Good Girl, Bad Girl(17)

“We’re waiting on her service provider to release them,” says Edgar.

“And her laptop?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary in her search history—apart from the fact that she wiped it regularly. We still managed to pull up the logs. Mostly it was homework assignments, music videos, clothes, makeup, et cetera. We’re hoping to access her iCloud account, but these tech companies treat every request like it’s an attack on civil liberties.”

“That’s because we’re fascists,” grunts Prime Time.

“The Deep State,” says Monroe.

Lenny gets to her feet, hitching her houndstooth slacks and running her hands through her hair. “OK, I want interviews with everybody who had contact with Jodie on Monday evening, and that includes friends, neighbors, secret admirers. Also look at anyone who follows her on social media and who comments on her posts.”

She divides the task force into four teams, each with a senior officer in charge. One group will concentrate on the door-to-door interviews, another will trace Jodie’s movements, a third will track down known sex offenders in the area, and the fourth will search for anyone seen talking to Jodie at the fireworks.

The briefing ends and detectives disperse, some pulling coats from the backs of the chairs and heading out. I get a nod from Lenny. She wants to talk to me privately. Closing her office door, she sits in her high-backed chair and opens a desk drawer, pulling out a scented candle, which she lights with a match, filling the room with the chemical reek of lemons.

“My personal trainer suggested them,” she says. “Apparently they relieve stress. I think they mask the smell.”

“Of what?”

“Forty detectives, fast food, and too much caffeine.”

I notice a wedding gift register open on her laptop.

“My sister is getting married again,” she explains. “You’d think after two husbands she’d be gun-shy but she’s having all the bells and whistles—a horse-drawn carriage, white wedding gown, and a reception in a manor house. The whole family has to show up and watch her pledge her undying love for some guy she met on a Caribbean cruise in August.”

“Third time’s a charm.”

“He’s a sodding dentist!”

Lenny closes her laptop and moves away from her desk, pressing her back against the window frame. “You got anything for me?”

“Not yet.”

“What does your gut tell you?”

“Strangely, my colon hasn’t said a word since this morning.”

Lenny nods, as if to say, “Point taken.”

Despite our closeness, Lenny has never fully embraced psychology as being a science and criminal profiling as an important tool. She’s not a complete philistine, but regards it more like a dark art akin to psychic readings or ESP. Lenny doesn’t try to understand the moral insanity of a perpetrator or put herself in his or her shoes. She doesn’t want to look at the world through a criminal’s eyes or imagine their torment or sympathize with their motives because it might interfere with catching them and locking them away.

Psychologists care about motive, as do juries and actors and people who’ve lost someone to suicide. For a homicide detective “that which moves” and “that which impels” is never as important as the action itself. “Fuck the why,” Lenny would say. “Tell me the what, where, how, and who.”

Her arms are folded. She waits.

“Jodie was a low-risk victim for her attacker,” I say. “She was young and small for her age, which made her easier to subdue. The attack site was also low risk—a quiet footpath, deserted at that time of night. Jodie wasn’t expected to be there, so most likely he’s an opportunist, unless they arranged to meet earlier. More likely, it was unplanned. She was hit from behind and subdued quickly. He didn’t bring anything to bind her and made little attempt to clean up afterwards.”

“He tried to hide her body.”

“With a few branches—a token gesture. He may have panicked, or something spooked him. I think he’s inexperienced. Disorganized. He didn’t plan the rape. He didn’t plan the murder.”

There’s a knock on the door.

“Got something, boss,” says Edgar.

He leads us back to the incident room where two detectives are going through CCTV footage collected from cameras in Clifton on Monday evening. Chairs are pushed back to give Lenny room. I watch over her shoulder.

Edgar presses the “play” button. The footage shows a deserted footpath outside a row of shops that includes a nail salon, convenience store, hairdressing salon, carpet cleaning company, and the fish-and-chip shop. A group of four teenagers comes into view—a girl and three boys. Two of them are drinking from cans of beer. The girl is wearing tight jeans, boots, and a puffa jacket. Jodie Sheehan. The tallest of the boys puts his arm around Jodie’s shoulders and she shrugs it away, knocking the lager from his grasp. He glares at her angrily and picks up the foaming can, shaking spilled beer from his hand. He runs to catch up with the others, disappearing from view.

“This is fourteen minutes later,” says Edgar as he fast-forwards through the street cam footage. Jodie walks back into the frame, seemingly alone. She stands beneath the streetlight and reapplies her lipstick, using her mobile phone as a mirror.

“Is she waiting for someone?” asks Lenny, leaning closer to the screen.