Sacred and Profane

“She’s fine. She just bought a gun. You own a gun, A

“No. I’d probably maim myself. Why’d she buy one? Just feeling vulnerable?”

“About six months ago, a psycho almost raped her. She’s still nervous about it. Claims she hears noises outside.”

She whistled. “If I were her, I’d buy a gun, also.”

“I thought you’d say that.”

“You carry a picture of her?”

“Who? Rina?”

“If that’s her name.”

Decker dug out his wallet and showed the dentist a snapshot. He

“Is this an exceptionally good photo of her?”

“Neither exceptionally good nor bad. It’s what she looks like.”

The dentist handed him back his wallet.

“Shall we get down to business?” she asked.

Decker said, “What do you have?”

She flipped on the viewing monitor.

“I went down to the morgue this weekend. Dr. Marvin Rothstein sent me a set of X rays that looked promising as one of our Jane Does. This is the original full mouth set I took on Jean-twenty shots. Compare these to Dr. Rothstein’s set.”

She let Decker look for a minute.

“There are similarities,” she said, “Same number of teeth, same teeth in the mouth have been restored, same interdental spacing, except that everything looks a little off kilter-like looking in a mirror at a funhouse. For instance, this right bitewing molar shot that I took on Jean shows the amalgam-the silver filling-covering the top of the upper molar and two sides: a typical filling for this tooth called an MOD. The angle I took it from shows a little tiny sliver of filling extending past the preparation line. It’s called an overhang and it’s a teeny one. Rothstein’s X rays don’t 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 a

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 (Do

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.