in la-la land, but he had quite a suntan. After that the
Pages had made
little effort to include Hess in their social world, but he knew from
department talk that they kept an extremely busy, bicoastal lecture and
appearance schedule. Page had written a bestseller about criminal personality
types.
The
back patio was bathed in sunshine and looked out over the bright blue Pacific.
Dr. Page sat at a glass table in the perforated shade of a lattice awning.
Mandevilla vines snaked their way through the lattice and the pink blooms hung
in the air.
He
was wearing tennis whites and a white vest, which set off the darkness of his
skin. His face was taut from surgery. There was a box of small weights and a
jump rope sitting off under a Norfolk Island pine. Hess shook his hand and his
grip was strong and dry.
Wynn
brought them iced tea and set her hand on Hess's shoulder as she poured his.
'Carry
on, crimebusters," she said, then headed back into the darkness of the
house.
Not
for the first time in his life Hess wished he was still married to his first
wife, Barbara. It was a hypothetical longing based on what he thought he saw
in some long marriages: trust, comfort, mutual respect. Two hearts seemed to
beat slower than one. Couples like the Pages made him feel it. He guessed if he
was still married to Barbara he'd have a lot less to worry about. He wouldn't
be broke, for one thing. Children would have given him a firmer grip on the
future. A grip, he just now realized, that would have been easier to relinquish
when it was time.
Beat
this tumor and you've got ten more years, he thought, possibly fifteen. You can
turn around a lot of things with that much time. "The Ortega sites, Tim?"
"I brought the files.
We don't have a lot to go on, but we've got a partial print. If you and I can
get the parameters right we might get lucky with it. If not, we'll wait until
he does it again and hope he gets careless."
"Urn," said
Page. It was between a grunt and something more thoughtful.
Hess knew Page was already
disagreeing with him, and that was fine. That was why he was here.
Page looked through the
glossies of the dump sites. He wore a homely pair of black reading glasses.
Hess remembered Page bragging he had 20/15 vision because that's what Hess had.
Hess listened to the swish
of the photographs and the mockingbird in the pine. "Tim, tell me what you
know about the victims. While I read through this."
Hess told Dr. Page about
beautiful, confident and occasionally lonely Janet Kane. Then about the very
spoiled though very decent Lael Jillson.
"The pictures in
there don't capture how beautiful they both were," he offered.
Dr. Page, with a curious
smile: "And what have you seen that does?" "Other pictures.
Family. How they lived." "How was that?"
He told the doctor about
Janet Kane's bulk hair products and Lael Jillson's enthusiasm for private hours
without her husband and children around. He mentioned Kane's interest in art
and Jillson's thoughtful diary. He didn't say anything about the leather
playthings in Janet Kane's closet or Lael
Jillson's weakness for marijuana and gin. As he
talked about the two women he'd never seen Hess felt protective of them, like
he owed their memories a simple kindness that their bodies, at the end, were
not offered.
"That print on the
fuse may be your miracle," said the doctor. "Because you're right,
Tim—if that's what you were assuming, anyway—he's been printed before. He's got
a sheet and he's spooked and he knows what pressure feels like. You've run
across him somewhere. Could be way upstream in juvenile court, but somewhere
he's felt the lash."
"That's why he's
careful."
"You're damned right
it is. But what an ego. I mean, what an astonishing arrogance by leaving those
purses."
"Do you think
they're more for us or more for the public?"
"For you. Funny, the
media calls him the Purse Snatcher, but he's the opposite of a purse snatcher.
He leaves the purse and takes everything
Pages had made
little effort to include Hess in their social world, but he knew from
department talk that they kept an extremely busy, bicoastal lecture and
appearance schedule. Page had written a bestseller about criminal personality
types.
The
back patio was bathed in sunshine and looked out over the bright blue Pacific.
Dr. Page sat at a glass table in the perforated shade of a lattice awning.
Mandevilla vines snaked their way through the lattice and the pink blooms hung
in the air.
He
was wearing tennis whites and a white vest, which set off the darkness of his
skin. His face was taut from surgery. There was a box of small weights and a
jump rope sitting off under a Norfolk Island pine. Hess shook his hand and his
grip was strong and dry.
Wynn
brought them iced tea and set her hand on Hess's shoulder as she poured his.
'Carry
on, crimebusters," she said, then headed back into the darkness of the
house.
Not
for the first time in his life Hess wished he was still married to his first
wife, Barbara. It was a hypothetical longing based on what he thought he saw
in some long marriages: trust, comfort, mutual respect. Two hearts seemed to
beat slower than one. Couples like the Pages made him feel it. He guessed if he
was still married to Barbara he'd have a lot less to worry about. He wouldn't
be broke, for one thing. Children would have given him a firmer grip on the
future. A grip, he just now realized, that would have been easier to relinquish
when it was time.
Beat
this tumor and you've got ten more years, he thought, possibly fifteen. You can
turn around a lot of things with that much time. "The Ortega sites, Tim?"
"I brought the files.
We don't have a lot to go on, but we've got a partial print. If you and I can
get the parameters right we might get lucky with it. If not, we'll wait until
he does it again and hope he gets careless."
"Urn," said
Page. It was between a grunt and something more thoughtful.
Hess knew Page was already
disagreeing with him, and that was fine. That was why he was here.
Page looked through the
glossies of the dump sites. He wore a homely pair of black reading glasses.
Hess remembered Page bragging he had 20/15 vision because that's what Hess had.
Hess listened to the swish
of the photographs and the mockingbird in the pine. "Tim, tell me what you
know about the victims. While I read through this."
Hess told Dr. Page about
beautiful, confident and occasionally lonely Janet Kane. Then about the very
spoiled though very decent Lael Jillson.
"The pictures in
there don't capture how beautiful they both were," he offered.
Dr. Page, with a curious
smile: "And what have you seen that does?" "Other pictures.
Family. How they lived." "How was that?"
He told the doctor about
Janet Kane's bulk hair products and Lael Jillson's enthusiasm for private hours
without her husband and children around. He mentioned Kane's interest in art
and Jillson's thoughtful diary. He didn't say anything about the leather
playthings in Janet Kane's closet or Lael
Jillson's weakness for marijuana and gin. As he
talked about the two women he'd never seen Hess felt protective of them, like
he owed their memories a simple kindness that their bodies, at the end, were
not offered.
"That print on the
fuse may be your miracle," said the doctor. "Because you're right,
Tim—if that's what you were assuming, anyway—he's been printed before. He's got
a sheet and he's spooked and he knows what pressure feels like. You've run
across him somewhere. Could be way upstream in juvenile court, but somewhere
he's felt the lash."
"That's why he's
careful."
"You're damned right
it is. But what an ego. I mean, what an astonishing arrogance by leaving those
purses."
"Do you think
they're more for us or more for the public?"
"For you. Funny, the
media calls him the Purse Snatcher, but he's the opposite of a purse snatcher.
He leaves the purse and takes everything
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