Kimberly Porter was standing when she was shot in the chest. Her missing loafer was several feet away, resting against the baseboard.
Did you kick at your killer? No, it came off while you were rushing around the desk. You made it to the phone and picked it up before the killer fired. You went down, pulled the phone off the desk, and then he came around the desk and shot you again to make sure. Two that close together, fired from six, seven feet away, means he was a marksman and he was also a calm one. Two in the ticker, one in the head. A professional? Some client you didn't get results for? Someone who needed to keep one of you from doing or saying something?
Manseur was in the zone. The film was running in his mind and everything else was a million miles away. He was visualizing paths of travel, bullet channels that when charted would define angles, distances, and even put a nearly exact height to the perpetrator.
He studied the desk. A framed photo of a smiling girl—a young face that reflected equal measures of cheer, confidence, and intelligence. Faith Ann Porter was maybe ten, eleven years old in the picture, had long strawberry-blond hair tucked behind her ears, big blue eyes. Also on that desk sat a Sony cassette recorder whose door stood open, revealing an empty tape chamber. There were several unopened cassettes stacked on the credenza and an open package for one on top of the desk. He looked in the trash can. The cellophane wrapper for it lay alone in the bottom. He made a mental note to search for a tape, but he was certain it had been removed by the killer.
When he looked back down at Porter again, he saw something else. There on the far side of and beside the body, barely visible in the puddle of coagulating blood, were two distinct circular impressions.
Knees.
Manseur imagined the killer kneeling there, but knew that a killer wouldn't get his or her knees drenched accidentally.
No way a pro would do that, and I'm dealing with a pro.
On the hardwood, just beyond the threadbare carpet, he saw something both interesting and alarming. There were circular, patterned tracks where someone had tracked blood away. The partial prints looked to have been made by a small sneaker. Faith Ann Porter must have seen her mother's body, and it would have been the girl who'd knelt beside her mother, her knees planted there when the blood was still running out from under the corpse.
Manseur had a daughter who was about Faith Ann's age. His mind raced as he tried to re-edit the film using new information. Was the young girl the motive for the killings? She may have seen it happen or not. The thought struck him that the child might have been abducted by the killer. Maybe she was wandering the streets in shock. Maybe she was fleeing from the killer. Maybe he took her somewhere else to silence her and she was already dead. But why not just kill her here? He had to find out all about Faith Ann Porter and do it very soon.
“Sergeant!” he called out.
“Yes sir?” the policeman answered from the hallway.
“Search the building. Top to bottom. Roof to basement. Have units sweep the neighborhood. Get a description of what the Porter girl was wearing. Issue an APB on her. Find out what school she goes to, see if she showed up there. Send a unit by the Porter house to see if she's there.
I need to get a search warrant for the residence.
You know the drill.” He was barely aware of the sergeant parroting his orders into the radio.
Manseur followed the bloodied tracks. They led to a corkboard and appeared in the seat of a chair resting under it. Pinned on the board was a photograph of someone Manseur
did
recognize. Anger filled his hollow stomach. Horace Pond. A two-bit sack of crap who had murdered two people who caught him rifling their house.
Now he knew why Kimberly Porter's name was familiar. She was the conniving bitch who had been trying to keep that perverted piece of murdering shit alive. Horace Pond was going to die
Did you kick at your killer? No, it came off while you were rushing around the desk. You made it to the phone and picked it up before the killer fired. You went down, pulled the phone off the desk, and then he came around the desk and shot you again to make sure. Two that close together, fired from six, seven feet away, means he was a marksman and he was also a calm one. Two in the ticker, one in the head. A professional? Some client you didn't get results for? Someone who needed to keep one of you from doing or saying something?
Manseur was in the zone. The film was running in his mind and everything else was a million miles away. He was visualizing paths of travel, bullet channels that when charted would define angles, distances, and even put a nearly exact height to the perpetrator.
He studied the desk. A framed photo of a smiling girl—a young face that reflected equal measures of cheer, confidence, and intelligence. Faith Ann Porter was maybe ten, eleven years old in the picture, had long strawberry-blond hair tucked behind her ears, big blue eyes. Also on that desk sat a Sony cassette recorder whose door stood open, revealing an empty tape chamber. There were several unopened cassettes stacked on the credenza and an open package for one on top of the desk. He looked in the trash can. The cellophane wrapper for it lay alone in the bottom. He made a mental note to search for a tape, but he was certain it had been removed by the killer.
When he looked back down at Porter again, he saw something else. There on the far side of and beside the body, barely visible in the puddle of coagulating blood, were two distinct circular impressions.
Knees.
Manseur imagined the killer kneeling there, but knew that a killer wouldn't get his or her knees drenched accidentally.
No way a pro would do that, and I'm dealing with a pro.
On the hardwood, just beyond the threadbare carpet, he saw something both interesting and alarming. There were circular, patterned tracks where someone had tracked blood away. The partial prints looked to have been made by a small sneaker. Faith Ann Porter must have seen her mother's body, and it would have been the girl who'd knelt beside her mother, her knees planted there when the blood was still running out from under the corpse.
Manseur had a daughter who was about Faith Ann's age. His mind raced as he tried to re-edit the film using new information. Was the young girl the motive for the killings? She may have seen it happen or not. The thought struck him that the child might have been abducted by the killer. Maybe she was wandering the streets in shock. Maybe she was fleeing from the killer. Maybe he took her somewhere else to silence her and she was already dead. But why not just kill her here? He had to find out all about Faith Ann Porter and do it very soon.
“Sergeant!” he called out.
“Yes sir?” the policeman answered from the hallway.
“Search the building. Top to bottom. Roof to basement. Have units sweep the neighborhood. Get a description of what the Porter girl was wearing. Issue an APB on her. Find out what school she goes to, see if she showed up there. Send a unit by the Porter house to see if she's there.
I need to get a search warrant for the residence.
You know the drill.” He was barely aware of the sergeant parroting his orders into the radio.
Manseur followed the bloodied tracks. They led to a corkboard and appeared in the seat of a chair resting under it. Pinned on the board was a photograph of someone Manseur
did
recognize. Anger filled his hollow stomach. Horace Pond. A two-bit sack of crap who had murdered two people who caught him rifling their house.
Now he knew why Kimberly Porter's name was familiar. She was the conniving bitch who had been trying to keep that perverted piece of murdering shit alive. Horace Pond was going to die