Monday Mourning

Would you like me to contact rental car agencies?”

“I guess it’s time,” I said.

“It’s only been four days.”

“Yes.”

“If she—” Ryan hesitated. “If something happened we’d be the first to know.”

“Yes.”

Ryan’s cell phone rang. He checked the screen, frowned, then gave me his most boyish of grins.

“Sorry—”

“I know. Gotta take it.”

Ryan had barely cleared the door when my desk phone rang. As per my request, the librarian had found materials on sexual sadism and the Stockholm syndrome.

I was reading an article in the Journal of Forensic Sciences when Claudel arrived.

“The dead man is Neal Wesley Catts.”

“S’il vous plaît.” I gestured to the chair opposite my desk. “Asseyezvous.” Sit.

Claudel tucked down the corners of his mouth and sat.

“Catts was born in Stockton, California, in 1963. The usual sob story, broken home, alcoholic mother.”

Claudel was speaking English. What could that mean?

“Catts dropped out of high school in seventy-nine, hung with the Banditos for a while, got no invite to patch up.

“Did he hold jobs?”

“Flipped burgers, tended bar, worked at a window frame plant. But here’s a tidbit you’ll love. The little pervert liked ogling forbidden grail.”

I listened without interrupting.

“Catts was hauled to the bag several times on peeping complaints.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.”"

"“Cops never had enough to charge him.”

“Voyeurism is a typical first step for sexual predators.”

“One old biddy accused him of snuffng her poodle.

“Where was this?”

“Yuba City, California.”

The name hit me like a blow to the chest.

“Yuba City’s right down the road from Chico.”

Claudel’s lips did something very close to a smile. “And Red Bluff.”

“When was Catts there?”

“Late seventies, early eighties. Dropped out of sight in the mid-eighties.”

“Didn’t he have to report to a parole officer or something?”

“He was clear with the state by eighty-four.”

When Claudel left to search out LaManche, I went back to my reading.

“Big day yesterday, Temperance?”

“Carnival. You’ve spoken with Claudel?”

“I’ve just given him a preliminary on Monsieur Catts.”

“Any surprises?”

LaManche pooched out his lips and waggled his fingers. Maybe yes. Maybe no.

“What?”

“I found no gunpowder on the hands.”

“Were they bagged?”

“They were.”

“Shouldn’t powder be present if he fired a gun?”

“Yes.