Kiss of Death

“She could have been hiding it from her parents, or maybe it was recent.” I’m starting to feel like I’m flogging a dead horse, but my dream points toward multiple perps, not a boyfriend.

We sit in silence for a bit before I say, “The parents reported her missing this morning, right? Shortly before the ranger found her body?”

“Uh-huh. It was logged at eight this morning. An officer took the report over the phone, and issued an APB for Sherry and her car. But it would have been a few days before the report made its way to the Missing Persons Unit.”

I nod. The procedure for a missing persons case varies depending on the situation. If Sherry had been five years old or if there had been evidence of a struggle in her home, resources would have been thrown at the case immediately. But as a twenty-year-old woman, chances were that she simply stayed over at a friend’s or boyfriend’s house and didn’t tell her parents. Her name would have been in the system; but only if the parents were insistent enough would someone have checked the hospitals and police system this morning to make sure Sherry hadn’t been hospitalized or arrested. And then if Sherry still hadn’t turned up, the case would have been assigned to someone in the LAPD’s Missing Persons Unit within a couple of days. Their next move would have been to interview the parents and close friends, start making inquiries at her workplace and maybe on Wednesday or Thursday they would have started with credit card traces and phone records. Now, with Sherry dead, Sloan will start the ball rolling on all of those things, though, sadly, toward a different end than finding her.

The navigation system prompts me to take a right, and within a few minutes we’re pulling up at the Brentwood home of Mr. and Mrs. Taylor. As we drive up to the gated entrance, the house is visible in the distance. It’s a large two-story home, bagged white with a distinctive Mediterranean feel, wood-stained window- and door-frames and an outside timber shutter on each window.

Sloan presses the buzzer at the gate and after only a few seconds a male voice answers.

“It’s Detective Sloan from LAPD again, sir.”

“Right…come on in.” The voice is distracted; I assume it’s Mr. Taylor’s.

A brick-paved driveway snakes toward the house, past beautifully landscaped gardens. We follow the driveway and park near the front door, opposite a small fountain. The water feature is blue-tiled, with white mosaic-style images of mermaids on the internal walls. Small umbrella palms line a path from the driveway to the front door.

We’re not even up the two steps when a man in his mid to late forties opens the door. He wears thick but trendy framed glasses, a red T-shirt and black jeans. His face is plagued with despair and I know instantly that I’m looking at Sherry’s father.

Sloan clears her throat. “Thanks for seeing me again, Mr. Taylor.”

He nods.

“This is Special Agent Anderson from the FBI.”

He tries to force a polite smile, but it comes out more like a grimace as he shakes our hands. “Come in.”

He leads the way through a foyer section of the house. I’ve changed back into my regular work shoes, and they make a loud clipping sound on the slate, the noise triggering a vision.

Sherry opens the front door, takes off a pair of high heels and tiptoes along the hallway.

The vision is probably an accurate insight of Sherry coming home late one night, or perhaps it was a regular Friday and Saturday night routine for her. Regardless, I doubt it’s of consequence to the case. It certainly doesn’t give me a sense of what might have happened to her last night.

The house is very light and mostly open—a staircase to the right, almost immediately at the entrance, and to the left the space is barely separated into rooms. From here I can see a living room, dining room and expansive kitchen. Mr. Taylor takes us through the first room, which seems like a formal living room or sitting room, through the dining room and into the kitchen. To the right of the kitchen is another living space, which opens up onto a large deck with double doors and a swimming pool. He takes a seat on one of the leather couches and we sit on the couch opposite him.

Sloan props on the edge of the couch. “Is your wife here, Mr. Taylor?”

“Um…yes. She’s upstairs…lying down.”

“It would be better if we could talk to you together.”

He rubs his hands up and down his thighs. “I don’t know if Mandy’s up to it, Detective.”

“Please…it is important. Would you mind asking her if she could come down? Even for a little while.” Sloan’s voice is both sympathetic and authoritative. She realizes it’s much more likely for a mother to know about a young woman’s comings and goings than a father.

Taylor nods in an absent manner and he heads up the stairs.

“Still in shock.” Sloan leans back on the couch.

“Yes.” I look around at a few family portraits. “Looks like there are two girls. Wonder where the other one is.”

“College age, so chances are…”

I nod. “I don’t know if we’re going to get anything useful out of them in this state.”

Sloan shrugs. “I’d like to get this moving sooner rather than later.” She looks at her watch. “And we’ve still got a few visits to get through today.”

Footsteps are audible coming down the stairs and we’re both silent.

Mr. and Mrs. Taylor enter arm in arm, although it’s obvious she’s leaning heavily on him. She’s dressed in expensive-looking casual wear that could double as gym gear. A common look in L.A. Black leggings show off her slender but muscular frame, accompanied by a halter-neck top and sweater. Her mass of red curls is pulled into a ponytail and a few stray curls hang at her face. A glance at her eyes tells me she’s had something to take the edge off the pain or to help her get closer to oblivion—perhaps Valium or she could have knocked back a few drinks.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Taylor says, “it’s Detective Sloan and…”

Sloan introduces me again, this time adding in my role in the investigation as a behavioral analyst.

“Behavioral analyst? A profiler, right?” Mr. Taylor leads his wife over to the couch opposite us.

“Yes, sir.”

They take a seat.

Mrs. Taylor turns blurry eyes our way. “So you’ll help catch the…the monster who did this to our baby girl?”

Sloan jumps in. “We’ve asked Agent Anderson to consult on the case. She will draft what’s called an offender profile and help us interrogate suspects. We’ll also use her expertise for our media strategy.”

“Media strategy?” Mr. Taylor seems confused.

The services a profiler offers law enforcement cover four areas—media strategy, offender profile, interrogation strategy and prosecution strategy. We may be asked to consult on all or just one of these areas.

“The way the media portrays the case may affect the killer’s behavior, and thus how we track him or her down,” I explain. “I’ll liaise with the media to help contain their reports as much as possible. Try to control how Sherry and her murder are reported to the public.”

Mrs. Taylor lets out a large sigh. “Can we just get this over with?” Her speech is slurred.

“I’m sorry. My wife’s just taken a sleeping pill.”

“That’s okay, Mr. Taylor. We understand.”

He nods, seemingly relieved that we’re not judging his wife for popping a tablet at lunchtime.

I smile at them both and try to gauge how much time we’ll get with Mrs. Taylor veering toward the incoherent. We should get at least a few minutes out of her, maybe ten.

“Can you tell us a bit about Sherry?”

He looks at a photo of her on the mantelpiece. “What do you want to know?”

“Did Sherry work?” I ask. According to Sloan there was no employer noted on the missing persons report but I’d like to confirm it with the Taylors. We need to talk to as many people who knew Sherry as possible, and place of employment is usually a good start.

“No. She was at UCLA. Drama.”