then they were past it, tumbling into real darkness, with the bulking outlines of older buildings ahead of them like bones from another epoch. They drove past a plant that, for the first ten years of Hazard’s life, had made cardboard boxes. Then they drove past an abandoned kitty litter factory. Then a cabinetry shop that had, for six months of Hazard’s time in high school, been appropriated by the senior class as a spot to drink and have sex, and which had ended when Mary Bead had cut herself and demanded a tetanus shot, and word had finally gotten out about what was happening. Sexten Park was an industrial graveyard; there was even an ancient automotive factory, Sexten Motors, that had opened at the turn of the century and shuttered in the Great Depression.
As they turned into the industrial park, a constellation of lights met them, and Hazard thought of the senior class having bonfires and smashing bottles of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill in the rusted-out shells of metal barrels. Then he saw the patrol cars, the men and women in uniform, the halogen flood lights on tripods. Farther out, a figure was illuminated like a dancer on stage, turning away from the gathering of law enforcement, one foot raised as though taking a step. Hazard had seen this pose before; Phil Camerata had been staged this way when Hazard had found him in the sub-basement of Wroxall College.
“That fucking son of a bitch,” Hazard said.
As Somers pulled to a stop, he reached over and squeezed Hazard’s hand.
“Who the fuck is that?” Hazard asked, counting to three before he pulled away from Somers’s touch.
“Oh,” Somers said, following Hazard’s gaze out the window.
“Where’s Cravens? Is she too fucking busy to show up to a fucking serial killer investigation?”
“I meant to tell you, but things kind of . . . took off when I got home.”
And then Somers did tell him, and Hazard studied Riggle, the new police chief, through the windshield. Riggle was snapping orders, pointing, shouting. His posture was ramrod straight, and he held himself like a guy who had thought of himself as a cop, and only as a cop, for most of his life.
“Fine,” Hazard said when Somers finished, and then he pushed open the door and got out of the car.
“Ree,” Somers said, “hold on.”
But Hazard was already moving toward the barrier of police tape. A pimply kid in an ill-fitting uniform was stringing the tape between stakes, but when he saw Hazard, he dropped the roll and put his hand on his service weapon.
“Hey, asshole, stop right there!”
“Go fuck yourself,” Hazard said, passing him without breaking his stride.
“Stop or I’ll shoot!”
Behind him, Hazard could hear Somers smoothing the situation over, the way he always did. Hazard just kept going.
He stopped at the edge of the gravel lot; the staged body—he assumed, for now, that Somers’s information was right and that the victim was Susan Morrison—was probably still a hundred yards away, and two figures in Tyvek suits were moving around her in slow motion, one of them snapping photographs, the other filming with a video camera. Norman and Gross, Hazard guessed, who processed most of the crime scenes for the Wahredua PD. This was only the start, though. The FBI would most likely come in, state law enforcement definitely would, and then, barring something unforeseen like World War III, the media jackals would show up. In a matter of days, possibly in a matter of hours, the case would be neatly wrested away from the Wahredua PD. A good thing, probably, except for the fact that Emery Hazard would also be sidelined. And Hazard had no interest in being sidelined. He needed to find this fucker. And he needed to do it soon.
Familiar footsteps came behind him. Hazard spoke without looking over his shoulder. “As soon as they’re done documenting the scene, I want to get in there and look around.”
“Ree, we need to talk.”
“Like most serial killers, his technique is evolving between kills,” Hazard said. “He’s still in the initial phases. He’s still figuring out what works for him—what gets him the high or the release or whatever he needs out of this. The ritual, some of the elements are the same—he’s posed her just as he did Phil. Did he use wires again? Or some kind of fixing agent, maybe some sort of plasticizing compound? Was the cause of death the same? Any word on bees?” Hazard turned his head, moderating his breathing,