Hey, Kitty-Cat,” Harlan murmured, pressing a swift kiss to the top of Kit’s head. “I saw you and your boss on TV last night.”
She’d arrived for the McKittrick family’s Sunday dinner only to be mobbed by her many foster brothers and sisters chattering excitedly about Navarro’s press conference the evening before.
“I didn’t want to be there.” She hated the spotlight. She simply wanted to do her job.
“I know. But let your family be proud of you.”
“I did.” Kit had blushed at their accolades, but she’d let them celebrate. Celebrations were one of the things that the McKittricks did best, offering their foster kids an opportunity to see the good in life after being surrounded by pain.
“I’m proud of you, girl. More than you’ll ever know. So is Mom. Those families will get closure. They’ll no longer be stuck waiting for their daughters to come home.”
“It’s a blow either way,” Kit murmured, warmed by his praise. What the public thought about her wasn’t so important. That she’d pleased her boss was good. That Harlan and Betsy McKittrick were proud of her was everything. “But at least two more families will have bodies to bury.” Jaelyn Watts and Miranda Crisp could be laid to rest. Ricki Emerson’s body had been returned to her family years before. “We haven’t found one of the victims and two are still unidentified.”
“You’ll follow it through. You’ll keep searching for those girls’ names.”
Kit had already started the request for funds to consult with DNA databases. It was becoming easier to narrow the search for the Jane Does of the world with genetic genealogy technology. The public’s interest in knowing their roots had populated many of these databases, turning them into DNA treasure troves.
“I will,” she vowed. She let herself lean into Harlan, resting her head on his shoulder. It was uncharacteristic of her. She hugged him nowadays, able to accept that level of touch, but rarely did she lean on anyone of her own volition.
Harlan stilled. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. My gut’s gone all wonky with this case. There was a key witness that was a suspect for a little while, but I didn’t want to believe he’d done the crimes. I really didn’t want to believe it. Baz was all like, ‘He did it, the bastard,’ but I didn’t want it to be true.”
“That’s not like you,” Harlan said mildly.
“No, it’s not. Turns out he really was just a key witness and Baz was wrong.”
“That bothers you?”
“Yeah.”
“That Baz was wrong or that you felt a personal connection?”
Damn, but the man knew her too well. She loved him for it, even as it irritated her. “The second one. Baz is wrong a lot.”
Harlan chuckled. “Impudent.”
“Always. But really, Baz is rarely wrong. I was more upset at myself.”
“Why did you feel a personal connection?”
“I don’t know. I heard his voice and saw his face and I just thought that he wasn’t a killer. Which is not smart.”
“You are human. You’re allowed to have a logical break every now and then.”
“No, I’m not. People could die if I believe a killer is innocent.”
“Oh, Kitty-Cat,” he sighed. “You take too much on your shoulders.”
“I can’t make mistakes, Pop.”
“You didn’t, though, in this case. You said you were right and Baz was wrong.” He studied her. “Tell me what’s bothering you.”
“It’s the killer,” she confessed quietly. “My gut says something is wrong, but the department ran with the man we found dead and told the media that they’d closed the case.”
“You don’t think he did it?”
“Well, he definitely did something.” She thought about the handcuffs and pink spray paint. The department had agreed that those details should continue to be need-to-know, or they’d have copycats coming out of the woodwork. “I think he was a killer, but I don’t know if he killed himself.”
“Did you tell your boss this?”
“I did, but the ME ruled he’d really hanged himself, and in the end the brass decided that the man’s suicide note was an adequate confession.” Mostly because they didn’t want to be accused of hiding key information from the public. “But I’d already told the ME that I was having doubts. I asked her to do a full drug screen, to look for sedatives, especially ones with short half-lives.” Sedatives that would disappear if one waited too long to check. “Just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“I don’t know.” She sighed. “I probably am overthinking it.”
“You?” Harlan said playfully. “Overthinking? Say it isn’t so.”
“Hush, old man. Can we talk about something else? I need to get out of my own head.”
“Of course.” He pointed at Snickerdoodle, who was lying on her back getting tummy rubs from the newest foster kid, Rita. “You may have trouble getting your dog back.”
Kit smiled at the sight of the girl playing with her dog. Margarita Mendoza was only thirteen and so distrustful. She reminded Kit a lot of herself at the same age. But a dog broke down barriers and Snick was one of the best at giving love to the kids who needed it the most. “How is she settling in?”
“About as well as you did.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“On her behalf or yours?”
“Both, I guess. I wasn’t an easy kid.”
“No, but you were always worth it.”
Kit’s throat closed. “Don’t make me cry, Pop.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, amused. “She was sitting with us last night, watching the press conference. She seemed very impressed with you.”
She sighed. “You want me to go over there and give her a pep talk, don’t you?”
“I’m so transparent.”
She squeezed his hand. “I’m so glad that you are. I never could have trusted you otherwise. Don’t blame me if the kid runs screaming. I’m terrible at this.” She let him go and turned for the new kid.
“No, you’re not,” he said softly to her back.
No, she really wasn’t. She was good with kids, especially teenagers. Rita wouldn’t be the first foster she’d given a pep talk to.
Kit approached slowly, giving the girl the opportunity to leave or tell her to go away if she wished. Rita’s sandy blond hair was streaked with pink, purple, and blue, her dark eyes fringed with long, dark lashes. She was a strikingly pretty girl, despite the lip that curled in a scowl.
Kit recognized the scowl, too. So much like me at thirteen. She pointed to the bench on which Rita sat. “May I join you?”
“I wasn’t hurting her,” Rita said defiantly, meaning Snickerdoodle.
“Oh, I know. She loves kids. She especially loves belly rubs.” Kit waited a beat, then added, “Dogs are a great judge of character, you know.”
Rita rolled her eyes, such a dark brown that her pupils blended right in. “Yeah, yeah. Did Mr. McK send you over to try to win me over?”
“Yes,” Kit said readily, then laughed. “And no.”
“You guys never give a straight answer.”
“Pop said that you seemed interested in the press conference last night.”
Rita’s hand stilled on Snickerdoodle’s belly. Snick gave a little wiggle and a whine and the girl huffed, resuming the belly rub. “You caught a serial killer.”
“We did. Team effort and all that.”
“Pretty white girls,” Rita said bitterly.
Ah. The victims. Rita was right. The murders of pretty white girls tended to get more attention in the press. “They were. But many of the victims we work for aren’t. Everyone deserves justice, you know?”
“I know. I looked you up. You catch a lot of killers.” She kept her gaze fixed on Kit’s dog. “Even killers who kill poor people who don’t matter.”
“Everyone matters, Rita. Everyone.”
Kit knew she’d said the words a little too forcefully when Rita glanced up at her in surprise. She seemed to gauge Kit’s response, then nodded.
“I wish you’d been around for my mom.”
Oh, baby. “Someone killed your mom?”
“Yeah. Her boyfriend.”
“So the police solved the crime?”
“No. He’s still out there. My mom worked for his family. Cleaned their house. He . . .” The girl swallowed hard. “He . . . you know. Hurt her first.”
Raped her. Kit’s heartache intensified and she remembered that Harlan had said the girl had feared him at first. Kit wondered what had been done to her. But she wouldn’t ask. At this stage, it wasn’t her business and any inquiry would be the fastest way to scare Rita off. “I’m sorry.”
Rita shrugged thin shoulders. “But he’s rich. Knows some cops. So he got off.”
“That’s not fair,” Kit murmured and Rita said nothing, keeping her face averted.
Tears fell to Rita’s jeans, and Kit pretended not to see them. She’d leave this girl her dignity. She’d also look into her mother’s case first thing the next morning.
“My sister was killed,” Kit said quietly.
Rita swallowed thickly. “She was?”
“Yeah. We were fifteen. The cops tried, but they never caught her killer.”
“They didn’t try hard enough, then.”
“You sound like I did back then. I thought that, too. Pop and I looked for her killer. The detective who handled her case helped us. He tried and we tried, but we’ve never found the guy who did it.”
“Not all cops are like you.”
She sighed. “I suppose that’s true.”
Rita drew a breath and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “Is that why you became a cop?”
“It is. After Wren died, it was all I ever wanted to be.”
“You did it,” she said, sounding a little awed. “You came from this place, from the system, and now you’re . . . important.”
Kit’s first reflex was to deny that she was important. Her job was important. But this girl needed to know that she could be important, too, so Kit nodded.
“Never could have done it without Mom and Pop. I know the others have already told you this, but you’re in a good place, Rita. The McKittricks are the very best people on the planet. So many of us have gone on to have amazing lives and they are the reason. I mean, we’ve put in the work, but they’ve given us support all along the way. What do you want to do?”
She shrugged again. “I like dogs.”
“And cats?”
Her smile was small, but true. “Cats are pretty cool.”
“Then aim to be a vet. Or a vet tech. Or work in a shelter. That’s probably something you can do right now, the shelter bit. I happen to know that one of the teachers at your new school organizes a group of volunteers who work at the animal shelter every Saturday morning.”
Rita’s eyes, still a little wet, widened. “Really? Who?”
“Miss Hubbard.”
“I have her for social studies. She’s old.”
Kit leaned in a little closer. “Spoiler alert: she was my teacher, too, way back in the day. She is getting older, but she’s really nice. Five stars. Would totally recommend.”
“I’ll ask her.”
“You got a phone?”
Rita pulled an older-model smartphone from her pocket. “My mom got it for me, but I couldn’t use it for a long time after she was gone. No plan. Mr. McK helped me get a new plan.” She seemed suspicious of the kindness. Kit understood that, too.
“You want my number? You can call me if you need to talk. If you get my voice mail, I’m probably working, but I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”
Rita’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You do that for all the strays here?”
Strays. It was what Kit had called herself for years after arriving at the McKittricks’ home. “You sound so much like I did at your age. And how old does that make me sound?”
Rita smirked. “Pretty fuckin’ old.”
Kit ignored the profanity. At Rita’s age, she’d said so much worse. She mock scowled instead. “You want my number or not?”
“Sure, why not?”
Rita’s careless tone didn’t fool her. “Then let’s do the AirDrop thing.”
They exchanged numbers and fell into a comfortable silence, Rita lazily petting Snickerdoodle, who soaked in the attention.
“I like it here,” Rita finally whispered.
“I do, too. It’s going to take you time to trust that this is a safe place.” Especially if she’d also been hurt. This was not Rita’s first foster placement. Kit knew that much.
“Did it take you a long time?” Rita asked. “To trust?”
“It did.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Pop. After Wren was killed, I found him crying where he thought no one would hear him. That’s when I knew that he was different. It wasn’t immediate, like, no lightning strikes or anything. But it wasn’t long afterward.”
Not entirely true. It had been another whole year and a lot of therapy.
“I’ll try,” Rita said softly.
“That’s all anyone can ask. You want some chicken? Mom’s is the best. And do you see that tall guy over there with the buzz cut? That’s Mateo. He came through the house before I did, but he comes home for Sunday dinner regularly. He’s a chef. Has a little restaurant downtown. His empanadas are so good. Let’s go get some.”
She wasn’t sure if Rita would follow her, but she did. Kit met Harlan’s gaze for the briefest moment while they walked to the picnic table sagging with the weight of all the food Mom and the others had prepared. He gave her a grateful nod and she gave him a smile.
She was glad she’d come home today. She’d needed the comfort. Needed the peace. Needed to feel like she was giving back.
Now, if she could just get rid of the nagging feeling in her gut over Colton Driscoll, life would be just great.
San Diego, California
Monday, April 11, 8:40 a.m.
Sam poked his head into Vivian’s office. She had her leg propped up on an ottoman, her crutches within easy reach.
“I got you a coffee,” he said, holding it out. He’d already guzzled his down, needing the caffeine.
“Oh, thank you.” Looking as worn out as he felt, she gestured to the chair beside her. “Sit down and let me look at you.”
He obeyed and she frowned at the fading bruise on his cheek. “I didn’t know that they hit you.”
“I might have resisted. A little.” She scowled, and he continued. “It looks worse than it is. It barely hurt.”
She rolled her eyes. “Right. What are you going to tell your clients?”
“That I tripped over my dog. I might embellish with a sad tale of the ruined ice cream cone that I dropped when I stumbled.”
Her lips twitched. “You could make it more heroic than that. Say you got hurt by ninjas when you saved a busload of nuns or something.”
“Nuns and orphans,” Sam said lightly, and she chuckled.
“Stick to the ice cream.”
“Will do.” He pointed to her cast. “You’re okay? And Richard, too?”
“We’re fine. Car’s totaled, but it’s just stuff. Car full of teenagers ran a stop sign and T-boned us. Thank the Lord that they’re all safe, too. You look exhausted, Sam. Maybe you should cancel your appointments today.”
“I almost called in today, but I needed to get out of my parents’ apartment.”
She frowned. “Why are you in your parents’ apartment? They released your place from being a crime scene, didn’t they?”
“Yeah, but it’s a mess. They weren’t very tidy when they processed.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she muttered, annoyed. “You have to clean all that up?”
“Not me. Mom found one of those crime scene cleanup companies.”
Her frown deepened. “You have to pay for that out of your own pocket?”
“Yep. And they’re not cheap. They do appear to be discreet, at least. I feel incredibly lucky that none of my neighbors seem to know what happened. I don’t want that my apartment was a crime scene leaked all over the place.”
“I don’t blame you. What a nightmare.”
“I’ve had those, too,” he admitted. “I kept seeing Colton Driscoll hanging from a rope.”
Her eyes widened. “They showed you a photo? What’s wrong with those people?”
“No, they didn’t,” he said quickly. “But my imagination filled in the blanks.”
She leaned over and covered his hand with hers. “You did the right thing, Sam. You might have saved a young woman’s life.”
He swallowed hard. “No. I mean, not the girl he’s been talking about. She went missing eight months ago and is presumed dead.”
Vivian seemed to shrink in on herself. “Oh no.” A moment of silence hung between them before she cleared her throat. “Well, he would have done it again. You saved those future victims.”
He nodded unsteadily. “I keep telling myself that.”
“For what it’s worth, I’ve been a therapist for decades and I’ve never had a case like this one. You probably never will again.”
“I hope you’re right.”
She smiled at him kindly. “Take some time off, Sam. Take Siggy to the desert and camp for a day or two. You always come back rested and restored when you go there. I don’t understand why anyone would want to sleep in a tent to begin with, and in the desert, no less.” She mock shuddered. “But you do like it. So . . . take some time off.”
“You’re not.”
“I was in a car accident. We got off easily with only broken bones and some bruises. You were . . . well, arrested. Roughed up. Hauled downtown and subjected to interrogation.”
“Constantine threatened to shoot Siggy,” he murmured. That had also factored into his nightmares.
Vivian blanched. “What the hell is wrong with them? Did they apologize?”
“Not really. But McKittrick felt bad that Siggy was scared. I think she has a dog, too, because she had a treat in her pocket. Gave it to me for Siggy.”
“Well, at least there’s that,” she grumbled. “Under other circumstances I’d suggest legal action, but that would shine a spotlight on you and we don’t want that.”
“No, we don’t.” That would make things so much worse.
She glanced at the clock on the wall. “I hate to take your gift of coffee and tell you to hit the road, but I’ve got a client coming in fifteen minutes and I have to review my notes. Tell Angeline to reschedule your appointments for today, at least. You’re not in any frame of mind to listen to other people’s problems.”
He nodded woodenly. She was right. He knew that.
“Sam?” she prodded gently, and he realized that he’d just been staring off into space. “Where will you go with your day off?”
He gave his head a shake to clear it and considered the question. “Old folks’ home. I haven’t visited in a while.”
Her forehead crinkled. “Who do you know there?”
“Everyone. I play for them a few times a month. Piano,” he added when she looked confused. “All the old standards.”
Her eyes softened. “I learn something new about you all the time. That’s so sweet. I bet they enjoy that.”
“They do. Sometimes they dance.” He wrinkled his nose. “Sometimes they get handsy with each other while they’re dancing and that part’s not so sweet. But this time of the morning it’ll be time for arts and crafts, and they like to have background music.”
She smiled. “Good. Text me when you get there. I’m concerned about you.”
He tried to smile back, but if it looked anything like it felt, it was tight and grim. “I’ll be back tomorrow with my head on straight.”
“Take care of yourself, Sam.”
“You too.”
He made his way out of their office building and walked back to his apartment, making himself notice his surroundings. Grounding himself with the small things—the sun shining on his face, the hot dog vendor at the corner, the coffee shop where the owner always had his order ready by the time he got to the counter, the stray cat that darted across his path. He hoped it belonged to someone.
He almost called Joel to see if he wanted to meet for breakfast before he headed to the retirement home, but his friend had said he’d be in court this morning.
It was then that Sam realized that he didn’t have anyone else to call.
I need to make some more friends.
And, of course, McKittrick came to mind. She had smiled at him and, even though he was still annoyed with how they’d treated him, he couldn’t forget that smile.
She’d been doing her job. She doesn’t know me. Doesn’t know I couldn’t even hurt a fly. And, in hindsight, his behavior had been shifty.
He walked out of his building’s elevator on his parents’ floor just as his dog walker exited their apartment. Skyler swept a lock of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear as she jiggled the doorknob to make sure the door was completely closed—Siggy was a little escape artist.
Skyler looked surprised when she turned and saw him approaching. “Dr. Reeves. I thought you were on vacation and your folks were Siggy-sitting.”
“Nope. My apartment had a pipe leak and I’m staying with them while it’s being cleaned.” It was the lie he was going with. His parents would spread the same story. Nobody needed to know his business.
She made a face. “That sucks. I just got done walking Siggy. He found a stick.”
“He always finds a stick,” Sam replied dryly. “It’s kind of his thing.”
“This is a big stick.” Grinning, she spread her hands a foot apart. “He was so cute carrying it in that I didn’t have the heart to tell him no—sorry about that. I put it in his crate with him so that if he chews it up, the mess will be easily cleanable.”
Sam chuckled, his heart feeling a little lighter already. Skyler was a nice young woman and she really loved his dog. She’d been walking Siggy ever since he’d moved in four years before. Then she’d been seventeen years old, saving for college. Now that she was in college and working nights, she’d transitioned most of the dogs to other walkers, but she’d held on to a handful of customers, including Siggy.
“He really is cute,” Sam agreed. “I’m getting ready to take him to the old folks’ home. They love him there.”
“Well, he’s good and mellow. We walked about a mile.” She pressed the elevator button. “I’ll see you later. Take care!”
“You too, Skyler.” He found Siggy in his crate, chewing on what really was an impressively sized stick. “Come on, boy. Let’s go to Shady Oaks.”
Siggy perked up, recognizing the name.
Sam would play some quiet music to soothe himself and the residents. Win-win. Then he’d get back to work. People needed him and . . . well, he liked that.
It was good to be needed.
San Diego Medical Examiner’s Office, San Diego, California
Monday, April 11, 1:45 p.m.
Kit silently slid a piece of cake onto the ME’s desk, waiting for her to look up from the email she was typing. Only a few years older than Kit, Alicia Batra was her favorite of the MEs, mostly because she was intelligent and kind. But also because she could be bribed with baked goods.
Alicia’s gaze didn’t leave her computer screen, but when Kit moved to take the cake back, the ME lightly smacked her hand. “No take-backs,” Alicia said tartly.
Kit chuckled despite the tightness in her gut. Alicia hadn’t had the results on Colton Driscoll’s drug screen first thing that morning and had said to call her after lunch.
Kit had tried not to worry on it while she and Baz went to empty Driscoll’s locker at his workplace, hoping to find something to tie him to the murders. Unfortunately, it had been empty.
His coworkers had agreed that Driscoll being a killer was no surprise because he’d had a hair-trigger temper. But they had been surprised that he’d killed himself, saying they hadn’t thought he’d have the guts to do such a thing.
This intensified Kit’s feeling that something wasn’t right with the suicide, but she hadn’t wanted to make another call to Batra from her desk with so many listening ears in the homicide bullpen. So she’d snuck away as soon as she could, a plate of cake in hand.
“Give me another minute to finish this,” Alicia said, “and you’ll have my undivided attention. Because you brought me cake.”
A minute later, Alicia hit send, then turned to Kit. “To what do I owe this fine bribe, Detective?”
“Well, first, it’s more like half bribe and half thank-you.”
Alicia raised a brow. “Really?”
“No,” Kit admitted. “More like seventy-thirty.”
“So mostly a bribe.” Alicia shrugged. “I think your offerings taste better when they’re bribes.”
Kit chuckled again. “This cake is pretty tasty on its own. One of the guys in Homicide made it.” To celebrate closing the serial murders of six women. Not five, as Colton had written in his suicide note. Six. “Normally we just buy cupcakes from a bakery for celebrations, but it was Howard Cook’s turn and he’s taking a baking class.”
“So he can meet more women?” Alicia guessed.
Kit nodded, because this was Howard’s fifth class, all for the same reason. “Sadly, yes.”
Alicia sighed. “At least we get cake out of this class.”
“True.” Howard’s last class had been painting stills of fruit. “He’s a nice guy. It’s a shame he has to take classes to meet dates.”
“Hard to meet people when you’re working all the time,” Alicia observed.
Again, true. Alicia was married and already had a kid, but Kit hadn’t had an actual date in nearly two years. She hadn’t met anyone she really wanted to spend time with.
You liked Sam Reeves, the little voice in her head said slyly.
You shut the heck up.
Alicia was studying her as she took her first bite of cake, eyes narrowing with interest. “You got something to share with the class, Kit?”
“Nope.” Kit leaned against Alicia’s desk. “I do have a favor to ask, though. Or two.”
“So now we get to the bribes. Hit me. I figure it’s got to be big if you drove all the way down here.”
“It only took fifteen minutes.”
“Fifteen minutes you could have used a number of other ways. Did you need to get out of the bullpen that badly?”
“Kind of,” Kit admitted. The air of celebration wafting through the precinct had been grating on her nerves. “First, this case.” She put a file on Alicia’s desk. “It’s from two years ago. Maria Mendoza.”
Alicia blinked in surprise. “Not the Driscoll case?”
“Yes, but this first.”
Alicia opened the file and sighed wearily once she’d read the first page. “I remember this one. The victim was beaten to death. The case went cold, didn’t it?”
Kit had looked up Rita’s mother’s file as soon as she’d sat down at her desk that morning—and Rita was right. There was reason to suspect that her mother’s wealthy boss was involved in her death. Yet the man had never been a suspect.
The detective who’d caught the case had retired the following month and no one else had picked up the investigation.
Including me.
Kit would correct that mistake if she could. “It did go cold, but I think we should look at it again.” She pulled a photograph from the very thin file. “There’s something on the victim’s skin, right here.” She pointed to a mark on the woman’s cheek. “It looks like an indentation, maybe from a ring or something. But the photo is blurry. I was wondering if you’d taken any other pictures.”
Alicia was frowning. “This wasn’t among the photos I submitted.”
Kit’s brows went up. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that I’d chosen half a dozen clean photos of the victim’s face to be uploaded with this report. The mark on her cheek did look like the indentation of a ring.” Alicia looked troubled. “Let me go back into my own files and see what I can find. It wasn’t that long ago. I keep copies of all the photos I take. I’ll let you know.”
Whoa. It could have been a simple mistake. Someone could have accidentally uploaded the wrong photo, but Batra was meticulous to the point of being obsessive about it.
“Who did the uploading?”
“One of the clerks. I’ll have to check to see who.”
Kit exhaled quietly, wondering if this was a simple error or if there had been a cover-up because Maria Mendoza’s boss was wealthy and well connected. If so, that would be her boss’s responsibility to sort. “Thank you. Full disclosure—I met the victim’s daughter over the weekend. Navarro probably won’t let me take the case, but I’m hoping he’ll assign it to someone else if there’s new evidence. Or old evidence that was somehow . . . missed.”
“Missed,” Alicia repeated flatly. “I have a bad feeling about this, Kit.”
“So do I. Let’s figure out what’s what before we gloom and doom, though.”
“You know me so well.” Alicia closed the file and took another big bite of cake. When she’d swallowed, she asked, “What’s the second favor?”
“The drug screen for Colton Driscoll.”
Alicia turned to her computer screen. “I don’t get to look for fast-acting sedatives too often. Either too much time has passed when the body’s discovered, or the detectives don’t suspect the victim’s been sedated until well after the drug’s worked its way out of their system. Your results weren’t back when I checked first thing this morning, but they might be now.” She glanced up at Kit. “If you’re right, you’re not going to be Navarro’s favorite child. Not after he went public with the news of Driscoll’s suicide.”
“I know,” Kit said with a sigh. “But if Driscoll didn’t hang himself, that means someone else did it. Doesn’t mean that Driscoll didn’t kill those girls, but it does mean that someone else wanted him dead. So there could be other players involved.”
“Well, your results are back, and here comes trouble.” Alicia printed a page and handed it to Kit.
“What is zaleplon?” Because Colton Driscoll had apparently taken a shit ton of it.
“It’s a sleeping pill. I see it occasionally in victims who’ve slit their wrists in a bathtub, but never with a hanging.”
“What does this level mean? How out of it would he have been?”
“Give me a minute or two to do some calculations.”
Kit watched as Alicia did her thing, typing the numbers into some sort of computer software along with Driscoll’s height and weight. Finally, she looked up, her expression grim.
“Your guy had taken enough that I sincerely doubt that he would have been able to climb up on the stool he used to reach the noose.”
“Can you translate ‘sincerely doubt’ into percentages?”
“Ninety to ninety-eight percent sure that he didn’t climb up on it alone. I’m basing this on the level that remained in his blood at the time we took the sample.”
“It has a short half-life.”
“Exactly. So I ran the numbers at both ends of the time-of-death estimate.”
“As early as three a.m. and as late as seven.”
“Yes. If he died at three, there would have been even more of the drug in his system at that time, and I’d put my guess at ninety-eight percent. But even if he died at seven, there would still have been more than enough to render him non-ambulatory.”
“That’s the ninety percent. Got it.”
Coupled with Driscoll citing only five victims in his confession note instead of six and that his shoes were brand new and the footprint was that of a worn shoe . . .
This case was shaping up to be not as straightforward as they’d hoped.
Shit. Kit was going to have to tell Navarro right away. He was not going to be happy.
