Secrets to the Grave

43

“No signs of forced entry. No signs of a struggle. No signs that she packed anything in a hurry—or at all,” Mendez told Dixon.

They had gathered in the sheriff’s office to share the news. Dixon sat back against the edge of his desk with his arms crossed tight across his chest. As always, his uniform was pressed crisp and impeccable. The only wrinkles were the creases Vince could see deepening across the sheriff’s forehead and around his mouth.

Dealing with the press was taking its toll. Not only the entire state of California, but the nation was watching this case with a magnifying glass. The national press had moved in. The story of the beautiful artist murdered in the beautiful setting was made even juicier by the back story of Oak Knoll with the sensational See-No-Evil murders and the upcoming trial of Peter Crane.

Throwing gasoline on an already hot fire, the story of the delivery of Marissa Fordham’s breasts to Milo Bordain had been leaked by someone to the hungry media pack.

Vince didn’t envy Dixon his public relations job on this. Dealing with the press and the public was like trying to satisfy a multitude of two-year-old children who wanted what they wanted NOW. None of them wanted to hear that this case wasn’t going to be solved overnight.

“And nobody has spotted her car,” Dixon said.

“No, sir.”

Dixon stared out the window for a moment. “What do you think, Vince?”

“She was pretty shaken up yesterday,” Vince said. He had claimed a seat for himself on the credenza built in along the outer wall of the office. Mendez and Hicks stood, nobody taking the much lower positioned chairs in front of the desk. Cops.

“She definitely knows more about Marissa and what got her killed than she told us,” he went on. “My gut tells me they were in something together. Marissa would have been the leader. Gina probably got dragged along for the ride.”

“We’re thinking blackmail,” Mendez said. The Lidocaine had finally worn out of his face so he didn’t have to talk out the side of his mouth. But his lip was still fat beneath his mustache. “There’s a reason why nobody seems to know who Haley’s father is. And we still haven’t located a birth certificate.”

“That would explain how she came to have that much money in the trust account for the little girl,” Dixon said.

“That would also make sense looking at the crime,” Vince said. “The personal quality of the attack, the amount of rage involved, the concentration of stab wounds to the lower abdomen, removal of the breasts—”

“Right down to the knife in the vagina,” Mendez added.

“Exactly,” Vince said. “The killer’s rage was focused on everything that made Marissa a woman—every body part related to reproduction.”

“And we have plenty of candidates for the title of Dad, don’t we?” Dixon said.

“The list goes on and on,” Hicks said. “And those are just the men we know about. It’s just as apt to be somebody she didn’t date openly, right? I mean, the guys she was seeing casually are single men. It might be embarrassing for one of them to have a kid pop up, but it wouldn’t ruin anybody.”

“Steve Morgan isn’t a single man,” Mendez pointed out.

Dixon scowled at him. “No. He’s a man who’s going to sue the department.”

Mendez spread his hands. “He assaulted me!”

Vince intervened. “If she was seeing Steve Morgan on the sly, she could have had other married lovers.”

“Gina Kemmer probably knows,” Hicks said.

“But Marissa Fordham didn’t move here until after the baby was born, right?” Dixon asked.

“Right,” Hicks said. “At this point, we don’t really know where she came here from. She told people Rhode Island, but for all we know she might have come here from Vegas—somebody’s drunken weekend indiscretion.”

“A threat’s not a threat unless it’s in your face,” Vince said. “Being here in the community is a constant reminder that revelation is just one missed blackmail payment away.”

“Has the little girl said anything about her father?”

“No, not specifically. She talks about ‘daddies,’ plural,” Vince said. “She asked me if I was ‘the daddy.’”

“Chances are even better that Gina knows who the father is,” Mendez said. “If she didn’t leave on her own ...”

“We need to get a helicopter in the air looking for her car,” Dixon said.

“You need to be able to go through her house with a fine-tooth comb,” Vince said. “If Gina has the birth certificate—or a copy of it—stashed somewhere, it’s got the killer’s name on it in big black letters.”

“The ADA wouldn’t give us a search warrant this morning,” Mendez complained. “There’s no evidence of foul play. There’s no evidence Gina Kemmer didn’t just leave of her own free will.”

“She’s got no family in the area to declare her a missing person?” Dixon asked.

“Nada. She told us she came up here from LA.”

“Then we issue a warrant for her arrest as a material witness,” Dixon said. “We’ll get our search warrant that way.”

“Bill and I talked about the material witness angle last night,” Mendez said. “It’s a little bit thin. What do we say she witnessed?”

“Get the affidavit started,” Dixon said. “I’ll call the ADA myself.”

“I’ll get on it,” Hicks volunteered. He hustled out of the room and down the hall to get the paperwork started.

“Do we have anything yet on the box with the breasts?” Dixon asked.

“Latent prints says the box is a mess,” Mendez said. “Covered in fingerprints. Prints on top of prints on top of prints. The thing has been handled by who knows how many people.”

Dixon blew out a sigh, letting his shoulders slump for just a second. “Nobody at that post office is going to remember one person mailing a plain brown box.”

“It’d be great if they had video surveillance in their lobby.”

Dixon looked at Mendez like he’d lost his mind. “Video surveillance at the post office? In Lompoc?”

“Someday it’ll be everywhere,” Mendez said. “Post offices, airports—”

“Right,” the sheriff scoffed. “For all those post office crime waves.”

Vince chuckled. “First the mini-marts, next the post office.”

“I can see it now.” Dixon laughed. “Blitz attacks led by rogue stamp collectors.”

“I’m telling you,” Mendez insisted, taking the ribbing in stride. “And I’ll come to the nursing home and rub your noses in it when technology takes over law enforcement.”

“You do that, Tony,” Dixon said. “Right now, we’ve got a case to deal with. Vince, why send the breasts to Milo Bordain?”

“The obvious reason would be basically putting an exclamation point on the murder. He destroyed Marissa and expressed his disdain for the woman who paid for her to live in this community.”

“You don’t think Mrs. Bordain is in any danger?”

“Marissa had to be the primary source of his hatred,” Vince said. “The brutality of the crime was intensely personal. Sending the breasts to Mrs. Bordain was something that happened from a distance, suggesting a certain amount of emotional detachment.”

“So the answer is no.”

“Never say never, but it seems unlikely. I know of a case in Spain where a disturbed man murdered a patron of a particular controversial artist because he believed the artist’s works sent satanic messages. He couldn’t get to the artist so he eliminated the artist’s source of support—a well-known figure in the art community,” Vince said. “Marissa Fordham’s work couldn’t be called controversial in any way.”

“Feminist, though,” Mendez said. “She did the poster for the Thomas Center for Women, celebrating the strength of women’s spirits. That might be considered controversial by some people.”

“Jane does say they get a certain amount of mail from strict ultra-conservative religious groups,” Dixon said.

“If this is supposed to be some kind of crusade, then you’d be looking at a very different UNSUB,” Vince said. “That would be someone more apt to want attention to get their point across. I think we would have heard from the killer either directly or through the press if that was the case.”

“So, we’re no farther along than we were,” Dixon concluded. “Lots of questions, not many answers.”

“We need to find Gina Kemmer,” Mendez said.

Detective Hamilton knocked on the door and stuck his head into the office. He was bleary-eyed and one ear was red from keeping the phone pressed to it for too many hours.

“What have you got, Doug?” Dixon asked.

“I got Marissa Fordham’s social security number from the bank yesterday,” the detective said. He came into the open doorway and propped himself sideways against the jamb. They were all exhausted. “It belongs to a woman named Melissa Fabriano. I’m running the name for a record, wants, and warrants in California.”

“So you were right,” Mendez said. “Marissa Fordham didn’t exist before 1981.”

“It looks that way. We don’t know if Melissa Fabriano exists either, though,” Hamilton said. “Could be another alias.”

“Only people with things to hide need an alias,” Mendez said. “What about Gina Kemmer?”

“What about her?”

“See if she has a record,” Dixon said.

“Can I sue the department for cauliflower ear?” Hamilton asked.

“We need computers,” Mendez complained.

“I need world peace,” Dixon said, pushing to his feet. “And for this case to be solved. If you all can deliver either of those things, get out there and do it.”