Hangman - Faye Kellerman

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make some sketches. “What cable company services this area?”

      “American Lifeline does most of the Valley,” Marge answered. “I’ll call them up and get a schedule of who’s working in the area.”

      Decker said. “Find out what kind of cable wire they use. Also get someone to start calling electronic shops and computer stores in the area and find out what kind of cable they sell.”

      “I’ll do that,” Oliver said.

      “No, get Lee Wang to make all the calls. You and Marge start canvassing the area. I’ll bring in a couple of other Dees to help you out.” Decker continued to study the body. “Do we have any ideas who this might be?”

      “Wynona Pratt is making calls to the other station houses, finding out if any young women were reported missing.”

      Decker rubbed his forehead and turned to the photographer, George Stubbs, a gray-haired, stocky man in his fifties. “Are you done with her?”

      “Almost.”

      “Did you take close-ups of her neck?”

      “I took some. I can take more.”

      “Do that. Also take several snapshots of the knot on the ceiling where the cable wire is knotted.”

      Marge had gloved up and was studying the body, circling it like carrion. By law, no one could touch the body until the coroner’s investigator gave the okay. “This seems like a bloodless murder. No bullet holes, no stab wounds. No defensive wounds on her hands. Her nails aren’t chipped or scratched. Her French polish manicure is like new.” She looked up. “Happen to notice if Terry had on nail polish?”

      Decker thought back, trying to recall Terry’s hands. Then he noticed the hanging woman’s feet—bright red toenails. “When Terry first spoke to me, her feet were bare and I don’t recall her toenails being polished.” A pause. “She could have polished them later, after I left, but how likely is that unless she had it done in the hotel’s salon.”

      Marge said, “I’ll call up and ask.”

      He stared at the face. “It’s not her.”

      “You’re sure.”

      “Almost certain.” He regarded her features, then shook his head. “Do we have any forensics—semen, fingerprints, shoe prints, maybe some tire tracks in the area? Lots of dust and dirt, we should be able to pull something from the ground.”

      “I’ve been bagging garbage,” Oliver said.

      “Marking the spots?”

      Oliver held up some small orange cones with numbers on them.

      Decker said, “What have picked up?”

      “Mostly fast-food sandwich wrappers and junk from the roach coach. S.I.D. is on the way. So are a couple of investigators from the Crypt.”

      “If it’s a construction site, where’s all the activity?” Decker asked.

      “No activity because they’re waiting for the framing inspector to sign off. The appointment was for four o’clock in the afternoon. The foreman, who’s name is Chuck Tinsley, arrived here first and was going over the property just to make sure everything looked okay. He was waiting for the contractor and the architect to come down when he discovered the body. He called 911, then immediately called the contractor, who is on his way.”

      “Where’s Tinsley?”

      Marge pointed to a black-and-white. “He’s ensconced inside. Should I get him?”

      Decker nodded as his gaze continued to fix on the swinging corpse. His thoughts were meandering to several places, and none were good.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      THE BACK PASSENGER door to the cruiser was open, a uniform standing in front of the space, keeping watch over her charge as well as the set of wheels. If Decker squinted, he could see a figure huddled in the backseat, his arms wrapped around his body as if his arms were straps on a straitjacket. As Decker approached the car, he nodded to the police officer and pointed to the open door. The cop bent down and spoke to the huddled man. When he emerged, Tinsley was average height, a tank of a fellow with long, muscular arms, dark eyes, a strong chin, and a face of controlled stubble. The officer led him to Decker, who glanced at her tag.

      “Thank you, Officer Breckenridge, I’ll take it from here.” He extended his hand to the foreman, whose complexion was ashen behind the darkening of beard. He had brown eyes, a Roman nose, and thin lips. His hair was a nest of cowlicks. He appeared to be in his thirties. “Lieutenant Peter Decker.”

      “Chuck Tinsley.” His voice was deep but held a slight tremble. “This is…I’m a little freaked out.”

      “I do this for a living and I’m a lot freaked out,” Decker said.

      Tinsley laughed nervously. “If you see a pile of vomit, it’s probably mine.”

      “How’s your stomach now?” Decker asked.

      He held up a soda can. “Someone was nice enough to give me this. I think it was the lady cop. I’m a little confused.”

      Decker pulled out his notebook. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

      “Nothing much to tell. I came early to clean up before the contractor arrived.” He bit his lip. “I saw the body.”

      “Can we back it up for a minute?”

      “Sure?”

      “When did you get to the site?”

      “Around quarter to.”

      “Quarter to what?”

      “Oh, quarter to two. One forty-five.”

      “And when were you supposed to meet the contractor.”

      “Around three-thirty, four.”

      Decker looked at his watch. It was nearly three now. “You came early?”

      “Yeah, to clean up. You know how it is with construction crews,” Tinsley said. “They throw their shit all over the place. I try to get them to clean up at the end of the day, but if it’s been a hard one, I let it go. It’s easier to clean up by myself when they’re not here. That’s what I was doing. With the inspection coming, you need a clean site.”

      “So you came at one forty-five and…what did you immediately start doing?”

      “Cleaning up stuff. Picking up nails, piling up loose lumber, gathering up tools left behind, throwing away trash…lots of trash.”

      “Did you have a trash bag with you?”

      “Yeah, sure.”

      “Where is the bag now?”

      Tinsley’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Not sure. Probably I dropped it when I saw the body.”

      “When you noticed the body, how long had you been at the site?”

      “Maybe five minutes. I saw a lot of flies and figured there was a pile of dog shit that I needed to clean up. Not that I see a lot of dog shit inside the house, but I figured what else could be attracting so many flies?”

      “Then what did you do?”

      “I think I found a plastic bag or something to pick up the shit with. After that, things got fuzzy. I think I mighta screamed. Then I barfed. Then I called 911 on my cell.”

      “You also called the contractor?”

      “Yeah, I called him, too. He told me he was running late, and hopefully he’d make it before the inspector. But then I told him

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