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"And then there's this." One of the medics tugged the sweatshirt up, revealing an image carved into the man's back: a crude approximation of a face, which might've been the mask. Qetzal, the demon from DimensionQuest. This is probably what O'Neil was reluctant to mention in front of Boling.
Dance shook her head. "Postmortem?"
"Right."
"Any witnesses?"
"None," an MCSO deputy said. "There's that highway construction site about a half mile from here. They heard the shots and called it in. But nobody saw anything."
One of the Crime Scene officers called, "Didn't find any significant physical evidence, sir."
O'Neil nodded and together he and Dance returned to their cars.
Dance noticed Boling was standing beside his Audi, hands clasped in front of him and his shoulders seemed raised slightly. Sure signs of tension. Murder scenes will do that to you.
She said, "Thanks for coming out here, Jon. This was above and beyond the call of duty. But it was helpful to get your thoughts."
"Sure." He sounded as if he was trying to be stoic. She wondered if he'd ever been to a crime scene.
Her phone rang. She noticed Charles Overby's name and number on Caller ID. She'd called earlier and told him about this killing. Now she'd have to tell him that the victim hadn't been guilty of cyberbullying, but was a true innocent bystander. This would throw the area into even more panic.
"Charles."
"Kathryn, you're at the latest scene?"
"Right. It looks like--"
"Did you catch the boy?"
"No. But--"
"Well, you can give me the details later. Something's come up. Get here as soon as you can."
Chapter 20
"SO THIS IS the Kathryn Dance." A big ruddy hand encircled hers, holding it until the bucket of propriety had been filled and then releasing.
Odd, she noted. He hadn't put as much emphasis on the article as you'd expect. Not the Kathryn Dance. More like:
So this is the agent.
Or, this is the chair.
But she ignored the curious descriptive since kinesic analysis wasn't a priority at the moment; the man wasn't a suspect, but was, as it turned out, connected to the CBI's boss of bosses. Resembling a college linebacker gone into politics or business, fiftyish Hamilton Royce worked in the attorney general's office in Sacramento. He returned to his chair--they were in Charles Overby's office--and Dance too sat. Royce explained that he was an ombudsman.
Dance glanced at Overby. Itchily squinting toward Royce out of deference or curiosity or probably both, he didn't offer anything else to flesh out the visitor's job description--or mission.
Dance was still angry about her boss's carelessness, if not malfeasance, in suborning Robert Harper's covert operation in the CBI file room.
Because she's innocent, of course. Your mother'd never hurt anyone. You know that. . . .
Dance kept her attention on Royce.
"We hear good things about you in Sacramento. I understand your expertise is body language." The broad-shouldered man, with dark swept-back hair, was wearing a slick suit, its color a blue just the regal side of navy and therefore suggestive of a uniform.
"I'm just an investigator. I tend to use kinesics more than a lot of people."
"Ah, there she goes, Charles, selling herself short. You said she'd do that."
