

Out in front of the house, the coroner’s van was waiting to transport.

Nice, sunny day on the Westside. The yard where the man in the robe lay dead was ringed with high block walls laced with trumpet vine. In Missouri, where I’d grown up, no one bothered with fences and a kid could pretend he owned the world. Behind our rattrap house was a dense black forest that yielded an occasional dead animal and two human corpses. The first had been a hunter, shot accidentally by a buddy. The second had been a little girl, five years old, my age at the time. I supposed freedom could be the stuff of bad dreams but right now this boxy, confined space felt oppressive. Why was I thinking about that?

Because I had nothing constructive to offer.

Milo completed another circle before heading for Maria Thomas.

The D.C. had positioned herself midway up the blue house’s driveway, on the near side of two parked vehicles. Sheltered from the ugliness, she made love to her cell phone.

Blond-coiffed and trim with a preference for tailored suits, Maria had been a captain when I’d met her a couple of years ago. Well spoken, cautious, decorous, she was the ideal corporate cog. The only time I’d seen her in action, she’d screwed up big-time by usurping a detective’s role, leading to the death of a suspect in an interview room.

Somehow that disaster had earned her a promotion.

She kept Milo waiting as she talked, finally pointed to the house’s rear door but didn’t end the conversation.

Milo and I made our way through the bright, neatly kept house. The laundry room and the kitchen and the living room appeared untouched, no blood from the yard tracked in.

The kitchen smelled of cinnamon.

Everything neat and clean and normal.

The master bedroom was another story.

The woman lay on her back atop a queen-size bed. Her hair was short and wavy, a careful blend of several shades of subdued caramel. Her left hand was tethered to a brass headboard with a blue necktie. The tie’s label was visible. Gucci.

No towels or tarp had been spread underneath her naked body. A few ruby specks dotted pale blue sheets, but no arterial explosion or castoff or significant leakage.

Waiting until every organ system had shut down before doing his thing.

The exact same thing he’d done to Vita Berlin and Marlon Quigg.

This woman’s eyes were wide open, maybe positioned that way postmortem or perhaps they’d opened spasmodically and stayed that way.

Big and gray and artfully shadowed, the lashes enriched with mascara.

Disturbingly lifelike despite the impossible angle of her broken neck and putrid guts piled up in grotesque decoration.

On the carpet next to the bed was a filmy, pink negligee. The woman’s nails were silver nacre, her toes, claret.

Just beneath the baby toe of her left foot was a sheet of white paper.?

Milo growled. “You’re getting boring, asshole.”

The uniform by the door said, “Pardon?”

Milo ignored him and took in the room.

I was already scanning the space for the second time, concentrating on the left-hand nightstand where a pair of frilly pink panties draped a lamp shade. Spread across the stand was a careless array: a tube of Love Jam apricot-flavored lubricant, a package of ribbed condoms, an unopened bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, a corkscrew, two wineglasses.

A similar lamp graced the other stand, minus the undergarment. The only object it housed besides the lamp was a silver-framed photo.

Good-looking couple. Tux and wedding dress, big smiles as they cut into a four-tiered cake festooned with yellow sugar roses.

No younger than they appeared now. Newlyweds?

A ceiling lamp glowed faint orange. A dimmer switch near the bed was set on low.

Romantic lighting.

The scene shot into my head, as surely as if I’d scripted it.

The two of them retire for bed, counting on a night of romance.

One or both of them hears something out back.

They ignore it because you can’t go check on every little leaf-rustle and imagined intrusion.

They hear it again.

Someone- something — out in the yard?

No big deal, at worst a raccoon or a possum or a skunk. Or just a stray cat or dog, that had happened before.

They hear it again.

A faint scratching. Rustling of foliage.

Again.

Too enduring to be ignored.

Is there really something out there, honey?

No prob, I’ll check.

Be careful.

I’m sure it’s nothing.

He throws on his robe, goes to check it out. Because that’s what husbands do.

She waits, thinking it’s nice to be married, have someone to squish bugs and play Protector.

Lying back, she relaxes, anticipating deliciousness.

He doesn’t return quickly the way he usually does.

The moments pile up. She begins to wonder.

Don’t be silly, maybe he really did encounter a critter and had to deal with it.

Hopefully not a raccoon, they carry rabies. And get mean when cornered.

But no sound of struggle, so maybe he’s just being careful.

The notion of her darling and a critter makes her smile. So… primal. He’ll be careful, he always is, and it’ll turn out to be one of those funny stories they’ll tell their grandchildren.

But it is taking a long time…

More time passes.

She calls his name.

Silence.

Then, the door closes. Good. Everything’s fine, maybe he’ll come in with one of his yummy surprises. Last time it was Godiva chocolate.

This time it could be another treat. Food or otherwise…

She closes her eyes, arranges herself the way he likes. The comforting sound of male footsteps grows louder.

She loves that sound.

She coos his name.

Silence.

Or perhaps a vague masculine grunt.

Baby’s playing Caveman. Excellent, this is going to be one of those nights.

Something not to tell the grandchildren.

She smiles. Purrs.

Positions herself a little racier than usual, creating sublime invitation.

He’s in the room, now. She hears his breathing intensify.

“Baby,” she says.

Silence.

Fine, that game.

He’s right next to her, she senses him, feels his heat. But…

Something different.

She opens her eyes.

Everything changes.

Papers in the desk of the home office next to the bedroom conformed to DMV info.

Barron and Glenda Parnell.