I See You (Criminal Profiler #2)(27)

“Ramsey called a half hour ago. Can you give me a brief?”

“I just got here myself. All I know at this point is that the wife and daughter are missing, and the husband was transported to Alexandria Hospital a half hour ago. He was barely conscious but insisted a masked assailant took his wife and daughter.”

“Did he recognize the intruder?” Spencer asked.

“No.”

“And his injuries?”

“The uniformed officer stated he was semiconscious. The full extent of his injuries remains unknown.”

“The press is going to eat this one up,” Spencer said. “Young girl’s remains found after eighteen years, and then her sister vanishes a day later. Christ, this is going to go nationwide.”

“A little too coincidental.”

“Yes, it is.” Spencer stared up at the house, as if willing it to yield its secrets. Her gaze drifted to the edged grass along the sidewalk. “Did you notice yesterday how perfect Hadley kept her home? Not a speck of dust or misplaced item. And she didn’t have a hair out of place or an extra ounce of fat on her body.”

“She’s a perfectionist.”

“I think it’s a coping mechanism,” Spencer said. “She obsesses over the surface details because she doesn’t want anyone to know how unkempt she is on the inside.”

“My guess: she was wound pretty damn tight.”

Spencer nodded. “And then we arrive with news that her sister is dead.”

“Everyone has the potential to snap,” he said.

“It’s a matter of dialing up the right combination of events,” she said.

“And I would say she was a prime candidate.”



Inside the Foster residence, Zoe found herself face to face with a large bloodstain darkening the entrance floor. Several small splashes of blood dotted the pale-gray walls and family pictures encased in silver frames.

The floor was littered with bloody gauze pads, discarded bandage wrappers, and plastic syringe caps. Positioned by each were yellow evidence tags. The priority in any case involving a living victim was to treat the injured first. Invariably, EMTs, in their need to do their job, unintentionally destroyed a great deal of crime scene evidence.

Past the primary blood pool, her gaze followed the dotted trail that snaked its way through the living room, past the sofa, and to a door leading to what looked like a garage.

Vaughan shifted his attention back to the front door’s lock. “The doorjamb and the lock have no marks indicating forced entry.” He moved from window to window on the first floor, testing each to see if they were locked. They were. Next, he jostled the handle on a set of french doors. They weren’t locked but had no signs of damage. “Whoever came into the house didn’t force his way in.”

She glanced toward the couch in the living room and noted the pillows that had been so neat yesterday were ruffled and appeared to have been hastily tossed back in place.

“We know very little about Hadley and Mark Foster after they left the area,” she said. “That goes for the daughter, Skylar, too? Who knows what kind of trouble those three might have unwittingly brought to their home?”

“You really think this has something to do with Marsha Prince’s identification?” he asked.

“I do. McDonald wasted no time posting the news.”

“She scooped them all.”

She looked out the front window, her gaze trailing toward Rick McGuire. “A bit of revenge against the station that canned her and the reporter who filed a complaint.”

“Whoever messaged McDonald must have known the bones belonged to Marsha Prince.”

“Our informant calls the media, waits for an identification, and then he swoops in and attacks the Fosters,” she said.

“If he was looking for maximum attention, he’s going to get it.”

“We also have to consider that this had nothing to do with Prince’s identification. Foster could have been stealing from his company, or he might have a drug problem for all we know at this time. A mistress. Who had a grudge against him? The three primary motivators for murder are money, sex, and revenge.”

“Detective Hughes is already getting warrants for the Fosters’ financials.”

“Does the wife or daughter have a boyfriend?”

“Again, to be determined.”

She peered out the front door for a security camera and pointed to a single-lens camera aimed at the front door. “That might tell us who paid them a call. It sends the recording to a computer or phone.”

“Let’s hope.”

Zoe paused to study a painting of Hadley and Skylar when she was a toddler. She followed the blood trail up the carpeted stairs to the second floor landing. The blood led down the central hallway toward the end and what was presumably the master suite.

Lights from a camera flashed from the last room, and they moved down the hallway, pausing at the first door. The room appeared to be a man’s study. The soft grays and whites gave way to browns, leathers, and heavy drapes. On the wall behind a heavy mahogany desk was a tall set of shelves that exhibited a series of professional awards as well as snapshots featuring Mark Foster displaying either a hunting or fishing conquest. There were papers assembled into piles around his desk.

“The man cave,” Zoe said. “Lets the wife decorate the house, but this room is his. He knew those piles must drive her crazy.”