Chapter 12

The studio was surprisingly nice, with a well-swept, bamboo hardwood floor and spotless, though faded, furniture. A knitted afghan was crumpled on a tan futon, like Young had been woken from sleep when he’d been arrested, and the drying rack next to the sink was full of clean dishes. Posters covered most of the walls, their subject matter diverse—some model in a skimpy red swimsuit, Jimi Hendrix, the theatrical poster for Big Trouble in Little China. There was even an Ansel Adams in a scuffed frame. Everything was squared neatly in place, nothing haphazard about their arrangement at all.

Tidy. Meticulous. Not what he would have expected from someone whose sloppy mistakes had gotten him in trouble since he was twelve.

Maybe he’d learned from his past crimes. Covered his tracks in the Mayfield case. That would explain why there was so little physical evidence tying him to the victim.