Picture Me Dead. Heather Graham
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of Peter Bordon since the break-up of his cult and the other half getting settled after the move from one marina to another. As for the research, he had some of the information he wanted in his own files, and for follow-up, he had some really good assistance. Hank Anderson, one of the best men he had ever known for divining facts from a computer, had done a lot of delving for him, though a lot of the information duplicated what he already had. It had become something of a compulsion for him to keep up on the case. He had kept quiet about his persistence, since his fellow officers might consider him obsessive and think his determination not to let matters lie bordered on police harassment.
Captain Blake, head of homicide, had called him on Saturday afternoon, giving him a stern speech. Good detectives put in all kinds of hours. They worked way beyond their pay. But they learned how to stay sane, as 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.
“I 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?”
“Thanks for the effort and the information, Neil,” Jake told him.
“I 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.
“Can you give me anything else? Mid-twenties, perfect teeth…?”
“She probably stood about five foot six. Medium build. Never had a child. Gannet says it looks like a ritual murder.”
“Same as…?”
“Yeah, 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 have. Oh, and Gannet says she’s been dead two to four months.”
“Thanks, Neil.”
“Yep. I’ll update you immediately on anything new we can come up with.”
“Great.”
Jake hung up the phone and pulled out the file on the last of the victims who had been killed five years before. A picture of a young woman with a shy smile was clipped to the right of the page.
Dana Renaldo.
She, too, had been in her mid-twenties. Twenty-seven, actually, five foot six, one hundred and twenty pounds, an eager, attractive young woman. Her parents had been deceased. She had been reported missing by a cousin almost a year before her body had been discovered. She’d come from Clearwater. The police had investigated at the time but hadn’t followed up on the missing persons report because of the findings of their investigation. She had packed up her bags and cleaned out her bank accounts. Three months prior to her disappearance, she had gone through a messy divorce. There had been no children involved, so—until her body had been discovered in Miami-Dade—it had appeared to her local authorities that she had chosen to take off and start over again. It was legal for an adult to be missing if that person so chose. Prior to her disappearance, Dana had worked in real estate and insurance, and, immediately before she had left, she had been a paralegal at a law firm in Tampa. She had sent a letter of resignation and it was in her handwriting, according to the lawyer for whom she had been working.
Their Jane Doe—or Cinderella, as the forensics guys were calling her—sounded very similar in appearance.
He switched files.
Eleanore “Ellie” Thorn had been nothing like Dana Renaldo or their latest victim. She’d hailed from Omaha, and had failed to return home after a vacation in Fort Lauderdale. She hadn’t taken a job, had cleared out her bank account at a local branch, and had been seen now and then around town. She had attended Bordon’s prayer services. She had often stayed at the communal property. Nearly five feet ten, she had been blond and athletic. Like the others, she hadn’t been found until both time and the elements had wreaked havoc on her remains.
The first of the earlier three victims had earned a degree in architecture at Tulane. She had been bright and, according to friends, determined. She’d been an orphan, raised from an early age in foster homes. She’d gotten through school with hard work and scholarships. Twenty-six at the time of her death, she’d been petite, five foot two, and a bare hundred pounds. She’d been living on Miami Beach and had loved the architecture of the area. Deeply religious, in need of spiritual solace, she had probably been an easy mark for Peter Bordon, a.k.a. Papa Pierre.
As he hung up, Marty arrived in front of him, tossing a manila folder on his desk. “Peter Bordon is still very definitely locked up in the middle of the state.”
“Marty, I never suggested that he wasn’t.”
“But listen to this. He’s been a model prisoner. He’s due for release soon. Exemplary behavior. And, of course, he’s in there for a nonviolent crime. Everyone who’s worked with him there has found him courteous and polite. Read the report. No, maybe you shouldn’t—it’ll probably make you want to vomit. Well, hell, vomit or not, you’ve got to read it. There’s a section from the prison psychologist you’re really going to like. ‘Mr. Bordon is a man regretful