Jeffery Deaver - The Lesson of Her Death

"Nothing." She stepped away, looking down.

"Did you do that?"

She didn't answer.

"That's like totally stupid."

"I'm not stupid," she said meekly.

He walked to the outlet and yanked the plug out of the wall then began unwinding the lights.

"No, don't!"

He shouted, "Look! Look at this!" He held up a portion of wire that had been wound around the frame of the bike. The plastic insulation was missing and several inches of copper wire were exposed and wrapped around the foot pedal. He pointed at the floor beneath the bike. "And there's water spilled there."

"Don't yell at me!"

"If you do stupid things you're gonna get yelled at."

"Stop it! Stop it!"

"Don't lay one of your effing tantrums on me! It won't work," he shot back.

He wound the electrician's tape around the exposed wire, then carefully rolled the wire into a circle and replaced it in the box marked X-mas Lights.

She muttered ominously, "You shouldn't've done that."

Diane appeared in the doorway. " What is going on out here? I heard you all the way in the bedroom."

Jamie said, "Sarah was playing with the Christmas lights."

"Sarah, were you?"

The little girl puckered her lips into an angry pout. "He called me stupid."

Diane turned on him. "Jamie?"

"Well, she was being stupid. She could've like electrocuted herself or something."

"It was pretty and he ruined it."

"Mom," he said, utterly exasperated.

Diane turned to her daughter. "You know to leave the decorations alone. If you broke any it'll come out of your allowance."

"I didn't do anything!" Sarah shrieked then stormed out of the garage.

Jamie pulled his bike off the pegs stuck in the garage wall and lifted it down. Diane walked over to him and spoke in a menacing whisper, "How many times have I told you not to call her stupid."

"She was playing with -"

"I don't care what she was doing. It's the worst thing in the world for her. Don't do it."

"Mom."

"Just don't do it."

"You don't under -"

"Did you hear me?"

His strong hands squeezed the brake levers on his bike. Diane repeated her question. "Yes," he grumbled formally.

Diane's voice softened. "If you see her doing something like that again come tell me. Your sister's going through a very rough time right now. Little things are really hard on her."

"I said all right."

He angrily wheeled his bicycle back and forth.

Diane wiped her hands on her skirt. "I'm sorry I lost my temper."

"Okay," he muttered. "No problem."

"You have the match tonight, right?"

"Yeah."

"We'll be there."

"You and Sarah."

"Your father's going to be working. It's a very important case."

He leapt on the high bike and rolled down the driveway.

"I wish you'd let the deputy take you to school. Your father doesn't want you two going places alone."

He shrugged.

"Jamie," she shouted, looking on the shelf beside the door. "Wait! Your helmet…"

But the boy seemed not to hear and leaned sharply into the turn as he sped out of the driveway and into the road.

He thought it was a skull but he couldn't be sure. "You Watkins?"

"That I am."

Now, couldn't be. Jim Slocum walked into a small, windowless office in the State Building in Higgins, He introduced himself. He wasn't impressed; his own office in the New Lebanon Sheriffs Department was bigger and had a window to boot. This room smelled of onions and was filled with books and telexes and photocopies of memos. He glanced at some and thought how boring they must be. Justice Department Monthly Homicide Demographics Report. Intrafamily Violence Review – Midwest Edition.

Slocum squinted at the glass-enclosed bookcase behind Watkins. No, it was a grapefruit the guy had put in there and forgotten about. Maybe an ostrich egg.

Earl Watkins was short and round and wore a tight blue button-down dress shirt. Round metal-rimmed glasses hung on his nose. His mouth was a squooshed O above a deep cleft chin. "Take a pew."

Slocum settled onto the hard oak chair. "Say, what is that?"

He followed the deputy's finger. "That? It's a skull. See the bullet hole?" Watkins, a huge Capitol rotunda of a man, with flags of sweat under his arms, was a special agent, Violent Crime Division, State Police.

Slocum said, "We're hoping you could shed some light on this situation we've got ourselves. Help us out with a profile of the killer. I'll tell you, there's some spooky stuff involved."

Watkins asked slowly, "Spooky stuff?"

Slocum gave him a summary of the Gebben murder then added, "Happened on the night of the half-moon and underneath her was this cult knife." He handed Watkins a photocopy.

The large man looked at it briefly, without emotion. "Uh-huh. When was her birthday?"

Slocum blinked. He opened his near-empty briefcase and looked into then closed it, remembering the exact spot where he'd left the rest of the file on his desk. "Uhm, I've got somebody compiling all that stuff. I'll get you a copy."

Watkins then asked, "Multiple perpetrators?"

"Don't know. Were a lot of footprints around. Mostly men's. I had pictures taken of them. Ill get you copies if you want."

"Naw." Watkins studied the photocopy of the knife. "Oh-huh, uh-huh. Did he cut her?"

"No. Strangled."

Watkins said, "I don't know what this insignia is. You have any idea?"

"They look sort of German. Like the Nazis, you know."

"It's not a swastika."

"No," Slocum said. "I don't mean that. I saw this TV movie. The Gestapo had these insignias -"

" Not the Gestapo. The SS. The Schutzstaffel. "

"That's it, yeah. Lightning bolts."

"Only those were parallel. These are crossed." Watkins waved the sheet. "Knife have any manufacturer?"

"No. Just " Korea " stamped into the end."

"The hasp," Watkins said. "When the guy raped her, how much come was there?"

Slocum sought the answer in the ceiling of the office. He thought that Watkins asked this too eagerly and he wondered if Watkins, who wore no wedding ring, was gay. "The ME estimated three ounces."

"Uh-huh," Watkins said. He linked his fingers and cradled the back of his head. He asked Slocum dozens of questions: whether restraints were used, if the killer found the victim or kidnapped her, if there was evidence of alcohol, how Jennie's body had been arranged in the flowers, whether foreign objects had been inserted into her anus or vagina, how attractive she was, if there were lip marks or other evidence that the killer had drunk her blood or urine.

"That's pretty damn gross," Slocum said, offended at the question.

"Any fingerprints?"

"On the knife, yeah. Then a mess of'em other places too. I'm having somebody check those against known sex offenders."

"That's a good place to start."

"I'm making damn sure this situation isn't gonna happen again," Slocum said with relentless sincerity.

"Are you now?" The state detective seemed amused. He scratched at the photocopy then gazed absently at the black toner that came off on his thumb. Watkins interrupted Slocum's account of the goat found in the grade school by saying, "Tell me about number two."

"Only one goat I heard about."

"The other victim? "

"We've got no other victim. Just the Gebben girl."

"When you called," Watkins said, examining a slip of paper, "you said killings. "

"Did I? There's only one now. But we're worried that we'll have a repeat in the next week. With the full moon, you know."

"Steve Ribbon's your sheriff, right?"

"Yep, sure is."

"And Hammerback Ellison, he's Harrison County sheriff? They're both up for reelection next fall."

The dividing line between what he should say and what he shouldn't had always been blurry for Jim Slocum. "Yep. I believe so. I'm not sure they're running."