It was there, in every photograph, clear as day. Removed. Bagged. Catalogued. But no one had made the connection.

The key from Henry’s pocket and the key from the kid were each in an evidence bag. Claire studied them now, and then sighed and tossed the two bags onto the bed next to the photographs.

Robbins scooted forward on his stool and adjusted one of the photographs on Henry’s leg. “Are you sure he doesn’t mind that?” he asked Claire, raising an eyebrow.

“It makes him feel like he’s helping,” Claire said.

“How did we miss this?” Archie asked.

“They all had keys,” Robbins said. “If I shot you in the head right now and dragged your ass down to the morgue, I bet I’d find keys on your body, too.”

“We didn’t know they were murders until last night,” Claire said.

Archie cracked his neck. His body ached from sleeping in the chair. He tried to stretch but there wasn’t enough space in the room. “The killer waited until after they were paralyzed, and then took the time to add a key to their key chains,” he said. The keys obviously meant something. He was sending a message.

Claire poked at the evidence bags. “The keys look the same,” she said. “But they open different locks. Look at the edges. They’re different.”

“I want these fingerprinted,” Archie said, waving a hand at the photographs of the keys.

Robbins picked up the evidence bags. “I can drop these two off at the lab,” he said. He glanced at the photographs. “The other three might take some turning up.”

The morgue, thought Archie, his head throbbing. Its contents had been transported all over the city.

“It’s not like they’re lost,” Robbins said. “They’re just packed away somewhere.”

“And the kid?” Claire asked, finally putting what they were all thinking into words. “Where did he get one?”

“I’ll make another media push,” Archie said. “See if we can identify him.”

Now there was no question that the kid was wrapped up in this.

But how?

Archie picked up one of the photographs and held it a few inches from his nose. Claire was right. The blades of the keys were different. But the bows of the keys were the same—round, the size of a thumbnail. They were all black. And they all appeared to be covered with a fine patina of crud and rust.

Whatever locks those keys had once opened hadn’t been opened in a long time.

Chapter 25

CHAPTER

25

The Mississippi Magnolia Assisted Living Facility was on Mississippi Avenue, which explained the Mississippi thing, but not the Magnolia part. As far as Susan could tell, there was not a magnolia tree in sight.