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“Kara! Ryan!” Garner called. “Come see this!”
“You go,” Ryan said. “I’ll stay here and make sure no one messes this up before it can be documented.”
I nodded, then headed through the living room and down the hall toward Garner’s voice. As soon as I entered the room, I knew why he was so excited. “Oh, wow.”
It was a workroom where Greg had obviously done a great deal of the final work on the comic. Framed covers of the series were arrayed on walls that had been painted in chaotic patterns—wild colors that clashed with the black-framed pictures and presented a sharp contrast to the muted tones of the rest of the house. Interspersed among the covers were photographs of varying sizes, thumbtacked or taped to the wall, and each photograph had several drawings surrounding it, tacked up in similar haphazard fashion.
“Oh, wow,” I repeated, stepping into the room, looking more closely at the drawings that surrounded the photographs. Some were just pencil sketches, others fully inked and colored. I shifted my attention to the photographs. “It’s more victims. Holy shit. They’re all here. All the victims.”
“Plus a bunch of others,” Harris said, expression dark. “We have our link now.” He jerked his head toward the door. “So, our guy is dead? Did a victim fight back and do him in?”
“No, he’s not the Symbol Man,” I said absently, eyes still traveling over the pictures. “But the Symbol Man sure as hell knew him or worked closely with him.” I tapped my chin. “Did Greg do all of the work on the comic himself? If not, we need to get a list of everyone else who worked with him. Check them all out.”
Garner shook his head. “It looks like he did all of the work by himself.” He let out a low whistle. “Amazing that he turned out such an impressive product on his own.” He glanced up at me. “Comics usually have teams of people who work on them. Different people do the concept, script, penciling, inking, coloring, lettering, and so forth.” He touched one of the framed covers. “He was talented, that’s for sure.”
I stepped closer to the wall of pictures. “All these people. He used them as models.”
“Maybe he wasn’t very good at drawing people out of his imagination,” Garner offered. “Lots of artists use references. In fact, there are websites devoted to pictures that can be used as references for comic artists.”
My mouth twitched. “I take it you like comics.”
Garner grinned shamelessly. “Love ’em.”
I couldn’t help but smile. And people said I was weird. Garner looked far more like a jock than a comic nerd, with his tanned face and surfer-blond hair. “Okay, so he took pictures of these people so he could use them as models? Why these people?”>“Demons, eh?” Harris said. “So this goes along with your suspicion that this is some sort of ritualistic series of murders?”
I nodded, still too surprised to say anything. James Harris had not struck me at all like someone who could calmly accept the arcane. I opened my mouth to explain, but he spoke first.
“I’ve done a lot of studies on this sort of thing and been to several training conferences on ritual murder. I mean, obviously it’s total crap, but the important thing is that the murderer truly believes that this stuff can give him some sort of mystical power.”
I closed my mouth, relieved that I hadn’t revealed anything crucial. I flicked a glance at Ryan and he caught my eye, giving an almost imperceptible nod and shrug. Okay, so maybe Harris couldn’t accept the existence of the arcane, but at least he could accept the concept of it long enough to pursue leads in that direction.
“Hey,” Garner said, abruptly straightening. He pointed to a panel in the comic he was holding. “Hey, this is one of our victims!”
“What?” I straightened. “Which one? Are you sure?”
He pushed the book to the others, pointing at the top panel on the right side. “Look at this girl. Isn’t this the victim that was found out in the swamp about five years ago? It would have been his fourth or fifth murder, I think.”
I stared at the drawing. Could it be? “Are you sure?” I asked, unable to keep the disbelief out of my voice.
Garner nodded emphatically, digging through a stack of pictures, then pulling out the pictures of a clay bust—the facial reconstruction for this victim.
“Here. It’s the same girl.”
I peered at the comic and then at the photos. “Are you sure?” I repeated doubtfully. It was so hard to tell. The reconstructions were as good as they could possibly be, but there was just no substitute for a photograph of a living, breathing person—and we had those on only the few who had been identified. This girl had not been one of those few. The crime-scene pictures we had showed a young black woman with close-cropped hair, a face bloated by decomposition, eyes filled with maggots, and a network of careful burns patterned across her cheeks and throat. A significant difference from the picture in the comic, which depicted a woman dressed in flowing gowns, head adorned with flowers, lifting a hand for a small, glowing winged creature to alight upon.
“Take a look at the reconstruction.” Garner slid the photo across the table. “Take a look at the way the eyes tilt, the line of the cheekbones.”
I studied the photo carefully and then compared it to the drawing. “I … guess it could be the same. But it seems like a stretch. I mean, there’s no way to be sure.”
Garner exhaled. “Look, I know it’s hard to see. But I’m really good at this.”
Ryan nodded. “It’s true. Zack has a knack for faces.”
I looked again at the drawing and then to the photo. A sliver of excitement began to worm its way through me, and I shoved the rest of the comics over to Garner. “See if there are any others in there!”
He looked startled for an instant, then realization struck. “Oh, my God. If there are others in here—”
“Then that’s the link we’ve been looking for,” Harris finished, giving a rare smile.
