“Facial mutilation is often employed to take a victim’s identity away, which—to some killers—is more important than the victim’s life. It’s an act to demonstrate the killer’s power over the victim, that they have obliterated any threat that person posed to them. Last year I reviewed a case where a beauty queen killed a rival and poured acid on her face. The victim’s main source of power over the killer, her flawless face, was taken from her. Spite is a strong motivator, but the second possibility is even more so: fear.”
“Fear of what? Getting caught?”
“Not at this stage. You see the fear of getting caught later, when the killer took the victim’s purse and threw it in the lake. No, this is a primal fear, often documented as an immediate first emotion following a murder. It can take the form of facial cuts, covering, or even disposal of the entire body. The killer tries to erase the victim’s identity in order to erase the crime itself. It’s essentially a remorse action.”
“He killed her and then felt bad about it?”
“I believe so. The sex and stabbing are both indicators of strong swings in emotion. It’s possible that the killer’s emotions swung back to regret and fear just as quickly. You’re looking for a younger, excitable man, someone who may have difficulty fitting in or has a history of volatile relationships, either with the victim or otherwise.”
Jake and I looked at each other, and he tapped his finger on a name on the murder file. I nodded.
Whether or not Standler told us anything new, he’d sound mighty good up on a witness stand. I thanked him and made sure he’d be available to testify when the time came, then Jake and I headed over to the school for funeral duty.
The school maintenance guys and the funeral home staff had already set the place up last night, but the flower deliveries poured in all morning. After I finished the outside security checks, I escorted a couple florists inside the gym and took stock of the place.
The stage from last weekend was gone, broken down and stored away, and they’d pulled out the bleachers like a school assembly and filled most of the floor with chairs. All the floor seats faced a pulpit, mountains of flowers, and dozens of pictures and yearbooks set up at the front of the gym. I walked along the back wall, where students had stretched a paper banner and covered it with memories of Hattie.
She was always smiling.
She helped me with my English paper. A bunch of times.
We got the last season of Sex and the City from my sister. Hattie slept over and we watched it all night and rated the dresses. She thought they were way cuter than I did.
Sharing banana splits at DQ. NO STRAWBERRY SAUCE, PLEASE! Lol
She was such a good listener. (I saw that one over and over again.) She listened to all my problems and tried to help.
Hattie really listened to you.
There was a city skyline along the bottom of the paper with a girl stick figure waving from one of the windows.
I didn’t notice until I got to the end that someone had hung up Hattie’s dress from the play, Lady Macbeth’s dress washed clean of the blood bath, white and pristine. It hovered against the wall like a ghost. She’d been wearing it less than a week ago in this same room. I’d been working that night, catching up on the paperwork that never ended when budget cuts knocked you back to just a skeleton crew, but I should’ve let it wait. I should’ve come to see her.
The hearse arrived and with it, Bud, Mona, and Greg. They followed the casket into a room off the gym where the family would stay until the service. Greg nodded at me as they passed, looking jet-lagged and rough around the edges. Neither Bud nor Mona glanced up.
Then they came, the whole town in twos and threes, no one walking alone. Winifred Erickson patted my arm as she shuffled in. The Nguyens openly cried and held on to each other. Hushed, angry voices filled the halls and the gym. Brian Haeffner came up, dressed in the string tie and mother-of-pearl clasp that he wore everywhere during election season.
“Del, what’s happening? Your press releases don’t say shit.”
“It’s an ongoing investigation.”
“People are hurting here. They need to know what happened to Hattie.”
I could feel ears perking up all around us, red-rimmed eyes measuring our faces, waiting.
“We don’t need anyone to get spooked right now.” I kept my voice down.
His voiced dropped too as he glanced around us. “Del, this is the kind of case you got to wrap up quick or people will remember at the polls. It was already a slim margin last time on account of your age.”
“I haven’t keeled over yet.”
“You might as well if this thing drags out too long.” He caught my look and jumped to defend himself. “I’m telling you that as a friend. This is a career breaker.”
The last thing I wanted to talk about right now was my career. I gave a curt nod and walked away from my friend, the suit cuffs chafing every time I moved my arms.
I hadn’t worn this suit since I bought it for my mom’s funeral a few years ago. She’d been active in the church her whole life and everyone showed up to send her off to the pearly gates—including Bud and Mona, standing right by my side. The mood had been solemn, yet satisfied, too, like people knew she’d lived the best life any of us had a right to expect. We told funny stories about her and all sat down to eat and watch my sister’s grandkids play tag around the flowers. Then that was that. Death was the end of a cycle that farm folks saw every day. They joked and ribbed each other about most everything else, but when it came to hardship or loss, they endured, without making a big fuss about it. I’d been to more funerals than I cared to count, and eaten so many ham and butter sandwiches I could practically taste the flour-dusted bun when a hearse drove down Main Street, but Hattie’s funeral was something else entirely.