Secrets to the Grave

13

“That’s fucking bizarre, man,” Bill Hicks said. “He killed his own mother.”

“He says he killed her,” Mendez said. “Why would somebody just blurt that out to a couple of cops? I don’t care if the guy is some kind of mathematical genius. He’s a fucking wack job.”

“What did Vince have to say about it?”

Leone had gone on to the college to have another conversation with Arthur Buckman, one the college president was not likely to enjoy. Mendez had grabbed Hicks in the parking lot at the SO. They were on their way to the Thomas Center for Women to speak to Jane Thomas, who was probably not going to be happy to see them, either.

“He thinks it’s probably true.”

“Does he think Zahn killed Marissa Fordham?”

“He’s not leaning that way. He thinks the murder was too messy. Zahn is a freak about touching other people. This killer had to have been covered in blood.”

“That many stab wounds, killing in a frenzy like that,” Hicks said. “It would be a safe bet the killer would have cut himself at some point. A bloody knife is slippery.”

“He could have worn gloves.”

“He didn’t bring a weapon to the scene, but he brought gloves?” Hicks arched an eyebrow, dubious.

“If he knew the vic, had been to her house, he would know she had knives there. No need to bring his own,” Mendez pointed out.

“What are the odds we get blood evidence on the perp out of that mess in the house?”

“Slim to none. We’ll send the knife to BFS.”

“How about to the FBI?”

The state Bureau of Forensic Sciences lab was good. The Bureau was the best—although it would take weeks to get results.

“If the boss says we can, why not?” Mendez said. “And if we get lucky and get seminal fluid off the body or off the sheets, maybe they get DNA.”

Hicks made a face. “What’s it good for? A bunch of scientific mumbojumbo and mathematical statistics to put a jury to sleep? That is if a prosecutor can ever get it admitted. It hasn’t happened yet.”

“You wait and see,” Mendez said as he slowed the car and turned into the Thomas Center parking area. “Once the gurus get all the bugs worked out, DNA will be the thing.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

The Thomas Center for Women had originally been built in the twenties as a private Catholic girls’ school, and operated as such into the sixties. Modeled on the style of the old Spanish missions that dotted the length of California, the white stucco buildings and connecting arch-ways formed a large central courtyard. A huge stone fountain gurgled at the center. Beautiful small gardens lined the stone pathways that radiated out from the fountain. Roses the color of fresh salmon were still in bloom. Mexican heather created ribbons of purple beneath them.

Inside the large administration building, the hall was wide and gracious, painted a warm, welcoming ochre yellow. The old Mexican pavers on the floor had been polished to a soft sheen.

The center was a place for women to reinvent themselves. Women from all walks of life who needed and deserved a second chance were welcome here. Homeless women, battered women, women with drug histories and even police records went through the program, which offered shelter, assistance with health care, psychological and job counseling.

It was a remarkable place with a remarkable woman at the head of it.

Mendez and Hicks went to the front desk and asked for Jane Thomas.

She emerged from her office with a look of concern marring her brow. In her early forties, she was a tall and elegant woman. She wore a black-and-white-printed dress that wrapped around her slender frame. Her blond hair had been slicked back into a simple ponytail.

“Detectives,” she said, shaking the hand of Hicks and then Mendez. “I would say it’s a pleasure to see you again, but I think you’ll understand if I reserve judgment.”

She had lost a former employee, Lisa Warwick, to the See-No-Evil killer, and had all but lost a client, Karly Vickers. Vickers had survived her ordeal, but had been left deaf and blind.

“We hardly ever show up with good news,” Mendez said.

“And today is no different.”

“I’m afraid not.”

Thomas sighed, resigned. “Let’s go into my office.”

“How is Ms. Vickers doing?” Hicks asked as they went into the spacious office that looked out on the courtyard garden.

“She’s got a long road ahead of her, and it’s all uphill. I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head as she took her seat behind the desk. “She’s had two surgeries now to try to repair the damage to her inner ears, without much success. She’ll never see again. She can talk to us, but all we can do is answer her by writing on the palm of her hand with a finger.

“She’s extremely depressed, and who can blame her? She can’t even testify against the man who kidnapped and tortured her—if he ever goes on trial for those crimes—because she can’t identify him. She asked us if we knew who he was. Either she never saw him, or he drugged her and she can’t remember, or she was too traumatized to remember.”

“It’s frustrating for us too,” Mendez said. “We still have no idea where he held the women. If we could find a location and link it to Peter Crane, we’d be in business.”

“He’ll go away for a long time for what he did to Anne Leone,” Hicks said. “That’s something anyway. I don’t see how he gets out for twenty-five years. Maybe more.”

“I hope so,” Jane Thomas said. “But I don’t think you gentlemen have come here to talk about Peter Crane, have you?”

“No, ma’am,” Mendez said.

“Cal came by earlier and told me about Marissa. I don’t even know what to say. How can something like that happen? It’s a nightmare.”

“Did you know Ms. Fordham well?” Hicks asked.

“I’ve known Marissa socially since she moved here. Her daughter was just a baby then. She did that remarkable poster for us,” she said, pointing to a two-feet-by-three-feet framed print on one wall of her office.

The poster depicted the Thomas Center logo—a stylized woman with her arms raised in victory—against a rich backdrop of magenta and purple, lavender and pink.

“We’ve raised a lot of money selling the prints,” she said.

“Were you friends?” Mendez asked.

“We were friendly. Milo Bordain, who sponsors her, is also a big supporter of the center. We would see each other at dinners and so on. I have a couple of Marissa’s paintings at my house. She did some wonderful work in the plein air style.”

“Do you know anything about her private life?” Mendez asked.

“Not really. She volunteered some time here as a guest teacher in our art therapy program. She came to fund-raisers. I saw her at gallery parties.”

“You didn’t know her daughter’s father?”

“No. I never heard her speak of him.”

“Did you ever see her in the company of a man?”

“At functions from time to time. I saw her with Mark Foster a couple of times. I saw her with Don Quinn a couple of times.”

“Don Quinn from Quinn, Morgan?” Mendez asked. Quinn, Morgan and Associates was a local law firm that did a lot of pro bono work for the center. The Morgan of Quinn, Morgan was Steve Morgan, Sara Morgan’s husband.

“Who is Mark Foster?” Hicks asked, taking notes.

“Mark Foster is the head of the music department at McAster,” she said. “But I didn’t get the impression Marissa was serious about anyone. They looked like casual dates. You know, Guest Plus One. She was fun. She liked to laugh. She was a very devoted mother.

“Milo would be able to help you more than I can,” she said. She flipped through her Rolodex for Bordain’s address and jotted it down on a piece of paper, then handed it across the desk. “She’ll be devastated. Marissa was like the daughter she never had.”

Mendez took the piece of paper and tucked it inside his little notebook as he rose from his chair. “We’ll speak to her. Thank you for your time.”

As they started toward the door, Jane Thomas asked, “Marissa’s daughter—have you heard anything? Will she be all right?”

She held up a hand before Mendez could draw a breath to answer. “What am I thinking? She witnessed her mother’s murder. What could be all right after that?”