LITMIR.BIZ

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show it all.”

      “Meaning?”

      “I’m coming to that. Take a look at this, Pete. This one is the full mouth set of Jean that I shot over the weekend,” she said mounting another set of X rays on the viewer. “Now compare this set to Dr. Rothstein’s.”

      Decker studied the films.

      “It doesn’t show the sliver of filling, either.”

      “Exactly. And look how much more similar the two sets are. Know what I did? I angled the X ray tube a little bit forward. Foreshortened the beam. When one compares radiographs for something as important as identification of a murder victim, one better make damn sure that the two sets of X rays are shot from the same angle. Otherwise, one may miss an obvious match and feel stupid.”

      She breathed on her fingernails and rubbed them on her white coat.

      “But the clincher is this. I called up Dr. Rothstein and asked for the patient’s orthodontist. His name is Dr. Neiman and he sent me her casts. You want to compare the two?”

      She showed them to Decker.

      “To me, they look identical.”

      “Not quite. Remember I told you that the girl wasn’t wearing her retainer as much as she should have. The skeleton’s teeth weren’t quite as aligned. But even so, I superimposed a bite plate of Jean’s teeth and matched it to his patient’s casts, and then I reversed the procedure and superimposed the patient’s bite plate over Jean’s teeth. It’s the same person.

      “Pete,” she said, pointing to the plaster casts. “Say hello to Lindsey Bates.”

      5

      At the time of the Missing Persons Report three and a half months ago, Lindsey Bates had been sixteen years and two months old, five feet four inches tall, 108 pounds, with blue eyes, blond hair—American pie turned vulture fodder. Last seen by her mother after announcing that she was going to the Glendale Galleria to find a hot pink blouse to match her new yellow baggies. She’d planned to be back around four, and when she hadn’t returned by five, Mrs. Bates began to worry. Forty-eight hours later, Lindsey was considered an official Missing Person. There were several other entries in the file—interviews with parents and friends—but nothing had proven useful.

      The Glendale detective assigned to the case had been Don Oldham, an energetic, overweight man of fifty, who had reached twenty-five biggies a month ago and hung up his shield. After the Bates identification was made and the parents notified, Decker visited him in his condo that overlooked the smoggy San Gabriel mountains. Some say retirement kills the spirit, but if there existed a happier man than Oldham (Donnie as he insisted on being called) Decker hadn’t met him. Oldham was an avid tropical fish breeder, and he reminded Decker of a mad scientist as he tested water samples and added chemicals to the fifty aerated aquariums that filled his living room. The tanks gurgled and bubbled like boiling cauldrons. It took Donnie nearly twenty minutes to get down to business.

      He remembered the case. His conclusion was profound: Either an abduction or a runaway.

      Did he favor one over the other, Decker asked.

      Oh, probably the abduction, said Oldham. None of the girl’s personal effects seemed to be missing. Her car was still in the parking lot. People don’t leave without taking some memento along.

      But then again, he added gleefully, she still could have been a runaway.

      Decker thanked him. As he turned to leave, he saw Oldham taking off his shirt and dipping his bare arms into a tank of guppies. A caved-in patch of glossy scar tissue decorated the man’s right shoulder. Decker wondered how he’d caught the bullet.

      He arrived back at the squad room shortly after noon and found Marge at her desk, looking sick.

      “What’s wrong with you?” he asked.

      “Chug-a-lugged too many beers,” she answered, pushing hair out of her eyes. The blond strands hung limply down to her shoulders. Her complexion was wan.

      “You don’t look hungover; you look sick. As in the flu. Why don’t you go home?”

      She dismissed the thought with a wave of her hand. “The aspirins’ll kick in. I’ll be all right.”

      “What are you working on now?” Decker asked.

      “I just got another weenie wagger. Third one in a week. Seems this particular dude just loves to excite himself in the movie theater, preferably kiddy films. They caught him at the climax—his—buttering some little girl’s popcorn at the Brave Li’l Mouse Movie.”

      Decker groaned.

      “Mama went bonkers,” Marge continued. “Started screaming in front of a full house. ‘Did you see what that man just did! He ejaculated in my daughter’s popcorn!’ Meanwhile, the perv’s just sittin’ there with this smug grin plastered across his mug. No resistance to the arrest. Too damn wasted.”

      “I hope they got their money back,” Decker said.

      “Yeah, they did—and a free popcorn to boot—but Mama was none too pleased.”

      “Do you have any other cases—besides the wagger—that are pressing?”

      “My load’s pretty light. What’s up?”

      “We got a name to match a set of bones that we dug up.”

      Marge nodded approval. “Not too shabby, Pete.”

      “Sometimes you get lucky. A sixteen-year-old white female named Lindsey Bates. Disappeared around four months ago.”

      “Want me to talk to her mother?”

      “If you can. I need someone with a soft touch.”

      “When?”

      “Right now, if you feel up to it. I figured I’d take a peek at the kid’s room while you interviewed Mrs. Bates.”

      Marge stood up. In heels, she was nearly eye level with him. Her shoulders, housed in a padded jacket, appeared immense.

      She picked up her bag and said, “Let’s go.”

      The Bateses lived in La Canada. The house was on a tree-lined street at the end of a cul-de-sac—a split level with a wood and stone facade. The lawn had been newly planted and was bisected by a stone walkway lined by manicured rose bushes bursting with Day-Glo colors—hot pinks, scarlet reds, and sunshine yellows—a wreath for the house of mourning. Marge gave the door a hard rap, and a moment later a wisp of a blonde appeared in the doorway.

      “Mrs. Bates?” Decker asked, showing his shield.

      “Come in, Sergeant … I’m sorry I forgot your name.”

      “Decker, ma’am.” He handed her his card. “This is Detective Dunn.”

      “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Bates,” Marge said, gently.

      Mrs. Bates acknowledged the condolences by lowering her head. Under a different set of circumstances she might have been pretty, but sorrow had washed out her face, blurring her features. Her eyes were sunken, the blue iris faded. The cheeks sagged, the mouth was slack and pale. Her coloring was fair, as her daughter’s had been, but her hair was stringy and unwashed. She seemed to wilt under the detectives’ eyes and made a futile attempt to straighten her housecoat.

      “Forgive my appearance,” she said in a whisper.

      Decker placed a hand on her small, bony shoulder.

      “Mrs. Bates, I’m very sorry to intrude upon you at a time like this. Thank you for your cooperation.”

      The woman’s eyes filled with tears.

      “Please come in.”

      They were led to the living room sofa—white velvet, and spotless. Everything

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