Hartwig nodded to the assistant medical examiner. He gently rolled Becky DeGeorge’s body off her husband’s.
Sticking out of Michael DeGeorge’s unfastened khakis was the perfectly preserved remainder of his final erection.
A smoldering rage ripped through me. The De-Georges were just kids. Both were in their twenties, like the Brandts. Who would do such a terrible thing?
“You can see over here how they were dragged,” Hartwig said, pointing to smears of dried blood visible on the pitched concrete floor. The smears led to car tracks that were clearly delineated in the sparsely traveled soil. A couple of sheriff’s men were marking off the tracks in yellow tape.
Raleigh bent down and studied them. “Wide wheel base, but fourteen-inch tires. The tread is good, kept up. An SUV would have sixteen-inch wheels. I would guess some kind of large luxury sedan.”
“I thought you were just a desk cop,” I said to him.
He grinned. “I spent a summer in college working in the pit crew on the NASCAR circuit. I can change a tire faster than a beer man at 3Com can change a twenty. My guess would be a Caddy. Or a Lincoln.” Limo, his eyes were saying.
My own mind was racing through something Claire had once said. Link the crimes.
It was uncommon for a pattern killer to switch methods. Sexual killers liked closeness to their victims: strangulation, bludgeoning, knives. They wanted to feel their victims struggle, expire. They liked to invade a victim’s home. Shooting was detached, clinical. It provided no thrill.
For a moment, I wondered if there were two murderers. Copycat killers. It couldn’t be.
No one else knew about the rings.
I went over to Becky DeGeorge as the doctor was zipping her into a body bag. I gazed down into her eyes. They were making love. Did he force them? Did he surprise them?
A sexual psycho who changes his methods. A killer who leaves clues.
What did he leave here?
What were we missing?
Chapter 37
FRESH AIR FILLED MY LUNGS as soon as we stepped outside. Chris Raleigh, Hartwig, and I walked down the dirt road. The grid of the valley floor stretched out below us. Rows of fallow grapes hugged each side. We were silent. Shell-shocked.
A scary idea shot through me. We were a thousand feet up, totally isolated. Something didn’t sit right. “Why here, Hartwig?”
“How about, it’s remote and no one ever comes up here.”
“What I meant,” I said, “is why here? This particular spot. Who knows about this place?”
“There’s isolated property all up and down these slopes. The consortiums have eaten up the valley floor. These properties take more work than capital. Labors of love. Check the listings. Dozens of them dry up every season. Anyone around here knows places like this.”
“The first killings were in the city. Yet he knew exactly where to come. Who owns this plot?”
Hartwig shook his head. “Dunno.”
“I’d find out. And I would also make another pass through their room. Someone had them targeted. Knew all their plans. Travel brochures, business cards, see if there’s anything from any limousine services.”
From below, I heard the sound of a large vehicle climbing up the dirt road. I caught sight of a white San Francisco Medical Examiner’s Bronco pulling to a stop.
Claire Washburn was behind the wheel. I had asked her to come — in the hope of matching evidence from both crime scenes.
I opened her door and said gratefully, “Thanks for coming, sweetie.”
Claire solemnly shook her head. “I only wish they had turned up differently. It’s a call I never like to receive.” She pulled her heavy frame out of the car with surprising ease. “I have a meeting later back in town, but I thought I’d look over the crime scene, introduce myself to the presiding on-site.”
I introduced Claire to Frank Hartwig. “Your M.E.’s Bill Toll, isn’t he?” she asked with authority.
He blinked warily, clearly nervous. First, he had Raleigh and me here as consults. But he had asked us in. Now the San Francisco M.E. pulls up.