Mary, Mary

Chapter 63

THE BATHROOM WAS A HORROR.

Mariah Alexander, the nineteen-year-old hotel maid, lay collapsed backward in the tub, her head at a nearly impossible angle to her torso. Her throat was torn open where a bullet had erased any possibility of a scream. Her long, curly black hair was streaked with her blood. It looked as though the girl's carotid artery had been nicked, which would explain the blood spurts that extended all the way up the wall.

A heavy set of keys lay on the tile floor near the dead girl's dangling feet. My first guess was that Mary Smith had pulled a gun on the young woman, forced her to unlock the hotel- room door, then backed her up into the bathroom and shot her - all in quick succession.

Susan Cartoulis and Mr. Conver would likely have been in the bedroom at that point, just a short hallway away. Someone - probably Conver - had come to see what was going on.

If the bloodstains on the carpet were any indication, Mary Smith had intercepted Conver halfway between the bedroom and bathroom.

His body, however, was now arranged on the bed next to Susan Cartoulis. The lovers lay faceup, side by side, on top of the covers.

Both of them were nude - another first for Mary Smith - although it was likely they were undressed when she got there.

Pillowcases were draped across the two victims' hips and over Ms. Cartoulis's chest, in an odd suggestion of modesty Man, this was a wacky and confusing killer. The inconsistencies boggled the mind, mine anyway It got even stranger. The king-size bed was perfectly made. It was possible that Cartoulis and Conver hadn't used the bed while having sex, but soft drinks and a condom wrapper on the nightstand indicated otherwise.

Did Mary Smith actually make the bed after she murdered three people? If so, she was good at it. Nana had long ago made sure I knew the difference between a real hospital corner and a lazy one. Mary Smith knew the difference as well.

The tidily arranged covers were soaked with blood, particularly around Ms. Cartoulis.

Both victims had sustained gunshot wounds to the head, but Cartoulis's face had also been brutalized with a blade - in Mary Smith's usual manner, and as promised in the e- mail. I could just about make out Conver's last, strained expression of terror, but Cartoulis's face had so many cuts it looked like a single open wound.

It reminded me of the murders at Antonia Schifman's house - neat and sloppy at the same time.

One killer, two completely different impulses.

What the hell had she been thinking? What did she want out of this?

The most disturbing new wrinkle came a few minutes later. A yellow leather Coach wallet with Susan Cartoulis's driver's license and credit cards lay open on a chair near the bed.

As I looked through the wallet, I saw that it was neatly filled with one thing and another, but that there were several empty plastic sleeves. The empty spaces sent tension up and down my spine. “Goddammit,” I said out loud. “Photographs.”

One of the Crime Scene Unit staff turned to me. “What's up? You find something?”

“Do we know where Susan Cartoulis's husband is?” I asked.

“He's supposed to be on a plane, coming home from Florida. 'Why?”

“I need to know if this woman carried family photos in her wallet.”

My question was a formality; I was almost certain I knew the answer. This would be the second time in as many incidents that Mary Smith had been interested in family photos.

She'd gone from leaving the children entirely alone to either destroying or stealing their photographs. Meanwhile, her methodology was increasingly erratic, and her e-mails seemed more confident than ever.

How slippery a slope was this going to be from here on? And where was it taking me?

I didn't think I could live with myself if Mary Smith started turning on kids before we caught up to her. But that's what I was afraid might happen next.