“What situation is that?” Liska asked.

“Your son is involved with Miss Gray.”

“They know each other. I don’t consider that a situation.”

“And there’s this latest outrage concerning the other students on your list.” He glanced at Kovac, pausing for drama.

“What outrage?” Liska asked.

Rodgers heaved a put-upon sigh. “I was going to call you this morning.”

“Well, I’m here. So let’s do this now.”

Rodgers glanced at Kovac again.

“It’s okay,” Kovac said. “I’m her father. It’s all in the family.”

Rodgers pursed his lips in disapproval. He picked up his smart phone from its charging stand. “This was brought to my attention first thing this morning by Aaron Fogelman’s father.”

He punched some buttons and brought up a picture, then thrust the phone at Liska. “This was posted on Twitter last night. I don’t know who posted it, but there’s no doubt in my mind who did the artwork.”

She looked at the picture and felt a flush of heat rush through her. It was Kyle’s drawing of the three Ultors, the one that had been ruined by the kids he didn’t get along with. The heads of the Ultors had been changed out for caricatures. One she recognized instantly as Aaron Fogelman, grinning like a fool as he fondled himself.

“Are you going to deny your son did that?” Rodgers said.

“You’re going to assume that he did,” she countered.

There was no question that it was Kyle’s work. Still, she was going to defend him against this jerk. The Fighting Liska/Hatcher Family motto: Go down swinging.

“That’s not Kyle’s Twitter account,” she said.

“Mrs. Liska—”

“Sergeant Liska.”

“I find this drawing very disturbing,” Rodgers said. “I don’t know anything about Twitter, but I believe your son made this drawing. I’m suspending him for the remainder of the week, at least. I’ve already spoken to him. He’s in the conference room across the hall waiting for you.”

Anger and frustration flooded through her. Anger and frustration with Rodgers. Anger and frustration with her son. The pressure of it roared in her ears until she couldn’t hear.

Kovac stepped between her and the principal and gently moved her backward toward the door.

“Take the car,” he murmured, pressing the keys at her. “Take Kyle and go home. Ground him or beat him or chain him in the basement. I don’t care which. I need you downtown.”

She took the keys and left the room, feeling embarrassed and helpless and exhausted. To her horror, tears burned her eyes. She felt like a failure on multiple levels.

As she walked into the conference room Kyle looked up at her from the far side of the table. She thought his expression was probably a mirror of her own. He was upset and angry and fighting tears.

“Get your things,” she said. “We’re going home, where you will be grounded for the rest of your life.”

25

Kasselmann was the king of the press statement. He had the perfect look: as solid as a bull, as serious as a heart attack, handsomely groomed. He had the perfect authoritative voice. He was articulate and concise.

Kovac watched the live news feed on the television in the conference room. He had no desire to be questioned by the media. Reporters asked stupid questions, and they asked them over and over. He was more than happy to let Kasselmann take that spotlight.

Julia Gray stood beside the captain, looking stunned. She was as pale as a ghost, and the bruise on her cheek stood out despite her efforts to hide it with a clever hairstyle. When it was her turn to make her appeal for the return of her daughter, it seemed for an uncomfortable moment that she wasn’t going to say anything. She looked down at the podium, locked inside her own mind.

Kovac wondered if the good Dr. Warner had prescribed something for her nerves. Probably—and rightly so. Having dealt with more child abductions and disappearances than he cared to count, Kovac knew the terrible strain it put on the parents. They labored under a heavy burden of anxiety, fear, anger, uncertainty, and guilt. What could they have done to prevent this? Why couldn’t their child have been more careful, less headstrong? What was happening to their kid? Was she or he alive, dead, frightened, in pain?

Beside him in front of the television, John Quinn stood with his arms crossed and his brow set in concentration as he watched Julia Gray finally rouse herself to make the standard appeal for the return of her daughter or the revelation of any information that might shed light on her disappearance.

When they made the movie of Quinn’s life, George Clooney would be first in line to play him. He had that look about him—dark hair peppered with distinguished gray, dark eyes, strong jaw. He was the guy other guys wanted to be and the man every woman drooled over. He used those attributes to his advantage when he could but didn’t rely on them to carry him. He had a keen intellect, and he knew his subject as well as or better than anyone else in the business.

“What happened to her face?” he asked, not taking his eyes from the screen.

“She says she took a fall on the ice,” Elwood said. “Sprained her wrist too.”

“What does she do for living?”

“She’s a rep for a pharmaceutical company.”

“Where’s the husband?”

“They’ve been divorced for four years. He’s an odontologist. He remarried a younger woman who worked in his office.”

“Mom’s in a relationship with a shrink,” Kovac said.

“What’s he like?”

“Like a shrink. Dr. Know It All and Let Me Explain It to You Like You’re a Moron. Wears his sweaters tied around his neck,” Kovac added with disdain.

“I googled him,” Elwood said. “Turns out he’s fairly well-known in the metro area.”

Kovac scowled. “I’ve never heard of him.”

“Because you’re out of touch with the world around you,” Elwood pointed out. “He has a radio show on one of the local AM stations for parents dealing with teenagers. Two hours every Saturday morning. And he does a five-minute guest spot on the channel twelve morning show every Monday.”

“Oh, great,” Kovac grumbled. “A celebrity in his own mind. I’m liking him more and more.”

“What’s he like with the mother?” Quinn asked.

“He tried to be supportive last night,” Elwood said. “He came with her this morning.”

On-screen, Julia Gray had collapsed against Kasselmann, crying. Kasselmann held her upright and put an end to the press conference with another appeal for anyone with information to contact the department. The news feed cut back to the studio and perky Dana Nolan for a rehash of everything that had just gone on.

“So, John, you’ve already looked at everything we have on the Doc Holiday cases,” Kovac said, going to the coffee machine and pouring himself a cup of something that looked like used motor oil. “Now you’ve had a chance to look at our Zombie case. What’s your impression?”

Quinn jammed his hands on his hips and looked at the photos of the body that had been taped to the wall.

“It depends on where Doc is at in his career,” he said. “Based on the known cases we attribute to him, he’s dumped more bodies in the Twin Cities area than anywhere else—as far as we know. If we count this girl, he’s dumped four bodies here in a year’s time. To me, that says he’s comfortable here, he knows the area. Could be he lives here and he’s getting lazy. Dumping victims in his backyard, so to speak, allows him to easily revisit the spots and relive the fun. But it’s also risky.

“The other victims dumped here came from outside the state. If Zombie Doe and Penelope Gray are the same girl, then he both grabbed her here and dumped her here. That says he’s getting careless and he’s possibly escalating.”