Teteni smiled weakly and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. It looked to Nick like Teteni’s job was taking a lot out of him. Reminded him of David.

After the class, Teteni sat at a table in the back of the room and examined the crime scene photographs from several case files brought by the detectives. Each detective told Teteni the basic facts of the case while the FBI special agent considered the photos. The detectives were told not to describe their prime suspects, if they had one.

Nick stood up close so he could see the pictures, too, and try to understand how Teteni was learning from them. Unlike Dr. Brussel’s dramatically detailed description, Teteni’s speculations were more general but still practical.

When it was his turn, he handed Teteni the packinghouse photographs and described what they had discovered so far.

Teteni set the file on the table. Then opened it to the crime scene pictures. He listened and turned the pictures while Nick talked.

Nick saw that Teteni was patient and focused, but somehow methodical, too. He appeared to spend exactly the same amount of time on each photo. His hand ready to turn it over. Like an internal clock was ticking.

Finally he looked up at Nick.

“This packinghouse closed operations when?”

“Sixty-four.”

“It’s hidden in the orange groves, or at least obscured by them?”

“Obscured.”

Teteni flipped to a packinghouse exterior. Nick could see the orange trees buffeted by the wind.

“You probably wouldn’t know about it unless you had lived in the area?”

“Probably not.”

“Visible from any public road?”

“No.”

“Transients use it for sleeping, maybe young people for sex and drinking and drug use?”

“Yes.”

“She wasn’t killed there?”

“No. We haven’t found out where yet.”

“Vaginally raped?”

“Yes sir.”

Teteni turned to a picture of Janelle’s severed head. Eyes open. Seeing nothing. “I think it’s a ruse.”

“Sir?”

“Call me Doug. This is not a stranger killing. This has nothing to do with transients. He knew her. He believes that she insulted and betrayed him in some way that is unspeakable to him. He killed her on impulse, by strangulation-no weapons and very little forethought. If he obtained the saw himself, it was likely after he’d killed her. More likely that he stumbled on it in some way, that it was already there, or already in his possession for other reasons. He removed her head to symbolically make sure she would never insult and betray him again. And to make himself appear insane. He placed her body here, in surroundings unrelated to her or to himself. I don’t think he’s done this kind of thing before and I don’t think he’ll do it again.”

“Why? What makes you say that?”

“No planning and unnecessary work. He took a great deal of risk and spent a good deal of time killing her in one place, then moving the body here for mutilation. Stranger killers are more organized. Age would be late thirties to late forties. Familiar with but no longer living in the area of the murder. I would say that he is either a professional of some kind or an artist or craftsman. He has terrific pride in himself, or in his reputation or his creations, and that is what she insulted so badly to deserve this.”

Nick’s heart was pounding. Then sinking as he watched Teteni close the file and hand it back to him.

“Would he take something from her as a reminder, like you talked about?”

“No. But unpracticed killers surprise us by what they remove from the scene simply to keep the police from finding it.”

“Does he want to be caught?” asked Nick.

“No,” said Teteni. “He feels massive shame but even more massive fear of being caught. Did she have a large funeral or memorial service?”

“Several hundred.”

“He was probably there.”

Home movies, thought Nick. David always made Super 8 home movies of his Sunday services, so why not of the biggest funeral he’d ever done?

Nick’s heart was beating strong and he believed that those movies would lead to something important. He believed for the first time in days that he was really going to crack this case. It had gotten into his head that if you never closed that first case, you could never call yourself good. You had to pass first grade. Make the cut.

“Someday I want to do what you do,” said Nick.

Some of the guys looked at him. He felt his face get red. Hadn’t meant to blurt, but hadn’t known what he wanted to do with the next thirty years of his life until right now. Talk about understanding the kinks.

“Give me your card, Nick,” said Teteni. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead again. “I’ll call you if anything else comes to mind. Good luck. Next?”

NICK MADE David’s home by eleven. Barbara was still up, got David out of bed. Then David took Nick to the Grove Drive-In to get the Super 8 film of Janelle’s memorial service and funeral. There were four thirty-minute reels. David let him have the good projector but Nick had to promise to have it back by Saturday. David told him there was some crowd footage but not that much. Most of the movies showed, well, himself.

At home Nick moved the cars out of the garage and set the projector up on his big wheeled toolbox. Used the wall next to the Odd Box for a screen. Katy wandered out in her pj’s and robe, kissed him dreamily, then wandered back into the house.

Nick watched all two hours and drank four beers without taking a leak.

It was just like he remembered. What, almost a thousand people? Vonns and Beckers and Langtons and Stoltzes and Dessingers. Jesse Black and Crystal and Gail and hundreds of Janelle’s relatives and friends and neighbors he couldn’t even identify. But the greatest numbers were the throng brought in by Janelle’s momentary celebrity. The Headless Beauty Queen of Orange County. Everybody loves a pretty girl and a tragedy.

Nick hit pay dirt late in the fourth reel. Shot of the green slopes of the cemetery and the crowd. And there he was, squeezed into the people around him, looking down like he didn’t want to be seen.

Hair pushed up under the hat. Black sunglasses. Trying to be small. But Cory Bonnett was unmistakable.

THE NEXT MORNING Andy stood on the porch of 1303 North Bayfront, Balboa Island, Newport Beach. He knocked again. The sliding door was open and a cool breeze lifted the curtains. He watched a stout Mexican woman lean a mop against a wall and come slowly toward him down a hallway.

Friday, October 18. Seventeen days after the murder.

Three days after reading Janelle Vonn’s letters about Roger Stoltz.

Two days after his signed editorial in the Orange County Journal accused his older brother of incompetence. The deputies in the Sheriff’s Department pressroom earlier this morning had ignored him. But carried on with the other reporters as usual. Andy had never been generally dismissed and didn’t care for the feeling. It went without saying that his department sources had dried up.

Andy introduced himself in Spanish to the cleaning lady. Said he was Mike Jones, one of Representative Stoltz’s associates in the American Congress. Her name was Marci. He made small talk about the weather and maybe renting the place, because Mr. Stoltz had told him what a nice apartment it was. She didn’t know a Mr. Stoltz. She knew Maid in America cleaning service because she’d been working for them for four years.

She smiled, incisors framed in gold. Stood aside. Andy said he’d be quick. She could keep on working and he’d be gone in just a few minutes.

Downstairs were the living room, kitchen, and two small bedrooms that shared a bath. Sparsely furnished. Nice maple floors. Throw rugs and prints of watercolors on the walls.

Andy pictured Janelle here. He unfolded the copy of the letter written in this apartment just over a year ago.