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“You don’t trust us?”
“We didn’t deal the play,” Clete said.
“I’ve got a surprise for both of you,” the sheriff said. “My biggest concern isn’t the shooting by the bridge. Two witnesses said your daughter acted in self-defense, Mr. Purcel. Evidently, one man was badly wounded, so I expect he’ll show up one way or another. I want you to look at some photos.”
He untied the manila envelope and took out at least a dozen crime scene photographs. “The former sheriff was an obsessed man when it came to crimes against children and women. Beginning in 1995, there were a number of murders in the Northwest that seemed to bear similarities. The first one was right here in the Bitterroot Valley, followed by one in Billings, then Seeley Lake, Pocatello, and Spokane.” He began placing the photos in a line on top of the stone wall by the front entrance. “There were never any forensics that would tie one homicide to another, except they were all obviously committed by a sexual deviant. I’d like both of you to study these and tell me what you see.”
Crime scene photography, especially homicide, is never pleasant to look at. Defense attorneys try to suppress it as inflammatory, more so as the trial nears the sentencing phase. It’s invasive in nature and seems to degrade the victims in death. Their eyes are fixed and stare at nothing; their mouths often hang open, as though they realized in their last seconds the irreparable nature of the fate imposed upon them. As you gaze at their photos, you identify with them, and for just a moment you understand the terrible nature of the crime that, in retrospect, you are being made witness to: These people, made out of the same clay as you, were not simply killed; they were robbed of their dignity, their hope, their identity, their belief in humanity, and sometimes their religious faith. As you gaze at these photographs, you are tempted to revisit your objections to capital punishment.
Clete picked up the photos and looked at each and passed them to me. “What do you want us to say?” he asked the sheriff.
“You think these people were killed by the same guy?”
“The killer was into bondage and torture. He was big on suffocation and using plastic bags.”
“What else?” th
e sheriff asked.
“The women’s dresses have been pulled up. You or somebody else have drawn felt-tip circles on the women’s legs.”
“That’s where the killer or killers ejaculated on them.”
“Most of these bastards mark their territory,” Clete said.
“In the same way at every homicide scene?” the sheriff said.
“What difference does our opinion make?” I said.
“The guy who killed Angel Deer Heart ejaculated on her.”
“Where?” I said.
“On her legs.”
“There was no penetration?” I said.
“None.”
“Did you get a hit on the DNA?”
“We’re working on it,” he said.
That one didn’t sound right. “You ever hear of a guy named Asa Surrette?” I asked.
“I talked to your daughter about him,” the sheriff said.
“I didn’t know she called you.”
“I got the sense you don’t agree with your daughter’s perceptions about him. You think he’s dead?”
“The state of Kansas says he’s dead.”
“What do you say?” the sheriff asked.
“Maybe he’s out there. Maybe he was the guy who left the message in the cave. Or maybe somebody is using his MO.”
“Why did you mention the cave?”
