She took the Newsome file, paged through, paused at the autopsy photos, spent a lot of time on a five-by-seven glossy photo.
“Poor Flora,” she said. “This was her graduation picture. Cal State L.A., she got her teaching credential there.”
“She was thirty-one when she died,” said Milo. “Old picture?”
“Recent picture. She took time off, worked as a secretary between college and teaching school, had just graduated a year before. She was finishing her probationary year at the school. The principal liked her, the kids liked her, she was going to be asked to stay on.”
Her fingernail flicked the edge of the photo. “Her mother gave this to us, made a big point of telling us we could keep it—she kind of bonded with me and Al. Nice lady, she had faith in us, never bugged us, just called once in a while to thank us, let us know she was sure we’d solve it.” Her nostrils flared. “Haven’t heard from her in must be half a year. Poor Mrs. Newsome. Evelyn Newsome.”
I said, “May I?” and she slid the folder across the table.
In life, Flora Newsome had been attractive in a scrubbed, unremarkable way. Broad face, clear complexion, dark hair worn to her shoulders and flipped, bright pale eyes. For her grad shot, she’d put on a fuzzy white sweater and thin gold chain with a crucifix. An inscription on the back of the picture said, “To Mom and Dad. I finally made it!” Blue ink, beautiful penmanship.
“Mom and Dad,” I said.
“Dad died two months after Flora graduated. Mom wasn’t doing too great either—serious arthritis. Sixty years old, but she looked seventy-five. After Flora got killed, she moved out of her house and checked herself into one of those board-and-care places. If that doesn’t turn you old at warp speed . . .” She frowned. “So what can I tell you guys about it . . . Flora’s boyfriend found her around 11:30 A.M., Sunday morning. The two of them had a date for brunch, were gonna head over to Bobby J’s in the Marina.” She snorted. “Funny I should remember that. We checked, the restaurant confirmed the reservation. The boyfriend shows up, knocks, no one answers. He keeps trying, finally uses his cell phone to call Flora, still nothing. He bangs on her window, tries to look through, but the drapes are blocking. So he goes and gets the manager. Who didn’t want to let him in—he’s seen the boyfriend around but doesn’t really know him. The boyfriend makes noise about calling the cops, and the manager agrees to have a quick look. Minute later, the manager’s puking in the bushes and the boyfriend’s calling 911, shouting for an ambulance. Not that there was a chance. Coroner said she’d gotten killed around midnight.”
She motioned for the file. I slid it back and she skimmed it again. “Shot and stabbed. We counted thirty-four wounds—serious overkill. And yeah, here’s one, right under the sternum. Coroner said the bad guy made the most of it by churning the knife. Lots of blood. Big blade, single-edged, like a butcher knife. Flora had a set of cutlery in her kitchen, one of those wood-block things with slots for each knife and the largest was missing. We figured the bad guy took it for a souvenir or just to hide the evidence.”
“Our guy left the rail in the girl,” said Milo.
“Charming. So what, you’re thinking the shrink might be a link?”
Milo shrugged. “Two people in one practice murdered, some similarities in technique.”
Lorraine Ogden said, “What, they each encountered the same nutcase in the waiting room?”
“It’s not a bad screenplay, Lorraine.”
Ogden played with her wedding band. “I wish I could give you something more on Flora, but that baby was cold the day it got delivered. A victim with no kinks, everyone liked her, no known enemies. It smelled to me right away like a psycho killing. The problem was, a careful psycho. There were prints in the living room. Flora’s, the boyfriend, her parents, the manager—he’s an eighty-year-old geezer with cataracts, so don’t go thinking in that direction. And a few of Flora’s in the bedroom, in and around the closet area mostly. But nothing on or near the bed. Same for the kitchen and the bathroom. As in wiped. The bathroom, in particular. Not a smudge on the sink, no hair in the tub or on the soap. We had the techies check the pipes and the traps and sure enough, Flora’s blood showed up, plus Luminol made the place look like a slaughterhouse, all sorts of wipe marks in the blood, coroner said a right-handed person. There was also a row of drinking glasses in the kitchen and one, in particular, had that squeaky-clean feel like it had been put through the dishwasher. Techie confirmed dishwasher crystals at the bottom.”