“Like the other one.”
“Yeah.”
“Shit,” Oliver muttered.
“Yeah.”
“I’m guessing we’ll have DNA here too. Should be simple to match, if it really is the same guy.”
“And if the last guy the women fucked is who killed them,” Mac added.
“Stands to reason.”
“We’ll be in trouble once the press gets hold of the similarities.”
“So the more we get done first, the better. You take the neighbors. Wake ’em up. If that girl was equally loud when she found the body, there’s probably not one of them that actually slept through it. The walls in this place are paper. Maybe someone heard something useful. As soon as the techs get here and do their thing, I’ll start on the victim’s papers. Workplace, address book, maybe we’ll get lucky and find someone who was out with her tonight and saw the guy.”
Mac went down to the ground floor to begin canvassing. That way, anyone who tried to leave to avoid questioning would have to come past him. The apartment below the victim’s was occupied by a newly immigrated family from Sudan. Between the parents’ poor grasp of English, and their obvious terror of the police, Mac got nothing. He made a note to send a community officer with an interpreter the next day.
The west ground floor unit yielded an elderly man with a hearing aid, and a wealth of opinions he poured out without letting Mac get a word in edgewise. Either the old fart had his hearing aid off, or he just wasn’t interested in anything but the sound of his own voice. Mac made a few attempts to ask questions, then gave up and let the man rant. Amid complaints about the landlord, the other tenants, and the noise in the night, the man described the victim as an empty-headed slut and finally admitted to having slept through the relevant time frame without hearing anything. Mac backed away from his querulous demands that the police do something and moved on to the next door.
The east room was inhabited by a woman Mac decided actually was a pro. She was distressed by the idea a killer had been in her building, but seemed more worried for her own safety than able to help. She said she didn’t know Terry and claimed to have been watching a video with headphones on. When Mac asked why she was still up at that hour, she gave him a knowing grin and quipped, “There ain’t no rest for the wicked.” Any further questions only seemed to result in her making a pass at him. He left before the touch of her hand became so personal he’d have to take notice.
Back up on the second floor, the east door was closed and no one answered even Mac’s loudest knock. As he was making a note to try again later, the west door opened.
“You’d better come in before you break something,” said a tall, thin woman in baggy shorts and a brief terrycloth robe, standing in the open doorway “There’s no one home. They’re out of town for the weekend.”
Mac nodded. “I’m Detective MacLean with the Minneapolis police.” He showed his ID. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“I know who you are,” the woman replied. “I’ve been watching. I don’t invite strange men into my room, unlike Terri.” A fleeting look of embarrassment crossed her face. “I guess that’s a petty thing to say, under the circumstances.”
“What do you know about the circumstances?”
“I was with Lacey when she called the cops. I saw Terri’s body. Actually, I checked her for a pulse, just to be sure, since all that blond airhead could do was stand there and scream. But Terri was dead and cooling already.”
“You seem pretty calm about this.”
“Only by comparison,” the woman returned. “Come on in. I don’t like standing around in the hallway in my nightclothes.”
Mac followed her in and let her close the door. Her apartment was the mirror image of the victim’s, but much tidier and more sparsely furnished. A tall shelf held rows of books and a couple of tasteful prints hung on the wall. Compared to Terri’s place, there were no rugs, few throw pillows, no froufrou. A simple futon and chair made up the bulk of the furnishings. The woman waved Mac to the futon and perched on the edge of the chair. Mac got out his notebook and pencil.
“Your name?”
“Joan Peters.”
“You live here alone?”
“Yes,” the woman said, more tartly than he thought his question deserved. “I do.”
“Tell me about tonight,” Mac invited. “Start at six PM. Where were you?”
“I was in the library studying. Until about seven. I got home around seven-thirty. I didn’t see Terri, or anyone else for that matter, when I got home. I made dinner and then settled in with my books. Around ten or so, I heard Terri come home. I assumed she was with a man, from her giggles, but if so, his voice was quiet. It was only an inference, you understand. She was a lot louder and more bubbly with a man around.”
“You never saw the man or heard his voice?”
“I don’t even know for sure that there was a man,” Joan said firmly. “Like I said, it was a guess. I didn’t actually hear anyone else come or go. I went to bed about eleven, and woke up at two-thirty-six, when Lacey began screaming.”
“You’re certain of the time?” Mac asked.
“Oh, yes. I looked at my alarm in disbelief. But then I decided there was something… serious about her voice so I went to look.”
“What did you see?”
“Terri’s front door was open, Lacey was having hysterics in the living room and Terri was lying naked in her bedroom, bruised up and staring.”
“But you went in anyway?” Mac asked.
“Of course. She might’ve still been alive. I know CPR. But she wasn’t.”
“Did you touch anything other than her body?”
“I don’t think so,” Joan said. “The door was wide open. I can’t guarantee I didn’t touch the bed somewhere but I don’t think so. I made Lacey call 911.”
“You didn’t stay with her?” Mac let his tone make that a question.
“No,” Joan admitted, coloring a little. “I’m no good with people, especially hysterical people. And she wanted to cling onto me and weep. I figured you’d come talk to me eventually.”
“Do you think Lacey had gone into Terri’s room before you came?”
“Nothing would’ve gotten her into that room, even if Terri was bleeding to death before her eyes,” Joan said. “Silly cow.”
“You don’t like her.”
“I don’t really have anything against her. Except that she’s the kind of helpless clinging female that gives women a bad name. She wants someone to take care of her, so she doesn’t have to grow up. Terri let her move in temporarily a month ago, and it would’ve taken a team of wild horses, or maybe a rich boyfriend, to get her back out.”
“You don’t think she would’ve had anything to do with killing Terri?”
“Never,” Joan said firmly. “Not only did she practically faint at the sight of blood, but Terri was her meal ticket. Lacey was paying a few bucks rent, but doing precious little else in return for sleeping on the couch every night and eating Terri’s food.”