Free Shiver by Lisa Jackson Page A

closer than that.”
    “Not long after Gierman’s ATM transaction.”
    “Yep.”
    “Did she know Gierman?” Montoya said, glancing at the corpse of the girl. Her skin was waxy, her face bloated, but he guessed she had been beautiful just a few days earlier.
    “That’s what you need to find out. Gierman allegedly had a thing for younger girls and she would definitely qualify.”
    Montoya was already taking notes. Bonita Washington bugged the hell out of him sometimes, but she was good at her job. Damned good. Making it hard to argue with her, harder still to rib. “We got the weapon?”
    “Yep. Bagged and tagged. Twenty-two pistol. Found in the female victim’s hand.”
    He took in the floor again. Feathers, dust, mud, and blood covered the old planks. “What’s with the feathers?”
    “A pillow. Probably strapped to Gierman. Maybe to mute the sound, I don’t know, but it was left by the chair.” She pointed and Montoya examined the flaccid bag of an old stained pillowcase. A hole was blown in its center, the faded fabric and feathers within singed and darkened with blood. “Shot at close range.”
    Montoya stared at the bodies, tried to imagine their places before death and how they ended up almost in a lover’s embrace.
    “As I said, I’m guessing from the marks on Gierman’s legs and arms, that he was bound, maybe his ankles tied to the legs of the chair, that would match the bruising on his body. Though it’s missing now, I think there had been tape over his mouth. There are still traces of some adherent on his face.”
    Montoya looked closer, noticed the flecks of grayish matter sticking to Gierman’s whiskers and cheeks. A rectangular red mark was visible against his pale skin and even his lips were raw looking, as if the tape had stuck to them before being roughly ripped away.
    “They aren’t married?”
    “He’s single. Divorced, I think. And I don’t know about her, but she’s got a hell of a scrape on her left ring finger. Looks like a ring was pulled off and took a lot of skin and flesh with it.”
    “Jesus,” Montoya muttered, spying the girl’s bruised and raw finger.
    “I guess the ‘I do’s’ didn’t go easily,” Washington muttered, a sick joke to lighten the scene.
    Montoya had seen more than his share of bizarre killings since joining the force, but this was right up there with the best of them. He straightened. “Do you think this was some kind of mock wedding…that our killer was the preacher and the ring was forced on, then yanked off…did we find it?”
    “No jewelry other than the necklace still on the vic.” She pointed at the intricate gold chain with its small cross of what appeared to be diamonds.
    “No shoes?” he asked, noting the dead woman’s bare feet.
    “Just the running shoes for both of them. For what it’s worth, it looks like they were each either on their way to or from a workout. Both were originally dressed in shorts, T-shirts, running shoes, but he”—she jabbed her pencil at the dead man—“ends up stark naked and she”—Washington indicated the dead woman—“is wearing a wedding dress. No shoes, hose, no veil, and no ring…Bizarre as hell if you ask me.”
    “Won’t argue that.”
    Washington held her notepad to her chest and tapped the eraser end of her pencil against her mouth as she stared down at Gierman. “You know, this guy pissed off a lot of people. A lot. Church groups. Parent groups. He even had the FCC on his ass. For all his popularity, he was hated as well.” Her lips folded in on themselves. “To say he wasn’t PC would be a gross understatement.”
    “You didn’t like him.”
    “I’d be in that category, yes, but”—she turned her gaze to the girl—“who would hate him so much as to want him dead?”
    “Courtney LaBelle?” Montoya offered.
    “Nah. Don’t think so. Why would a college student bring him here, hold him hostage, it looks like, then off both him and herself?”
    “Sex games?” Montoya