Homecoming Homicides by Marilyn Baron Page A

fine, but I do remember that there was someone, a young man, more of a boy, really, but big, who approached me at the end of the program. He was slow, I think, a little off, something about him wasn’t quite right. But he was perfectly harmless. He came up to ask for my autograph. He said he wanted to get all the girls’ autographs for his program. I thought it was kind of sweet, you know. He was so thrilled to talk to us. He had a killer smile. Very disarming. Could that be important?”
    “Do you remember what he looked like? Did you see many autographs on his program?”
    “It was months ago.”
    “Come on, Philippa. This could be critical. It could be the break we need. You don’t think he was a student?”
    “He’d be a little old to be a student,” Flippy answered, struggling to remember something about the man that might prove material to the case. “He looked to be in his late twenties. But after talking to him, I’d say no way was he student material. He had a professional-looking camera hung around his neck. He wore a flowery shirt and really high pants stretched across his stomach, like he was channeling Steve Irkle. But he wasn’t an official member of the press. He wasn’t wearing a badge. And he wore a white fanny pack around his waist, where he kept his pen and a small note pad. He was heavyset, kind of nerdy, really. He wore an old baseball cap and glasses with huge soda-bottle lenses.”
    “That’s a great start. Could you come down to the station and work with our forensic artist?”
    “Of course, but I don’t think...”
    “It’s not your job to think.”
    Bad Cop Luke was back. “Have you always been such a jerk?” she snapped.
    Luke ignored her remark and scratched his head.
    “Okay, I wasn’t going to tell you this. I can just see you flapping your loose lips to the press, but the killer pinned a white piece of paper to the blouses of each of the girls. The paper had a copy of the dead girls’ signatures. Our killer left an actual signature behind.”
    “And you think that piece of paper might have been Xeroxed from the signatures the guy got from the pageant programs?” Flippy asked, gritting her teeth over the loose-lips remark.
    “Has to have been. We’ve got to find that big flowered-shirt guy. Either he’s the killer or he’ll lead us to the killer.”
    “Luke, my name was on that program. I gave him my signature.”
    “Okay, now we know for sure you’re on his list. I’m going to notify the chief, and we’re going to take the proper precautions. Maybe I can start by protecting you from those men sleeping outside the office in your bushes.”
    “They’re not my bushes, they belong to the city. Anyway, they’re harmless.”
    “Homeless doesn’t mean harmless. Your receptionist tells me you keep them supplied with doughnuts and coffee.”
    “Misty talks too much.”
    “I suppose you ask them what kind they like?”
    “Glazed.”
    Luke rolled his eyes.
    “If you don’t stop feeding them, they’re going to keep coming back, like cats.”
    “Don’t be an idiot,” Flippy said. “They’re just camping out temporarily. They’ve simply hit a rough patch. They’re unemployed and down on their luck. They have nowhere else to go. They’re not bothering anybody.”
    “How do you know?”
    “I asked them.”
    “You talk to them?”
    “Yes, of course. They’re not monsters. They’re human beings.”
    “You’re a soft touch, Flippy. I’m surprised you haven’t offered to take them home with you. I’m going to have to insist you stop associating with the homeless people.”
    “Insist?”
    “Strongly recommend.”
    “Why?”
    “For the obvious reasons,” Luke answered. “What if one of them is the killer disguised as a homeless man? What if he’s biding his time, waiting right outside your door until you’re alone, waiting for the right moment before he grabs his next victim? There’s a very real possibility you could be in danger.”
    “Why do