already accepted this possibility—no, make that probability—
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although I have not confronted it emotionally. The fact that Annie may be dead not only because of what she did but because she was my friend.
“Right. But that’s all conjecture. Anyway, so I go and check my e-mail—”
I interrupt her. “Where did he send the e-mail from?”
She looks at me, hesitant. “He sent it from your friend’s computer, Smoky. It was her e-mail address.”
This sparks a sudden, unexpected wave of anger in me. I know he did this not just to cover his tracks, but to show that what was Annie’s was now his. I push it aside. “Go on.”
“It gave Annie King’s name and address, nothing else, and there were four attachments. Three were photos of your friend. The fourth was the letter to you. At this point, we are taking it seriously. You can fake anything when it comes to photos these days, but it’s like a bomb threat—you evacuate just in case. So my partner and I gathered up some uniforms and went over to the address.” She sips her tea. “The door wasn’t locked, and after some knocking without any answer, we pulled our weapons and entered. Your friend and her daughter were in the bedroom, on the bed. She had her computer set up in there.” She shakes her head, remembering. “It was a bad scene, Smoky. You’ve seen more of that than I have, that kind of methodical, intentional killing, but I don’t think you’d have seen it differently. He cut her open, removed her insides, and bagged them. Slit her throat. But the worst of it was the daughter.”
“Bonnie.”
“Right. She was tied face-to-face with her mother. Nothing fancy. He just put them stomach to stomach, and wrapped rope around them both until she couldn’t move. She was there like that for three days, Smoky. Tied to her own dead mother. You know what happens to a body in three days. The air-conditioning wasn’t on. And the fucker had left a window cracked. There were blowflies.”
I do know. What she’s describing is unimaginable.
“The kid is ten years old, and the smell is already bad, and she’s there with flies all over. She’d turned her head so her cheek was resting on her mom’s face.” Jenny grimaces, and I get a hint of the horror she felt at that moment. I’m thankful, so thankful, I wasn’t there for that. “She was quiet. Didn’t say a word when we got into the room. Not while we S H A D O W M A N
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were untying her. She was just limp, and stared. Unresponsive to questions. She was dehydrated. We got EMS over right away, and I sent her off with an officer. She’s fine physically, and I have a guard posted at the door of her room just in case. I got her a private room, by the way.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that. A lot.”
Jenny waves it off, sips her tea. I’m surprised to see the smallest of trembles as she does this. She is truly, deeply affected by the memory, as tough as she is. “She hasn’t said a word since. Do you think she’ll ever get over it? Could anyone?”
“I don’t know. I’m always surprised at what people can live through. But I don’t know.”
She gives me a speculative look. “I guess so.” She is silent for a moment before continuing. “Once we had her off in the ambulance, I shut the place down. I called CSU in, and I kicked their ass, hard. Maybe a little harder than I needed to, but I was just so . . . pissed. That’s not even a good word for how I felt.”
“I understand.”
“While all that was happening, I called and talked to Alan, and here we are. I don’t have much more than that. We’re at the dead beginning of it, Smoky. Evidence collection only. I haven’t had time to slow down and really look at anything.”
“Let’s step back a little. Let me walk you through it like a witness.”
“Sure.”
“We’ll do it as a CI.”
“Okay.”
By CI I mean “cognitive interview.” Witness recollections and accounts are one of our
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although I have not confronted it emotionally. The fact that Annie may be dead not only because of what she did but because she was my friend.
“Right. But that’s all conjecture. Anyway, so I go and check my e-mail—”
I interrupt her. “Where did he send the e-mail from?”
She looks at me, hesitant. “He sent it from your friend’s computer, Smoky. It was her e-mail address.”
This sparks a sudden, unexpected wave of anger in me. I know he did this not just to cover his tracks, but to show that what was Annie’s was now his. I push it aside. “Go on.”
“It gave Annie King’s name and address, nothing else, and there were four attachments. Three were photos of your friend. The fourth was the letter to you. At this point, we are taking it seriously. You can fake anything when it comes to photos these days, but it’s like a bomb threat—you evacuate just in case. So my partner and I gathered up some uniforms and went over to the address.” She sips her tea. “The door wasn’t locked, and after some knocking without any answer, we pulled our weapons and entered. Your friend and her daughter were in the bedroom, on the bed. She had her computer set up in there.” She shakes her head, remembering. “It was a bad scene, Smoky. You’ve seen more of that than I have, that kind of methodical, intentional killing, but I don’t think you’d have seen it differently. He cut her open, removed her insides, and bagged them. Slit her throat. But the worst of it was the daughter.”
“Bonnie.”
“Right. She was tied face-to-face with her mother. Nothing fancy. He just put them stomach to stomach, and wrapped rope around them both until she couldn’t move. She was there like that for three days, Smoky. Tied to her own dead mother. You know what happens to a body in three days. The air-conditioning wasn’t on. And the fucker had left a window cracked. There were blowflies.”
I do know. What she’s describing is unimaginable.
“The kid is ten years old, and the smell is already bad, and she’s there with flies all over. She’d turned her head so her cheek was resting on her mom’s face.” Jenny grimaces, and I get a hint of the horror she felt at that moment. I’m thankful, so thankful, I wasn’t there for that. “She was quiet. Didn’t say a word when we got into the room. Not while we S H A D O W M A N
75
were untying her. She was just limp, and stared. Unresponsive to questions. She was dehydrated. We got EMS over right away, and I sent her off with an officer. She’s fine physically, and I have a guard posted at the door of her room just in case. I got her a private room, by the way.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that. A lot.”
Jenny waves it off, sips her tea. I’m surprised to see the smallest of trembles as she does this. She is truly, deeply affected by the memory, as tough as she is. “She hasn’t said a word since. Do you think she’ll ever get over it? Could anyone?”
“I don’t know. I’m always surprised at what people can live through. But I don’t know.”
She gives me a speculative look. “I guess so.” She is silent for a moment before continuing. “Once we had her off in the ambulance, I shut the place down. I called CSU in, and I kicked their ass, hard. Maybe a little harder than I needed to, but I was just so . . . pissed. That’s not even a good word for how I felt.”
“I understand.”
“While all that was happening, I called and talked to Alan, and here we are. I don’t have much more than that. We’re at the dead beginning of it, Smoky. Evidence collection only. I haven’t had time to slow down and really look at anything.”
“Let’s step back a little. Let me walk you through it like a witness.”
“Sure.”
“We’ll do it as a CI.”
“Okay.”
By CI I mean “cognitive interview.” Witness recollections and accounts are one of our
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