Private

Charlotte Murphy was wearing navy blue man-tailored pants and a button-down collared shirt. A gold badge hung from a chain around her neck. Her expression was guarded, but its severity was offset by exceptionally pretty blue eyes and a welcoming smile.

Murphy introduced Justine to her colleagues, then offered her a chair. She said, “I had a few hours to get Wendy Borman’s effects out of archives. Want to look at the murder book first? Take your time. I’ve got plenty of other hopeless work to do.”

Detective Murphy pushed a thick three-hole-punched notebook toward Justine.

Justine couldn’t open the notebook quickly enough, and then she wanted to pore over it slowly so that she didn’t miss a thing.

The pages were glassine sleeves, the contents catalogued and in chronological order.

The first several pages were photos of Wendy Borman lying dead in the alley off Hyperion, yards from where Connie Yu’s body had been found. She was fully dressed, her hair soaking wet, her left arm hidden under a pile of trash bags.

Following the photos were sketches of the crime scene and a photocopy of a seven-page report from the ME. Cause of death: manual strangulation.

Copies of Detective Bruno’s case notes followed, the pages stapled together and stuffed into a single sleeve. After the notes were transcripts of the interview with the only witness, Christine Castiglia, eleven years old.

Next, Justine looked over the list of stolen property, an itemized account of the contents of Wendy Borman’s backpack. A piece of handmade jewelry had also been taken, a gold chain necklace with a gold charm in the shape of a star.

Toward the back of the book was a photograph of Wendy Borman wearing that necklace while she was alive. She was posed standing between her parents. She was already taller than they were, and she had looped her arms over both their shoulders. Wendy had been a grinning, blond-haired girl with an athletic build. She didn’t look like she should ever die. How sad was that?

“I’m ready for the contents of the evidence box,” Justine said. “I think so, anyway.”

Detective Murphy offered Justine latex gloves from a dispenser, then used a pocketknife to slit the red tape around a plain cardboard box. She removed the lid, lifted out a large paper bag, and sliced the seal on that.

Justine was hit with an adrenaline high, a rush of bright anticipation she couldn’t control. This was precisely the feeling that had gotten her into forensics and made her good at it. Something here might open a window into the Schoolgirl case.

Maybe it would even reveal a killer.

She reached into the bag and pulled out a pair of stretch jeans, size six, and a baby blue jersey-knit top with a scoop neckline.

She plunged her hands into the bag again and brought out a pair of Nike cross-trainers and baby blue socks.

She spread out the clothing, examining where samples had been cut out of the fabric by the LA crime lab.

“I take it the blood belonged to the victim.”

Murphy nodded yes.

“I need to borrow her clothes,” Justine said.

“Chief Fescoe and DA Petino already okayed their release,” said Murphy. “You’re the man.”

She pushed a form over to Justine and handed her a pen.

“Wendy’s left arm,” Murphy said. “It was under some garbage bags. The rain didn’t soak the sleeve. I’d have your lab check it out. Technology is a lot better now. Especially at a lab like yours at Private.”

“Let’s keep some hope alive,” said Justine.

“No, let’s get this bastard,” said Detective Murphy, smiling again, but also showing Justine just how tough and relentless she was.

Chapter 69

“YOU REMEMBER THE Wendy Borman case?” asked Justine.

The air smelled of fried fish, fried onions, fried potatoes. Justine sat across a small square table from Christine Castiglia in the Belmont High School cafeteria. The only witness to Wendy Borman’s abduction was sixteen now. She was petite, hugging herself, looking up at Justine with big eyes half hidden under thick brown bangs.

You didn’t have to be a shrink to see that Christine was afraid. Justine knew to tread carefully, and she wasn’t feeling so steady herself. She was desperate for this girl to tell her something that could lead to the Schoolgirl killer before he killed again.

“I was only eleven when it happened,” Christine said. “You know that, right?”

“I know.” Justine swirled a straw in her plastic cup of ice and Diet Coke. “Can you tell me what you saw anyway? I need to hear it from you.”

“Are you thinking those same boys-I guess they’re men now-might have killed the girls around here?”

Someone dropped a tub of dishes behind the steam tables. An awful, nerve-rending clatter.

Justine waited out the kids’ applause before saying, “It’s possible. There was a gap of three years between Wendy Borman and Kayla Brooks. That’s why no one thought to connect them. It’s why what you witnessed is so important. If Wendy Borman was their first killing, they might have made a mistake.”