Disclaimers: I am not a fireman, a doctor, a physical therapist, a nursing home worker, or a psychotic killer. I just like to write. Any and all factual errors are totally mine.

Normal. Completely, absolutely normal.

Bonita Williams' apartment showed Sonny that the young woman liked crossword puzzles, attended a local Methodist church, and enjoyed a cold beer now and then. The only drugs in sight were over-the counter-pain relievers.

After thanking the victim's landlord for letting him in, Sonny got in his sedan and sat silently for a few minutes. The crime was filled with rage; it was personal. But nothing in Bonita's lifestyle indicated she was involved in any high-risk behaviors. If that indeed was the case, it was possible he had a psychotic killer murdering at random on his hands. But he couldn't jump to that conclusion without learning more about his victim.

•

•

Sonny hated it when women cried at any time but even more so when they became upset after he told them someone they knew had been murdered. There was just nothing he could do to make them feel better. Experience had taught him to always carry several handkerchiefs in his coat pocket, just in case. Today he needed to pull out all three when he met with Bonita Williams' coworkers at Carson Physical Therapy.

After consulting briefly on the phone with the office manager, whom it turned out worked mainly from their Long Beach location, Sonny met with the other therapists who made up the small facility's staff in their crowded storage/break room.

"How can she be dead?" sobbed Denise Griffiths, a young woman in her twenties with unnaturally red hair and soft green eyes outlined in smeared kohl.

Nancy Randall, who had the natural good looks of someone who had grown up in the Midwest, gave Denise a hug, then turned to Sonny with tears streaming down her own cheeks. "When Nita didn't show up for work, I knew something was wrong. I just knew it."

With a full black Afro pulled back with a bright pink headband, Cindy McBride tried to maintain her composure but her lower lip trembled. "Poor Nita. I thought about filing a missing-person report, but I never thought…I mean, I never imagined she…who would've done this to her?"

"I'm very sorry for your loss, but if you're up to it, I need to ask all of you a few questions," Sonny said gently. The three women exchanged a quick glance and then nodded.

"Was Bonita seeing anyone? What about a boyfriend?"

"Nita had been dating a Marine down at Camp Pendleton, but he shipped out four months ago," said Cindy. "They parted on good terms."

"Was Bonita having any problems at work? Any angry patients recently?"

"Not at all. Everyone loved Nita!" Nancy cried out defensively.

Cindy nodded. "The patients she worked with were mainly women who treated her like she was their daughter."

Sonny tried a different tack. "Was she concerned about money or having any difficulties that way?"

Denise hiccupped. "She never mentioned it to me if she did."

Nancy agreed. "We don't make a lot here, but we manage."

"Tell me a little bit about her," Sonny prodded. "How would you describe her?"

"Nita was really thoughtful. One time I mentioned that my favorite flowers are carnations. Months later, on my birthday, what do you think I found waiting for me? A big bouquet of red, pink, and white carnations. Nita had remembered. That's the kind of girl she was," Nancy said.

Cindy nodded. "She bent over backwards for people. She really cared."

"Do you have a picture of her?" he asked.

Denise left the room and returned with a wooden picture frame. "This is the four of us at last summer's company picnic. I always told Nita that she could be a Breck Girl with that long hair."

Sonny felt a pang as he gazed at the vibrant young woman with flowing brown curls and bright blue eyes.

"Thank you for your time." He stood and shook their hands. "Here's my card. If you remember anything else, be sure to give me a call. No matter how small it may seem."

Consoling each other, Denise and Nancy left the room, but Cindy stayed behind. "Detective Molino? There is one thing," she began quietly. "Nita wanted to buy a house, so to get some extra money, she sometimes moonlighted over at Ridgeview Heights Nursing Home. Moonlighting is against the rules here, so not many people knew about it."

Sonny scribbled in his notebook. "Thank you. You've been a big help."

•

•

Ridgeview Heights Nursing Home wasn't the nicest facility the detective had ever seen, but it certainly wasn't the worst. The two-story building was set back on a quiet street. Once cheery yellow with crisp white trim, the building now showed its age as fading yellow paint strips peeled off and fell into bordering juniper bushes.

Sonny had set a time to meet with the director, Eileen O'Reilly—Ms. O'Reilly, she had informed him pointedly—for later in the afternoon. While the women at Carson Physical Therapy had taken his handkerchiefs in their grief, Ms. O'Reilly left no doubt that she would not need one. With steel-gray hair and the personality of a drill sergeant Sonny had once had, Ms. O'Reilly confirmed Bonita Williams picked up a shift every few weekends. Upon hearing of the murder, Ms. O'Reilly had simply lifted an eyebrow.

"I know very little about the staff's personal lives," she said.

"May I speak to some of her patients?" Sonny asked.

Ms. O'Reilly pursed her lips. "I hardly think that is a good idea."

"Well, what you think is a good idea isn't my priority. I am trying to solve a murder," he patiently but firmly said. "Certainly there are some residents with whom she spent a lot of time?"

"Perhaps Mr. Garrison," she relented. "But you'll find he suffers from bouts of dementia."

"I would like to talk to him." Sonny tried to be pleasant but he had had enough of this old battleaxe.

Ms. O'Reilly harrumphed. "It's your time to do with as you please."

She led him down a clean but dimly lit hallway to a south-facing bedroom. Hunched over and small in a wheelchair, an old man sat in the late-afternoon sunlight.

"Mr. Garrison, you have a visitor. This is Detective Molino, and he would like to talk to you about Bonita Williams."

Mr. Garrison didn't acknowledge either her presence or her comment, so Ms. O'Reilly left Sonny to his own devices. As he sat down on a thinly padded chair next to Mr. Garrison, he was surprised to hear the older man speak loudly.

"Judy was a sweet girl," Mr. Garrison announced.

"Is that so? Who is Judy?"

Wispy white hair waved as he vigorously shook his head. "My daughter isn't here. That's her picture on the dresser."

Sonny looked over his shoulder at a yellowing Kodak snapshot of a woman with long brown curls, not unlike Bonita's. "Mr. Garrison, do you know Bonita Williams?"

The older man's gnarled hands trembled as he brought them to his face. "She helps with my exercises."

"That's right," Sonny encouraged him. "Do you remember the last time she was here?"

"Nita was here last week." Mr. Garrison's brown eyes looked clear and focused.

"What did you two talk about?"

Mr. Garrison leaned forward as if he was sharing a big secret. "The orderlies will tell me all kinds of things because they don't think I understand. But I understand a lot."

"I'm sure you do, sir," Sonny said. "Did Bonita tell you about anything?"

"Who?" The old man's expression became cloudy.

"Bonita Williams, your physical therapist."

"Did you know I own some land?"

This may be a useless rabbit trail. The detective sighed. "Is that so?"

"Near Emerson Canyon."

Sonny did a double take. "Where did you say it was?"

"Emerson Canyon. I tell Judy all about it when she helps me do my exercises."

"Judy? I thought you said Bonita helps you with your exercises?"

"That's what I said! Aren't you listening?" Mr. Garrison said querulously. "We talk about the orange trees and Michael growing up there. Have you seen Judy? I haven't seen her in a long time."

"No, I haven't, I'm sorry. Now Emerson Valley…"

"A beautiful parcel of land. Picked it up for a song when I got out of the Navy. Judy will really appreciate having it when I leave it to her."

With growing excitement, Sonny tried to make his voice stay even. "Who else knows you own that land?"

"Everyone knows that. Why are you asking me about my land?" Agitated, Mr. Garrison began to fumble with the wheels of his wheelchair. "Nurse! Nurse!"

Ms. O'Reilly reappeared in the doorway. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave, detective."

"But…" Sonny began, frustrated that the only possible lead he had found was fading with the old man's vague memory.

"I have to insist, Detective Molino. If you want to talk to Mr. Garrison again, I suggest you contact his next of kin."

Sonny stood to leave. "Ms. O'Reilly, could you get me his next of kin's name and contact information?"

Now calmer, the old man smiled. "Nita will really like that land. She's a sweet girl."

"That's great, Mr. Garrison. You take care."

Thin and reedy, the old man's voice followed the detective down the hall. "Have you seen my watch?"