Faye Kellerman - Hangman

Way back when, when Chris Donatti né Chris Whitman had been a senior in high school, Cheryl Diggs had been his teen girlfriend. On the night of the senior prom, Donatti had been accused of murdering her, and soon after, he went to jail because of some noble but misguided notion that he was saving Terry McLaughlin from the ordeal of testifying at his trial. It turned out that Chris had been innocent, probably the only crime that he was ever innocent of.

Marge said, “I’m on my way with Oliver. Should I keep you updated or do you want to come?”

“I’m coming.” He picked up his jacket, his cell phone, and his camera. “I’ll take a separate car and meet you two there.”

“Anything I should be looking for?”

“Do you know what Terry McLaughlin looks like?”

“Last time I saw her, she was sixteen. A beautiful girl, as I recall.”

“She’s matured, but she’s still beautiful.” Decker slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. “Of course, if it’s her, she isn’t going to look pretty at all.”

CRIME WAS UBIQUITOUS,and while the community policed by the Devonshire substation had its share of assaults, burglaries, and thefts, it wasn’t considered high in the homicide department. So when murder did occur, it stood out as an anomaly. Hangings were as rare as L.A. snow.

Decker drove down the main boulevard, twisting and turning until he arrived at one of the more affluent residential areas. It was a planned community and the homes were two-storied with three-car garages and half-acre lots. There were a few architectural styles to choose from: Spanish, Tudor, Colonial, Italianate, and Modern, which was basically an oversize box with oversize windows. Several homes were in the process of being built.

At the given address, a sizable group of gawkers was milling about, craning their necks to see what was going on. One radio van had already arrived and no doubt several more were on the way. Decker parked about a half block away from the hubbub and walked over to the action. He flashed his badge to one of the uniforms and then ducked under the yellow crime-scene tape.

The two-story house had been framed: the rooms had been delineated, the windows were in, and the roof was on. The crowd was gathered toward the back, mostly uniformed officers, but Decker could also see flashbulbs discharging at frequent intervals. Marge, riding with her partner, Scott Oliver, had beaten him to the scene.

Scott was his usually natty self, wearing a houndstooth jacket, black slacks, a black jacquard silk tie, and a starched white shirt. As Decker got closer to the corpse, the air had turned fetid, filled with the stink of excretion. A funnel of blackflies, gnats, and other winged insects was encircling the space.

Oliver was shooing the critters away. “Get lost, bugs. Go eat the carrion.”

From his breast jacket pocket, Decker took out a tube of Vicks VapoRub and dabbed his nostrils with the ointment. He waved a hand across his face to disperse the insects as he stared at the body swinging from the rafters. The woman’s face was so discolored and bloated that she was almost unrecognizable as human. She was nude, her long dark hair vainly trying to give her some modesty. Cable wire had been looped several times around her neck, the terminus of the ligature knotted on one of the ceiling joists. Her toenails—painted red—just barely cleared the ground.

“Any ID?” Decker asked.

“None so far,” Marge answered. “Is it Terry?”

Decker stared a long time. “I’d like to say no, but honestly she’s too distorted to tell.” He took out his notebook and began to make some sketches. “What cable company services this area?”

“American Lifeline does most of the Valley,” Marge answered. “I’ll call them up and get a schedule of who’s working in the area.”

Decker said. “Find out what kind of cable wire they use. Also get someone to start calling electronic shops and computer stores in the area and find out what kind of cable they sell.”

“I’ll do that,” Oliver said.

“No, get Lee Wang to make all the calls. You and Marge start canvassing the area. I’ll bring in a couple of other Dees to help you out.” Decker continued to study the body. “Do we have any ideas who this might be?”

“Wynona Pratt is making calls to the other station houses, finding out if any young women were reported missing.”

Decker rubbed his forehead and turned to the photographer, George Stubbs, a gray-haired, stocky man in his fifties. “Are you done with her?”

“Almost.”

“Did you take close-ups of her neck?”

“I took some. I can take more.”

“Do that. Also take several snapshots of the knot on the ceiling where the cable wire is knotted.”

Marge had gloved up and was studying the body, circling it like carrion. By law, no one could touch the body until the coroner’s investigator gave the okay. “This seems like a bloodless murder. No bullet holes, no stab wounds. No defensive wounds on her hands. Her nails aren’t chipped or scratched. Her French polish manicure is like new.” She looked up. “Happen to notice if Terry had on nail polish?”

Decker thought back, trying to recall Terry’s hands. Then he noticed the hanging woman’s feet—bright red toenails. “When Terry first spoke to me, her feet were bare and I don’t recall her toenails being polished.” A pause. “She could have polished them later, after I left, but how likely is that unless she had it done in the hotel’s salon.”

Marge said, “I’ll call up and ask.”

He stared at the face. “It’s not her.”

“You’re sure.”

“Almost certain.” He regarded her features, then shook his head. “Do we have any forensics—semen, fingerprints, shoe prints, maybe some tire tracks in the area? Lots of dust and dirt, we should be able to pull something from the ground.”

“I’ve been bagging garbage,” Oliver said.

“Marking the spots?”

Oliver held up some small orange cones with numbers on them.

Decker said, “What have picked up?”

“Mostly fast-food sandwich wrappers and junk from the roach coach. S.I.D. is on the way. So are a couple of investigators from the Crypt.”

“If it’s a construction site, where’s all the activity?” Decker asked.

“No activity because they’re waiting for the framing inspector to sign off. The appointment was for four o’clock in the afternoon. The foreman, who’s name is Chuck Tinsley, arrived here first and was going over the property just to make sure everything looked okay. He was waiting for the contractor and the architect to come down when he discovered the body. He called 911, then immediately called the contractor, who is on his way.”

“Where’s Tinsley?”

Marge pointed to a black-and-white. “He’s ensconced inside. Should I get him?”

Decker nodded as his gaze continued to fix on the swinging corpse. His thoughts were meandering to several places, and none were good.

T HE BACK PASSENGERdoor to the cruiser was open, a uniform standing in front of the space, keeping watch over her charge as well as the set of wheels. If Decker squinted, he could see a figure huddled in the backseat, his arms wrapped around his body as if his arms were straps on a straitjacket. As Decker approached the car, he nodded to the police officer and pointed to the open door. The cop bent down and spoke to the huddled man. When he emerged, Tinsley was average height, a tank of a fellow with long, muscular arms, dark eyes, a strong chin, and a face of controlled stubble. The officer led him to Decker, who glanced at her tag.

“Thank you, Officer Breckenridge, I’ll take it from here.” He extended his hand to the foreman, whose complexion was ashen behind the darkening of beard. He had brown eyes, a Roman nose, and thin lips. His hair was a nest of cowlicks. He appeared to be in his thirties. “Lieutenant Peter Decker.”