RICKI VALENTINE SLOWLY paced along the two tables on which she’d carefully organized the reams of reports and photographs from BoneMan’s files. Laid out in seven columns, one for each case, in the order they’d been investigated. A map of Texas faced her from the wall behind the tables, showing the path of death BoneMan had carved from El Paso to Austin.
Four days had passed since Kracker asked her to dive back into the case that had consumed her two years earlier, and she’d spent half of that time pacing. Running her hand along the table, examining each piece of data, each field report, each photograph, with the intent of extracting even a whiff of evidence they’d missed before.
Her task was a simple one: Keep Switzer behind bars, because they all knew that Switzer was BoneMan. Save the DA. Prevent a killer from breaking another bone.
Convince the evidence to tell her something new.
But the evidence wasn’t cooperating.
Mark Resner, her partner on the case, leaned against his desk ten feet to her left, sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, tapping a pencil on his palm as he watched her.
“The lioness stalks,” he said quietly.
She looked at him and saw that he was smiling.
“Is that what I am? I feel a bit more like a snake at the moment.”
“Now there’s an image.”
“Snaking through all this slimy mess.”
“Give it a break, Ricki. We’ve both been over it a hundred times; there’s nothing new on that table.”
She shifted her gaze to the black picture window. They were three stories up, facing a large brick building that cut out the city’s night lights. Her reflection stared back. Haunting. Her black hair was absorbed by the night, leaving only a face with brown eyes gazing at her.
To think that the fate of BoneMan was held in the grasp of this petite thirty-five-year-old woman. An odd thought.
“Mind closing the blinds?”
Mark walked to the window and lowered the white blinds.
It was more than just BoneMan’s fate. It was the fate of other victims, should BoneMan strike again. Of the DA, should Switzer go free. The people when the realization that the killer who’d terrorized Texas was not behind bars.
“I think you’re right, Mark,” she said, turning her attention back to the stacks of files. “There’s nothing new here.” She walked to the end of the table, picked up one file marked Blood Lab, and headed back the way she’d come, drumming her fingers on the file.
“I can’t help but thinking…” But she wasn’t sure quite how to put it.
The thought had run circles through her mind all afternoon and into the evening, but she’d refused to give it much attention, because her task was to find new evidence, not rehash old.
“Blood?” Mark asked, eyeing the file. “The blood work’s been verified in three separate lab workups.”
“I know, Switzer’s blood, both samples apparently from the original sample.”
“But not conclusive.”
“Not conclusive in our way of thinking. But the margin of error is so small, we both know the judge will probably allow the new evidence and declare a mistrial. That’s why we’re here.”
“But…” Mark said expectantly.
Ricki took a deep breath and eased to the middle of the room, eyes on the table all the way. She stopped, held out the blood file, and released it.
The manila file landed on the carpet with a soft plop.
Ricki put her hands on her hips and nodded at the table. “What do you see?”
Mark joined her and stared at the stacks, the map, all that was BoneMan in the FBI files.
“You’re saying Switzer isn’t BoneMan?” he said. “I know how it looks, but—”
“No, Mark. Just tell me what you see. What do you know about the files on that table?”
“They meticulously detail BoneMan’s work in seven murders. Crime scene investigation reports, lab work, evidence gathered and analyzed, interviews, behavior profiles, photographs. You want me to go on?”
“You see BoneMan.”
“I see BoneMan.”
“Do you see Switzer? Just what’s on the table, do you see Switzer?”
“I think I do, yes.”
“Well, I’m not sure I do, Mark.” She paced to her right, propping one arm on the other, turning the silver cross on her breastbone absently. “Standing back, two years after the fact, if I really do pull out the blood work, I just can’t say for sure that the killer on that table is the man we have behind bars.”
“Well, that’ll go over. The killings stopped.”
“Wouldn’t you stop the killings if you learned that they had blamed your work on someone else?”
“Not if I were a serial killer, I wouldn’t. You know killers like BoneMan feed off the game. He would find the opportunity to show off his handiwork irresistible, particularly after the public had sighed in relief at his supposed capture.”
“So it would seem. But pysch profiles are only educated guesses. They’re hypotheses about criminals. Isn’t it at least a possibility that BoneMan, a killer who isn’t necessarily taking pleasure in his killing, is smarter? Having killed seven, the number of completion in many religious circles, he’s fulfilled his obligation to God and gotten away with it. Or maybe he’s still killing but burying the bodies, waiting for the day to go public again.”
“Possible. But with the weight of evidence—”
“Take away the blood”—she walked over to the table, lifted a thick file, and tossed it on the carpet—“take away the psychobabble. Now what do you see?”
“This isn’t new territory, Ricki. We thought we had the right guy before the blood turned up.”
“Just follow me. Do you see Switzer on the table now? Separating out the psych and blood?”
“He’s white, hundred and ninety pounds, size thirteen—all things we know about BoneMan.”
“So are a couple hundred thousand other Americans.”
“There’s also his refusal to deny.”
“Not an admission.”
“Dead cats—”
“Not dead girls.”
“No alibi for any of the murders.”
“Not exactly a Polaroid of him leaning over the bodies.”
He frowned, but there was a sparkle in his blue eyes. She’d dated the blond-haired agent from Mississippi long before the BoneMan case, but they’d decided that a romance would only complicate their relationship in the office. He’d since married Gertrude, a pretty brunette from his hometown, Biloxi.
Ricki had drifted in and out of a dozen casual relationships over the past ten years, but not too many guys were strong enough to handle an “agent with tunnel vision,” as Mark put it. She was admittedly preoccupied. Not that she didn’t want a serious relationship; she just wasn’t the type to go hunting for a man unless he’d committed a federal offense and deserved to spend the rest of his time behind bars.
Not the best of bedmates.
“You really buy all that?” he said.
“I’m just saying.” Ricki walked up to him, turned to face the table, and crossed her arms. “We’re not necessarily looking at Phil Switzer. We may be. We may not be.”
“You think that’s the way a jury would see it?”
“Depends on the attorney. But I think the judge will see it that way.”
“So you think we have the wrong man. The DA’s gonna convince the mayor to throw you a party.”
“I’m not saying we do have the wrong man, Mark. I’m saying that we can’t be sure, not without the blood evidence. And if we can’t be sure that BoneMan is behind bars, we might want to consider the fact that he’s still out there.”
He said nothing to that.
“If he is, we still have a lot of work in front of us.”
Mark crossed to his desk and sat. “I don’t know, Ricki. I think you’re wrong about this one. And unless we get another dead body, I think the rest of the world will agree with me.”
“You willing to take that risk? Another victim?”
“Come on, Ricki, this is me. Of course not. Please don’t tell me you’re going to pitch this to Kracker. You know how tight he is with the DA. They’ll crucify you, going out on a whim like this.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do yet.”
“Don’t do it. If you do, I’m not backing you.”
She studied him for a moment, then crossed to her chair, plucked her purse from the corner, and walked for the door.
“You’re right about one thing, Mark. There’s nothing new on this table. It’s all on the floor.”