Picture Me Dead by Heather Graham Page A

well. They learned how to go home and how to have a life.
    Jake agreed with his every word.
    Their latest victim had been dead quite a while. Insanely rushing about could do nothing for her. Steady, dogged work to bring her killer to justice was the greatest service they could do for her.
    That said, Blake reminded him, he was to remain rational, work hard—and make sure he took time off and kept his mind fresh. A cop who was overtired, overstressed and obsessive was no good to anyone.
    Granted.
    There was simply a lot Jake wanted to do himself.
    First, the autopsy. Gannet, as promised, had gotten right on it, and Jake had been there.
    Then Jake had gone in and spent hours with Hank while they went over the old cases and delved into what they could find on the new. Saturday evening, he and Marty made a few calls on past followers of Bordon’s cult. Interviewing them all was going to take time, and Saturday night was a washout. The first woman they interviewed was married now, with a three-year-old, and her association with the cult was a tremendous embarrassment; her husband knew nothing about it. Nor, she swore, had she even known the victims or been part of the hierarchy of the cult at all. They both sensed she was telling the truth.
    Their second call bore no greater results. The young man had only attended a few of the sermons. He had since become a born-again Christian and spent most of his days working at a local homeless shelter, a story that checked out.
    Sunday afternoon had traditionally been Jake’s kick-back time. It was when a lot of his friends and casual acquaintances went to a sports bar, sometimes to Nick’s, drank beer, told fish stories and watched football on television. Not that Sunday. He’d been too busy with electrical and water hookups. He hadn’t even crawled in to Nick’s at night; he had gone to see his father, who, though his mom had been gone for nearly two years, spent too much of his time sitting alone in the darkness, telling everyone he was doing just fine.
    In a way, he’d done as ordered. The problem was that no command, no sense, no logic, could keep him from thinking, puzzling and planning.
    Obsessing.
    He had barely reached his desk on Monday morning when he received a call from Neil Austen in the forensics unit.
    â€œI just wanted to let you know we’re doing what we can to get an I.D. on Friday’s Jane Doe. Our best bet is a dental match, but so far we’ve got nothing. I don’t think she was a local. If she was, no one reported her missing. Or else she never went to a dentist. And maybe she didn’t—the poor girl died with perfect teeth. Perfect. Her wisdom teeth came in without a hitch. She didn’t have a cavity. We have the information out, so hopefully someone out there will be able to get us a match. How many people reach their mid-twenties with perfect teeth?”
    â€œThanks for the effort and the information, Neil,” Jake told him.
    â€œI wish I could give you more. Unfortunately, these things usually take time.” They both knew the sorry truth of that statement. There were many cases when just discovering the identity of a victim in such a condition could take weeks or months.
    And there were times when bodies went unidentified forever. But thanks to forensics and computers, there were some occasions when identification came quickly.
    â€œCan you give me anything else? Mid-twenties, perfect teeth…?”
    â€œShe probably stood about five foot six. Medium build. Never had a child. Gannet says it looks like a ritual murder.”
    â€œSame as…?”
    â€œYeah, same as.” Neil gave a soft, regretful sigh. “She was probably a pretty young thing. The guys up here have given her a nickname. Cinderella. She’s not actually covered in ash, but the way she was found…Funny, you see case after case, and some are still especially hard. I’ll send you the reports on what we