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“What?” Arnett asked.
“She’s posed like Lady Justice.” She gestured over the pictures. “Look at the arms, one extended up, the other extended down. That’s how justice is usually pictured, one arm up holding the scales of justice, and the other down, holding the sword that will execute justice. And she’s always wearing a—”
“—blindfold,” Lopez finished for her, and grabbed her phone.
“Exactly,” Jo said.
“And that would explain why he positioned Sakurai face up, even though she fell face-down. He was trying to leave a very specific visual.”
Lopez thrust out her phone, now showing image results for the word ‘justice.’
“I’ll be damned,” Marzillo said. “Nice catch, Jo.”
Jo grabbed at her necklace. “But what’s the point? We already knew from the choice of victims that this had something to do with the justice system. It seems redundant to label members of the justice system with an overt marking of the justice system.”
Lopez smoothed down her ponytail. “Could just be a case of crazy is as crazy does.”
“No.” Jo continued to peer closely at the pictures. “They’re making a statement. You don’t take that time and risk getting blood on yourself unless it means something to you. It’s the key to this, I’d bet anything. And we’ve got to figure it out before they kill again.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR
I spent the day watching and waiting, because there wasn’t anything else to be done. I’d be fine if she did the same thing she’d done every Sunday evening week after week, but you never knew—people were unpredictable creatures. If she changed up her routine, I’d be scurrying like a rodent on a flooding ship to get everything back in line. So I waited and watched obsessively not because it would make her any more likely to cooperate, but to keep my mind busy lest the hamster on my mental wheel drove me to distraction.
Because my own mind was my enemy, and my existence was a continual struggle to keep myself safe from it.
It never used to be that way—I’d been a happy person before my life was ripped away from me. My childhood was a solid, happy one overall. I can’t call it idyllic; I didn’t scamper along the prairie and I wasn’t greeted when I got home from school by a plate of fresh-baked cookies from my pearl-laden mother. We didn’t have much, but we had enough. And yes, I had the typical childhood and adolescent stressors like everyone else: unrequited crushes, disappointments, intermittent bullying. Nothing that permanently scarred me. Nothing that foreshadowed my future.
Admittedly I was a quiet child, but not due to any issue with my mental state. Both my parents worked, so I was a latchkey kid. The only way they could make sure I was safe was to call me at home—kids didn’t have cell phones back then—so I spent my afternoons safely at home. I did my homework, and sometimes I watched TV. But mostly I read, because books have always been my greatest friends. You can visit a thousand worlds via books, from past eras to far-off planets to fantasy realms, and you can learn anything you want. How to build a bridge, how to play poker, the thoughts of famous thinkers throughout history. I happily wiled away the hours learning and entertaining myself until my parents came home.
Not that I didn’t ever go outdoors, because I did. My father took me up to Quabbin for little fishing trips all the time. We’d head up early in the morning—before the fish woke, he’d say—and row ourselves out to whatever section caught his attention. My mother never came. The idea of “skewering” a worm onto a hook horrified her, and she felt “killing a creature by shoving a sharp mini-harpoon through its mouth and then bashing its head on a rock” was cruel. So my father and I went alone. Very low-tech, without sophisticated rods and reels. We didn’t even have bobbers; my father taught me to wrap the fishing line around my finger so I’d feel if a fish bit. And we didn’t talk, so as not to scare the fish. We just sat in the boat together, one hand wrapped in the fishing line, the other holding up a pocket paperback, and we’d lose ourselves in separate worlds until a fish tugged at one of our lines.
Periodically I’d look up from my book and peer out over the water, watching and listening. To all the little sounds and all the little movements. I didn’t know it then, but it was a form of meditation. And I didn’t know how fragile a thing it was to feel safe, happy, and at peace.
I glanced back to watch as she worked—that was a lesson she’d be finding out herself in a few short hours.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
Jo pulled out her phone. “I think at this point we have to err on the side of caution. Whatever the blindfold and the pose mean, our killer has made it clear they feel they have a vendetta against the justice system. We’ve already let Nguyen know he might be the next target, and we know Bob was involved in Ossokov’s case, but given we still have several suspects, it could be anybody, so we have to get the word out. They’ve already taken out their prosecutor and their judge, so what do we have left that’s probable? Detectives, CSIs?”
Lopez bent over her own phone. “I’ll send a blast to the lab.”
“Thanks.” Jo finished sending her own text out to the rest of the unit. “Next steps. Christine, you keep on with Sandra’s and Sakurai’s personal files and phone records, Marzillo will keep processing evidence to see if we can come up with anything, and Bob and I will dive back into our suspects. We have it narrowed down enough we can start requesting search warrants.”
Marzillo threw up a hand. “Actually, with two crime scenes in thirty-six hours, I’ve only managed a protein bar and twelve cups of coffee. I need food, and I need to clear my head for a few minutes. I’m gonna go grab a carnitas plate over at Fernando’s to fortify myself, then come back here and work through the night.”
Jo’s mind pulled at her to dive back into research, but her stomach rumbled at the thought of Fernando’s—she also hadn’t eaten anything except a muffin she’d grabbed on the way out of the house that morning. If she didn’t eat soon, she’d crash. “If you want company, I’m in.”
“Please. It’ll give me a chance to catch up on Matt moving in,” Marzillo said.
With a longing gaze at her monitor, Lopez jumped up and pulled her coat off her chair. “Woman cannot live by caffeine alone. A heaping plate of nachos will soothe my jangled nerves and fire up my flagging energy reserves. You in, Bob?”
He shook his head. “Bring me back a burrito. I want to jump into my research on Frieda Hauptmann, and check in on the tip line.”
Jo shot a worried glance to Marzillo and Lopez—Arnett never delayed food, no matter how urgent a case. Lopez mouthed ‘what’s happening’ and Marzillo gave an I-have-no-idea shrug.
“Chicken?”
“Carnitas, with all the trimmings.”
