She said, “Consistent with stun-gun burns. I’m guessing that’s how she knocked her victims down.”

“I need pictures,” I said.

Chapter 113

Chapter 113

IT WAS TWO in the morning when I got back upstairs to Homicide. Conklin met me in the squad room. He said, “Harry Chandler is in Brady’s office. He’s waiting for you.”

“Good. I asked him to come down. We can use his help. Where’s Janet?”

“She’s in a holding cell. I’m not getting anything believable out of her. I’ll try her again in the morning.”

I went into Brady’s office, said hello to Harry Chandler, and thanked him for coming in at that hour.

“Happy to do it,” he said. “Have you learned anything about what happened to Cecily?”

“Janet is taking responsibility for the seven women whose heads were buried in the garden, but she can’t give us any details on the murders. Nicole maintains that she’s innocent. So far, nothing about your wife.”

Harry nodded, then said, “Has Janet or Nicole asked for a lawyer?”

“No.”

“Lindsay, I need to know what happened to Cecily. Ten years after her death, even after I was acquitted, the public still believes I killed my wife. And now people are coming up to me in restaurants calling me a murderer. They think I killed those other women too.

“I can’t keep living this way. I’ve got an offer for Janet or Nicole, whichever one of them can name the killer and give you enough evidence to prove it.”

Chandler and I discussed his offer for another minute or two, and then I asked him to stand by.

Conklin and I found Nicole napping in the interview room, cheek down on the old gray metal table. I kicked the chair and it scraped across the floor. She lifted her head and Conklin and I took chairs on either side of her.

“How’s it going, Nicole?” the good cop asked her.

“It’s late. I want to go home now.”

I slapped morgue photos down on the table one after the other, close-up shots of arms, legs, thighs, buttocks with knife wounds, and a right shoulder blemished by burns from a stun gun.

“Do you recognize these body parts, Nicole?”

“Oh. Gross.”

I pointed to the knife cuts in the quartered haunch of human flesh.

“See these? These are stab wounds. And I’m betting they’re going to perfectly match the knife you were waving around a few hours ago. The lab is doing the workup now.”

“Well, you gotta do what you gotta do,” Nicole said.

Her words were flippant, but her expression had changed. She was starting to believe that we had evidence to indict and convict. Her eyes flicked from the photos to me and then back.