“No, don’t think so.” He flashed a quick grin. “Mrs. Kowalski is a woman. In her late seventies or early eighties, I’d guess. A widow who apparently makes it her business to know what goes on in every unit in the building, night and day.”

Bentz knew the type.

“She, uh, she disapproved of Ms. Gaines’s nocturnal antics.”

“I bet.”

“Copycat?” Montoya asked.

Bentz thought of the security video from the prison. Father John had stared straight into the camera’s eye, not hiding his face or features, almost flaunting the fact that he was back.

Bentz shook his head. “Doubt it.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Bentz turned toward the medical examiner, a middle-aged man on his knees near the body. “Time of death?”

Wrinkles appeared over his prematurely balding pate as the examiner considered. “After midnight. One thirty to three, I’d say. Rigor’s still strong and body temp suggests that she’s been dead around eight, maybe nine hours. Give or take.” He nodded, as if agreeing with himself. “That would be our window.”

“Defensive wounds?”

“Not really. We’ve got some bruising at her fingers and a couple of scrapes, two broken fingernails, probably from when she tried to pry the garrote from her neck.”

In his mind’s eye Bentz imagined her struggle: a small woman who had expected the john, then was surprised when the tall and strapping man had slipped the rosary around her neck and started pulling, cutting off her air as he twisted his glittery weapon more tightly. Hers would have been a fairly quick, if agonizing and terrifying death. All at the hands of a psycho who should, if Bentz’s aim had been true, already be dead. If Bentz’s bullet had only hit its mark all those years ago in the bayou, at least two dead women would still be alive today. A sense of guilt tried to sneak up at him, but he pushed it firmly away, kept it at bay. For now. “Thanks,” he said to the examiner.

“Hey! She have a kid?” Montoya stood on the opposite side of the bed from the ME, pointing to a silver picture frame positioned beneath a lamp with a beaded shade. A small boy smiled in the picture. Judging from his wide grin, which showed off gaps and permanent teeth just breaking the gum line, Bentz guessed the kid was around seven or eight.

Montoya frowned, his gaze sweeping the room. “No sign that he lived here. No toys or kids’ clothes or video games or books. Kids, they come with a lot of stuff.”

Bentz nodded, then asked O’Keefe, “The super still here? He might know.”

“Or maybe Frances Kowalski,” Montoya suggested.

“Yeah, I’ll talk to her, too.”

“The super’s name is Vincente. Vincente Espinosa.” O’Keefe nodded to the open doorway where a skinny man lurked, peering inside.

“Got it.” Bentz called over his shoulder to Rosarita. “Send me the report.”