The Psalmist by James Lilliefors Read Free Book Online Page A

conference room, wind driving dried snow against the ceiling-­tall parking lot windows. Hunter had stood directly in front of the woman and stared into her film-­coated eyes, wondering where she’d come from and why someone had done this to her. In every case, Hunter kept an image of the victim on her desk and also in her head, a reminder of who she was really working for. Years earlier she had herself been the victim of a violent crime, in a leafy suburban neighborhood where violations of that kind didn’t happen. It was something she didn’t talk about. But the way the case was mishandled had shaken her priorities and given Hunter her interest in law enforcement. She’d begun her career in Pennsylvania, working CID for the state police before Maryland hired her on an investigative track five years ago. The MSP had one of the most successful homicide units in the country, with a closure rate of ninety-­two percent and a conviction rate over ninety-­nine percent. But some cases defied percentages; some went cold for weeks and months, and a few never warmed up at all. This was beginning to feel like it could become one of those.
    â€œAll right,” she began at the task force meeting. “Let’s just summarize what we’ve got, where we need to go. Bottom line, somewhere, probably in this county, someone knows something about what happened. We need to find them.”
    Nine others had gathered around the conference table, showing various levels of interest: state homicide investigators Sonny Fischer and Ben Shipman, Hunter’s partners—­sometimes called “Fisch and Ship,” an endearment neither of them cared for; State’s Attorney Wendell Stamps, a large, shrewd man with a perpetually impassive expression; the state’s attorney’s lead investigator Clinton Fogg, a thirty-­year veteran who still had a hard time looking Hunter in the eye—­as if he couldn’t accept that she was really in charge of the Homicide Task Force; sheriff’s deputies Barry Stilfork and Susan Jones, whose allegiance was to the county sheriff; John Jay Blount, a captain with the Tidewater municipal police, who often gave Hunter the creeps, the way he stared at her; and the county’s public information officer, Kirsten Sparks, who vigorously chewed gum with an exaggerated motion of her jaw and neck as Hunter spoke. Hunter’s boss Henry Moore, the case officer with the state police homicide unit, was also in the room. He’d given her latitude in this case, like a coach allowing his quarterback to read the defense and respond accordingly. There were eighteen men and women in the state police homicide unit, and seven of them were now assigned to this case.
    The sheriff, although part of the task force, had skipped the meeting, which was his way of making a statement. His loss, Hunter thought.
    She glanced at her notes and continued: “Jane Doe arrived at the M.E.’s Office on Penn Street yesterday morning shortly before noon with Ben Shipman accompanying to maintain chain of custody. Preliminary autopsy and forensics reports from the state CSI are now back. Toxicology pending. Trace and biological analysis still under way in Pikesville.”
    She then shared details from the M.E.’s report: “The victim was five foot five and a half inches tall, weight one hundred sixteen. Estimated thirty to thirty-­five years old. Asian or Hispanic heritage. I want to make sure we get that out to the press today,” she said, making eye contact with Kirsten Sparks, the public information officer. “The paper used the word Caucasian. Which, as you know, is a word we don’t even use anymore.”
    Sparks stopped chewing; her pale skin colored. “I’ve already spoken with them,” she said defensively. “Obviously, I wouldn’t have used the word Caucasian. I don’t know where they got that from.”
    â€œI’m not