He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Don’t beat yourself up. My brain is fried, too.”
“Want to take a break?”
“No time,” he said with a stubborn shake of his head. “I’ve walked a mile here, but I’m back to where I started. Is his choice random? Or does he stalk them and know where they’re likely to be on the night he takes them?” He looked at his computer, which had gone to sleep. “Pull up their pictures again, please.”
Earlier he had composed the equivalent of a bulletin board, filling his screen with close-up photos of the four young women, two on top, two on bottom. “Give them a good look, Beth, and tell me what they have in common.”
She studied them individually, then leaned back and looked at them collectively. “John, I don’t see anything.”
“That’s right.”
She turned around to him.
“Whatever it is that draws him isn’t a physical trait. Not long blond hair, or blue eyes, or a particular body type.”
“So he does pick at random.”
“Or they have a common trait that isn’t visible.”
“Like what?”
He chuffed. “Well, let’s see.” He began ticking off on his fingers. “Good singing voices, strict religious affiliations, or atheism. Same birthday. Cheerleading. All were mean girls, all made the honor roll.”
“You’re saying that it could be anything.”
“Anything.” He stared into the monitor, the cold light highlighting his eyes and, behind them, his stark desperation to gain insight.
“Those other detectives have compared notes on their victims’ characteristics but haven’t connected one pair of dots. They believe that these women had the rotten luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and that the only thing they have in common is that they were abducted on the night of a blood moon.”
He turned away, but had taken only a few steps when he stopped, then came back around abruptly. He said softly, “That’s it, Beth.”
“What?”
Speaking rapidly, he said, “Nowadays, there’s a lot of interest in the occult, fantasy, wizardry, all that. Especially among young people. E-games, Halloween costumes. Hell, the whole Goth thing. Maybe it’s the victims who are fixated on the blood moon, not the perp.”
Beth experienced a tingle of optimism. “I think you could be on to something.”
“I think so, too.” He socked his fist into his palm. “Let’s say our perp is a religious zealot who thinks that all things mystical or supernatural are evil and that anyone who buys into it is—”
“A disciple of Satan.”
“Yes. A handmaiden of the devil. He’s been called to set them straight. He’s been sanctioned to kill them in order to—”
“Punish them.”
“Or to purify and save them.”
“What about Crissy Mellin?” Beth asked. “Was she interested in anything like that?”
“I never knew to ask, but we’ll ask Carla if and when we get to talk to her.” He’d been riffling through their notepads and pens, empty water bottles, the detritus of their hours of work at the computers. “Where’s my phone?”
“End table. Who’re you calling?”
“Morris in Galveston. She’s the one who tipped the blood moon aspect to Barker and the other two detectives.” He pulled up his recent calls and clicked on her number. After several rings, the detective answered amid a lot of background racket.
“Gayle, it’s John Bowie. Bad time for you to talk?”
“Bath time. One tub, three brothers. Hold on while I relinquish refereeing to my husband.”
While they waited, John put the call on speaker so Beth could listen in.
Once back, the detective started by asking if he had received the file she’d emailed. “I did. Thank you.”
“Anything new turn up?”
“Nothing new, but I’ve been thinking of the perp as the one with an obsession for blood moons. But what if it’s the women who have the obsession? He targets them because of it.”
“I’m listening.”
“You said you found nothing suggesting that Dobbs was into mysticism, the occult, astrology, any of that.”
“Nothing.”
“What about Larissa herself? Did she have any interests in that arena? A zodiac tattoo? Anything like that?”
“I got no indication of it. I asked her parents and friends about her interests, hobbies. Nothing like that was mentioned. The posters in her bedroom were of hunky men in G-strings and idols like Beyoncé. Nothing witchy or out there. I don’t think Larissa was that cerebral. Sorry, John.”
He looked at Beth, his disappointment plain. “It was a long shot.”