Alex Kava - A Necessary Evil

"The victim didn't have a roommate. Did she mention a boyfriend?"

"Yes. She said she was seeing someone new."

"Did she mention his name?"

"No."

"Do you know if she was seeing him this weekend?"

"She had plans with him on Saturday evening." She almost wished Racine would ask more difficult questions.

"Do you know how she met him? Was it over the Internet?"

"She never told me how they met." It was the truth. She couldn't tell Racine that Dena had met her new beau at work, at her office, because that would only be speculating.

Maybe it wasn't even Rubin Nash. After all, the fingerprints hadn't matched up.

"Funny she wouldn't tell you more about this new boyfriend," Racine said, crossing her arms, "especially since she felt close enough to give you a key to her place."

Gwen avoided the detective's eyes. Would she be able to tell that Gwen knew very little about her assistant? Instead of responding, she focused on the crime lab technician in the kitchen. He had been removing the garbage from the trash bin piece by piece and now stood staring at the bin, perhaps contemplating how to remove Dena's head without destroying any other evidence.

"She was supposed to go to a nightclub last night with one of her friends," Gwen finally offered. Was it possible the killer wasn't even one of her patients?

"Do you know which one?"

"She may have told me, but I don't remember. She said she was going to check out the new one."

"And I don't suppose you know the name of the friend she was going with?"

"No, I don't."

The technician reached both of his gloved hands into the trash bin, and Gwen began to feel clammy and light-headed all over again. But she couldn't take her eyes away. She was mesmerized. She knew she should look away. Up until now her mind had fooled her into believing Dena had been murdered and stuffed into her own trash bin. But she knew that wasn't true. She knew it was only Dena's decapitated head. Just like the others. She knew that and still she gasped when she saw the technician lift the plastic bag out, a plastic bag big enough only for a head.

She felt Racine's hand on her shoulder, but she didn't look up at the detective. Her eyes stayed with the plastic bag the entire time it took for the technician to remove it and place it into a small black body bag. Did they have special ones for heads? she couldn't help wondering.

Still not looking up at Racine, Gwen said, "Dena always hated taking out the garbage at the office." It was an absolutely ridiculous thing to say.

Omaha, Nebraska

Gibson pulled out the shoe box from under his bed. He turned up the volume on his boom box to sing along with his favorite track of this CD, Stray Cats Strutting. He was trying to keep his mind on something, anything other than the game that was getting ready to begin in the next half hour.

He had the house to himself. After dinner his mom had gone off to her poetry class. His annoying little brother, Tyler had escaped to one of his friend's to shoot off leftover firecrackers. Though he wouldn't tattle to their mom, Gibson knew that's what Tyler was up to. He had seen him sneak a whole box of matches from the kitchen junk drawer while their mom scooped up spaghetti from the pot on the stove and onto their plates.

Yep, whole house to himself, ail the peace and quiet he normally would beg for, but tonight he wished he had something, anything, to distract him. He was hoping the music and his collection might do just that.

He set the box on his desk, next to his computer, trying to ignore the computer screen and still catching himself glancing at it again and again as if expecting it to flash with an instant message any minute. Maybe he expected to get caught for talking to Timmy about the game. Caught and punished. Admitting he had seen Monsignor O' Sullivan's dead body felt like he was also admitting the guilt that came along with it. He was guilty. He shouldn't just be caught, he should be punished. And yet, the computer screen remained the same.

He started taking each item out of the box, carefully setting them one by one on the desk. Then he took out the can of Brasso metal polish, the soft cloth and box of Q-tips he used to clean them. It wasn't quite as elaborate as Sister Kate's collection, but hey, he had to start somewhere.

So far he owned three medallions, two coins and one eight-inch silver crucifix. The message from the guy on eBay that he had bought the crucifix from said it had been adhered to a knight's shield during the Crusades, that he had drawings and sketches that showed similar ones and that this one had the black welding spots on the back.

Gibson wasn't sure he believed him, but he got the medallion for less than he expected to pay, and even if it wasn't from a knight's shield, it was pretty cool. It was definitely old. He spent almost three days cleaning the tarnish from all the intricate grooves. If he didn't know it was a crucifix, Gibson would have guessed it was a dagger of some kind. Maybe he'd take it in to show Sister Kate. Yeah, maybe he'd take his entire small collection in to show her. He liked that idea.

He looked around his room, trying to remember where he had thrown his backpack. He dragged it with him everywhere, lacing it onto the handles of his bike or throwing it over his shoulder. It was a reflex action, like putting on one of his baseball caps. But he hardly ever looked in it, stuffing things in the side pockets like his keys and spare change. It probably needed to be cleaned out. He found it by the door to his closet where he had also kicked off his tennis shoes. And yeah, the backpack was bulging. He'd never fit his collection in there even if he put it all in a smaller box.

He threw the backpack on his bed, unzipped the main compartment as well as all the side pockets. He started digging everything out, separating the trash and shaking his head at the stupid stuff he couldn't believe he still had in there. The bulge in the main compartment was something he didn't recognize. Definitely something he didn't own. He didn't know where it'd come from. Who the hell put it in his backpack?

Gibson pulled out a brown leather portfolio, tossed it onto his bed and stared at it How did the frickin' thing get into his backpack?

Omaha, Nebraska

Maggie didn't get to her hotel room until almost midnight. She had to hand it to Cunningham, the junior suite at the Embassy Suites was more than the standard comfort level that she was used to on the road. It was also only a few blocks from the police station at the edge of a downtown area Pakula had called the Old Market. It was a quaint area with cobblestone streets and old brick warehouses remodeled into shops and restaurants that included hundreds of tiny, glittering white lights outlining the shop awnings and flat rooftops.

She had just replaced her street clothes with her nightshirt, made herself comfortable in the middle of the king-size bed and started to devour her room service when her cell phone rang. She swiped barbecue sauce from her lips as she lunged for her jacket. She had called Gwen earlier, leaving only a message when she kept getting Gwen's answering service. Maybe she was finally returning her call.

"Maggie O'Dell," she answered after swallowing a mouthful of food.

"Maggie, sorry to bother you so late." It was Adam Bonzado. "Julia told me you were out of town and probably a couple of time zones behind us. I hope I'm not waking you."

"Actually Nebraska is only one time zone behind you. But no, you're not waking me. I just got in, winding down with some room service." Room service which was her first and only meal of the day and which she was starving for. She licked barbecue sauce from her fingers. "What's going on?"