“It looks like we’ve got another mask murder,” Zander said as she answered. “It just happened. We’ve got an eyewitness on the scene. Put this into your GPS.” Ava pulled over to the shoulder of the road and tapped in the address as he rattled it off. “I’ll see you there in fifteen minutes.” He ended the call.

Heart racing, Ava pulled a U-turn and headed toward an on-ramp.

19

Ava drove through the Gresham neighborhood on the edge of Portland. City of Gresham police cars lined the streets, and uniforms held back the growing crowds of gawkers. She passed two local news vans and wondered how they’d managed to get to the scene before her. During the drive she’d found out the victim was a patrol officer with the West Linn Police Department from the other side of the Willamette River. She parked where directed and got out of her vehicle. Anger and pain lined the faces of the cops she walked past.

Straight ahead a midsize Craftsman-style home waited for her. Looking around, she noticed that every home on the street was similar. The homes were too close together for her taste, but she understood the appeal of the neighborhood. Especially to young families who wanted a good-size home in a development with like-minded neighbors. Sidewalks to easily push strollers on. A small park at the entrance to the development. Neighborhood watch signs. A feeling of community and safety.

She knew a neighbor had called in suspicious activity. Maybe the neighborhood watch program did work. She moved up the walkway, nodding at the officers who waited. She had her ID and badge handy, showing them when requested. This home was decorated for Halloween, reminding her of Louis Samuelson’s home, but the decor was child-friendly. Ghosts with smiles and kittens with witch hats. Not realistic blood and heavy tombstones.

Did this officer have small kids?

Her heart clenched for a brief second.

Was he a father?

She signed the log, pulled on her shoe covers, and slipped on the gloves a polite patrol officer handed her. He didn’t say anything and she didn’t ask questions. His expression told her that what she’d find inside was bad. Low voices sounded indoors, and she set out to find them.

She passed a formal living room, noticing a strong odor of smoke—not cigarette smoke; more like burned-dinner smoke—and headed to the back of the house, where she found an open-plan family room and kitchen. Zander and Nora stood outside the kitchen speaking with a crime scene technician who held a large camera. The dead officer was on the floor, a mask clenched in his hand. High-velocity blood spatter covered some of the lower kitchen cabinets.

Ava froze as she spotted the blood. “He was shot?” she asked.

“Nice to see you, too,” said Zander. “Yes, he was shot in the chest. We definitely have a different type of scene here compared to the others.” He looked at his notebook. “A call was made to 911 at six P.M. A neighbor had heard a gunshot. She stepped onto her front porch while still on the phone with the operator and saw a man running toward the entrance of the subdivision, trying to keep to the shadows of the homes.”

“He ran across their lawns?” Ava asked.

“Yes, trying to avoid the streetlights.”

“Where’s the neighbor?”

“I have an officer sitting with her in her home,” said Nora. “I told her we’d take a look at the scene and then talk with her. She has a sleeping infant in the house.”

“Who is he?” Ava asked, studying the man on the wooden kitchen floor.

“Lucien Fujioka. Forty-five. Married, no kids. He’s been with the West Linn Police Department for nine years. Was with the Vancouver PD before that.”

“Where’s the wife?”

“Sacramento,” said Nora. “She travels for her job. I have an officer trying to track her down and get someone from a local department to notify her in person. This isn’t the type of news you break with a phone call.”

“No,” agreed Ava. She squatted next to the victim and looked at the mask. “This one is from Friday the 13th, right?”

“Yes. The character is Jason Voorhees.”

“A hockey mask?” asked Ava.

“In the films it is,” said Nora. “This one is made for someone to dress up as the character. It’s not an actual hockey mask. I compared it to images online already.”

“He pulled it off,” Ava commented. “Or did it never get put on?”

“Look here how the high-velocity blood spray fans over it.” Zander crouched next to her and pointed with a pencil. “He wasn’t wearing it when he got shot. It was in his hand. The spray pattern is consistent from the hand to the mask.”

“But it looks like he exhaled blood, too,” said Ava. “Which makes sense if he was shot in the chest. Could some of that spray be from him expirating blood?”

Nora stepped close and shone her flashlight on the blood, looking closely. “He expirated onto his shoulder over here.”

Ava stared. It all looked like high-velocity blood spatter to her. “How can you tell?”

“Someone explained the difference to me during a previous case,” Nora said. “When you look closely, the tails of the blood drops are blunt and the pattern is chaotic and random. That’s not what high-velocity blood spatter does. Over here on the mask you can see the sharply narrowed spines of the drops pointing in the same direction—that’s what it looks like. I can also see mucus strands in the expirated blood on his shoulder.”