In contrast to the rest of the house, Zahn’s bedroom was nearly empty. He seemed to have chosen the smallest bedroom for himself. The only furniture was the bed—neatly made—a dresser with nothing sitting on it, a nightstand with a lamp, and a chair. Three of the walls were bare. On the fourth was a huge collage of photographs of Marissa and Haley Fordham.

The photos dated back to when Haley was just an infant with impossibly huge brown eyes and a mouth like a tiny rosebud. Casual snapshots of Marissa and Haley were mixed with faded pictures cut from newspapers and magazines featuring Marissa and her art. Marissa and Gina at a picnic. Haley on the beach. Toddler Haley offering Zahn a flower. Zahn looking uncertain how to respond to such a spontaneous gesture.

Vince had seen a few shrines in his day—shrines built by sexually obsessed stalkers. Zahn’s collection of photos was not that. Marissa and Haley had been his adopted family. There was nothing sexual or sinister about it.

He went into the small spotless bathroom but did not find Zander Zahn hanging from the shower curtain rod.

The three men split up then, each going through a different part of the house searching for its owner.

“He’s not here,” Mendez said as they met up in the foyer. “But you need to see something.”

He led the way down a hall crowded with coatracks to a room at the back of the house. The room was lined with shelves and crowded with tables, and every available inch of space on those shelves and tables, and every bit of wall space, was occupied by prosthetic human body parts.

There were arms with hooks for hands, arms with plastic hands; whole legs, lower legs; hands, feet, and women’s breasts.

One entire bookcase was filled with prosthetic female breasts of every size and description.

“Try to tell me this isn’t creepy,” Mendez said.

Vince looked around the room at all the spare body parts, wondering where Zahn had come by them and why he had felt compelled to bring them home.

“Look on the bright side, kid,” he said. “At least they’re not real.”

Chapter 56

56

“He owns a car, which Nasser says he rarely drives,” Mendez said. “The car is sitting in the garage. There was no sign of Zahn in the house.”

They sat in the break room where a television monitor was showing Detective Trammell interviewing Bob Copetti, a local architect who had gone out with Marissa Fordham from time to time. The sound was turned down to a mumble. Copetti’s alibi for the night of Marissa’s murder had checked out.

“Anything to suggest foul play?” Dixon asked.

“No.”

“He couldn’t have gone somewhere with a friend?”

“He doesn’t have friends.”