No. None of it sounded right. Or to be more precise, none of it felt right. It didn't explain everything. Deduction was getting me nowhere. What could I induce? That is, what probabilities could I assume from what was known?
Not many. Because not much was known. Except this: Signature murderers never stop until they are caught. And this creep had a hell of a signature. So it was safe to assume that he would strike again. And again. Until he was stopped.
I opened my eyes. This was getting me nowhere. I couldn't even find a pattern in the selection of the victims. What on earth did a successful star and producer of adult films have in common with some young immigrant working fast food?
I strolled across the room to the oversized brass bed; it appeared to be the center of attention. Tony Crenshaw was hunched beside it, scraping a sample of something into a test tube.
I couldn't help but notice that the sheets were a dark blackish red. "So this is where the deed was done?"
"Probably. What I'm seeing suggests a blood loss so enormous that the victim couldn't possibly have survived."
I walked away, shaking my head. I really didn't want to hear any more. I spotted Amelia crouched on the floor about ten feet from the bed, near the top of the stairs. She was taking an impression off the floor. Guess she got the call from O'Bannon, too.
"Footprint?" I asked.
"Bingo. Good one, too. Looks like the perp stepped in some mud somewhere."
"Anything useful?"
"Well, I'm not as accurate as your friend Darcy, but it looks to me like about a size seven male. Wide. Wearing tennis shoes. Cheap ones, well-worn. Once I get this back to the lab, I can run it through the computer and tell you exactly what brand of shoe it is."
Which was good work, but not likely to be helpful in finding the man. "Does it look like there's…anything unusual about it?"
"No. This footprint isn't going to be all that helpful in finding the guy." She looked up. "But it will be a means of confirming ID, proving he was here. Once you've caught him."
Once I've caught him. That's what they were all expecting, what they were counting on.
Before I could respond, my cell phone rang. I stepped to the side of the room and took the call. "Hello?"
"Has there been another murder? Because I think that maybe there has been another murder."
"Darcy? Is that you?"
"Yes. Are you at the crime scene? Did something bad happen?"
No way was I going to lie to him. Among other reasons, he was bound to find me out. "I am. What makes you think there's been another murder?"
"I talked to my dad just now."
"And he told you?"
"No. He did not tell me. He did not tell me anything. That is how I knew. I want to come to the crime scene."
"Darcy-"
"I want to be useful. That is the most important thing in the world isn't it even my dad says so. To be useful."
"Darcy, if it were up to me, I'd have you out here in a heartbeat. But it isn't."
"My dad says no."
I hesitated. Last thing I wanted to do was turn the chief into a villain in the eyes of his son. But it was the truth. And I think Darcy already knew it. "Yes."
"Will you please talk to him?"
"Darcy-"
"He will not listen to me. He does not think that I know anything and he never listens to me. But he will listen to you."
"Darcy…I can't risk getting thrown off the case."
"Please!" he cried. "Please, please, please, please, please!"
"Okay. I'll talk to him. But I can't promise anything."
"You can promise you can try. That is all anyone can promise."
"Okay, I'll try. Promise."
The line was silent for a few moments. "Do you want to go for a custard tonight?"
"I want to, but I can't. I've made other plans. Soon, though."
"Okay, soon. I think that we should do it soon. I would enjoy it." Another strange pause, then: "And I think you could use a Very Excellent Day."
How right you are, I thought, as I snapped the phone closed. How perfectly right you are.
13
Tucker hated doing this while it was still daylight. But as luck-or math-would have it, the body had to be deposited in the heart of the nightclub district, an area where, ironically enough, here in the real city that doesn't sleep, it would be busier in the middle of the night than it was now.
If the delivery position had been calculated properly-and he knew it had-his destination was in the center of a parking lot. Unfortunately, it was a private, paid parking lot roped off by chains barring both entryways. There was a guardhouse, but as he drove slowly by, it appeared to be empty. He parked as close as he could on the side of the street, just across from the appointed destination.
He walked to the back of the car, made sure no one was looking, then popped open the trunk. There she was, bundled in painters'wrap, just as he had left her. She'd fought harder than he'd expected, even while restrained; certainly she made a better showing than that punk at the fast-food joint. But in the end, it didn't matter. What he was doing was foreordained; he was following a plan that had been carefully and scientifically selected. There was no margin of error.
Hadn't been a bad-looking woman, either, but he guessed that was to be expected, given what she did for a living. Under different circumstances, he might've been interested…But who was he kidding? Women like her never gave him the time of day. They looked down at him with contempt. They taunted him with their female smells and teased him and then never gave him anything. No one had ever loved him. Not until But he was allowing himself to be distracted. There was no time for this. Every moment he stood here, exposed, out in the open, he took a profound risk. He reached down, hoisted the bundle, and flung it over his shoulder.
Tucker crossed the street, moving at a brisk pace, but she was heavy-dead weight, literally. He crossed into the parking lot, calculated the proper position, then lay the body down to rest on the asphalt surface.
"Hey! Whatta hell you doin'?"
Damnation! There was someone in that guardhouse after all. The door swung open and an elderly man, seventy if he was a day, in a threadbare security uniform, came running in his direction.
The man didn't bother Tucker; he knew he could take him out, even without the axe or the knife, even if the guard was armed. Probably just by blowing hard. But he was carrying a radio. No telling who he might be able to contact. Or how quickly. If the guard got a good look at him, there could be serious complications.
Tucker ducked behind a car, then started moving, lowering himself to the ground. He was bluffing the guard, doing what the man would expect-running away-then doubling back. He watched carefully under the cars until he saw the guard's slow footsteps move past him. Then he circled around the car and came at him from behind.
He tackled the old man like a linebacker, knocking him over face forward. He heard the man's head crack against the pavement with a sickening thud. After that, he didn't get up. Didn't even move. Which should prevent him from using that nasty little radio.
Tucker checked the guard's pulse. Still breathing, although he probably wouldn't be reporting in for work anytime soon. But that was good. Unauthorized kills might be a problem. He had to stick to the pattern. The work had to form a perfect unity. Any flaw might damage the whole. Any mathematical statement with a random variable inserted would not produce the proper result.
He crossed the street hurriedly, careful to make sure the noise hadn't attracted any additional attention, then climbed into his car and sped away. That had been a close shave. Much too close. In the future, he would have to be more careful. There was too much at stake. And too much left to be done.
Only three more days, and then he would complete the next component in the equation. IT WAS A LITTLE after ten before I called Amelia. I kept hoping that if I worked myself to death, if I kept poring over each file and report as it came in, eventually I would have an epiphany. Some usef
ul insight. But it never came. I saw the preliminary coroner's report-just as gruesome as I'd expected it to be. The coroner found an increase in histamine and serotonin levels, which told us Amir had been terrified for a good long time prior to his death. Big surprise. The photographs were unbearable, gut-wrenching. Why was the letter K branded on his body? The forensic reports were thorough, detailed, and completely unavailing. They had vacuumed and grid-searched and checked the vents and plumbing and even peeled up the tile, but found nothing of use. They'd even gotten an expert to run handwriting analysis on the mysterious formula, but he couldn't tell them anything. How much personality could you deduce from a finger scrawl in grease? I went online and searched the FBI's database for psychological profiling of serial killers maintained by the Behavioral Science department, but it wasn't helpful. We just didn't know enough.
The more time passed, the more anxious I was. The more aware I became of my own incompetence. Of how much everyone was counting on me. And sure enough, by nightfall, my stomach was doing flip-flops again, my hands were shaking, and I could hardly talk without an embarrassing tremolo in my voice. That Valium had been great stuff, but evidently it didn't last forever.
Amelia arrived to pick me up in record time. "Where are we going?" I asked, as we zoomed off, top down, into the blazing neon.
"There's a dinner theater magic show theme park thing going down at Caesar's Palace." I admired, not for the first time, how good she looked when she got out of the white coat and dolled herself up. "I thought it might be a kick. Get your mind off things."
I had to smile. I happened to know for a fact that she despised magic shows, but she also knew that I despised gambling, rarely went to movies. And she wasn't taking me to a nightclub or any other place where booze was too visible and tempting. The sacrifices of a good friend. "That sounds great. I'd like to unwind. I'd…" I shook my head.
"What? What is it?" Her eyes stayed on the road, but all her attention was on me.
"Oh, I just feel…wretched." I paused. "That new victim we found today."
"Yeah. Gruesome stuff. Is there anything I can do?"
"I don't know." I paused long enough to give the impression this idea had just popped into my head. "Do you have any more of those little blue pills?"
Her neck immediately stiffened. "Susan…"
"Is there a problem? You use them."
"I use them occasionally, when I'm having a serious anxiety attack. And even then sparingly."
"What's the big deal?"
"The big deal is, if you start taking too many, they saturate your bloodstream and pretty soon your body craves them. They can be addictive."
I held up my hands. "Okay. Never mind. I just-I feel so stressed."
Amelia frowned. "I know. I can see it. Even without looking at you." Her right hand darted into her purse, then she pulled out the pill bottle and tossed it to me. "Just take one so you can relax a little at the show and you'll be sure to sleep afterward. But that's it. No more."
"Understood, mon capitaine." I unscrewed the bottle, popped one in my mouth, then put the bottle back in her purse. I hate to admit it, but almost immediately I felt better. Just the thought that help might be on the way had an enormous calming effect.
"All right then. Are you ready to have fun?"
"I sure as hell am. You promise not to heckle the magicians?"
She gave me a thin, sly grin. "I make no promises." She turned her head slightly my way. "After all, I want to have some fun tonight, too."
14
July 15
It is not right it is not fair it is not right it is not fair it Stop. But it is not right. I am the one who is good at puzzles and I am the one who is good at math and they will not even let me help I could help I know I could help but they will not let me none of them will let me not even Susan will let me.
Are they punishing me because I could not solve that equation? My dad said It's okay Darcy but he said it with that voice that same voice he always uses that tells me what a disappointment I am to him and he probably never thought I could do it anyway because he doesn't think I can do anything. I couldn't solve his equation but that was not a fair test because it was not possible I cannot no one can reduce an equation to a numerical solution without knowing any of the variables all you can do is restate it or simplify it or maybe it has some sort of scientific specialness but how could I know that how could I possibly know if they will not tell me what any of the letters stand for?
Maybe they will not let me help on the case because there is another Bad Man and they know I do not like bad men and I did not like what happened last time and I might not like this too but how can I ever be with Susan how can I ever be a policeman how can I ever get her to adopt me if we never spend any time together it is not right it is not fair it is not right Stop. Reboot. I wish Susan were here. I am always better when Susan is here. I always feel better when I am being useful because John Adams said it and he was right the most important thing in life is to be useful.
I know I could be useful. If they would let me.
I miss Susan. I want to see her again.
I will find a way.
Before I even got to my desk I saw that Granger was standing nearby, waiting for me. Stalking me, more like it.
I wished I hadn't wasted that Valium last night. I should've saved it for now, when I really needed it. How the hell was I going to get through the day? Without resorting to old bad habits. The kind you don't need a prescription for.
Hell. I sucked it in, steadied myself, made sure I looked calm and secure and ready to tackle anything. In other words, my usual brassy obnoxious self. But kind of loveable in a way. Or so I like to think.
Granger didn't even wait for me to sit down. "Have you figured out yet who our guy is? Or what our guy is?"
"I'm working on it," I said, faking supreme unruffability. "I'm still collating all the information we gleaned from the second crime scene. In many ways, it changes everything, or at any rate, illuminates the dark corners. And by the way," I added, kicking my feet up onto my desk, "you shouldn't assume it's a guy."
"Give me a break."
"You shouldn't make any assumptions, not with a killer this weird."
"Only three percent of all multiple murderers are female."
"That's true, but-"
"Ninety-five percent of all serial and signature killers are white males between the ages of twenty and forty."
"That's also true. And I agree, most likely, the killer is male. I'm just saying, don't assume anything. It's dangerous. And potentially embarrassing."
"I'm confident it's a guy."
"Stop saying that, you pinhead. You don't know that you're right."
"Actually, I do." He flipped around the paper he'd been holding. "Eyewitness report. The killer was spotted dropping off the body. And it was a guy." He smirked.
I snatched the report out of his hands. Stupid son of a bitch. Why didn't he just tell me?
My eyes scanned the pages, drinking in the font of information therein. This body had been branded just like the first one, only with a different letter. "He left the body in a parking lot? In broad daylight?"
"Yes," Granger replied, "he did." He was still smirking.
"That's just…bizarre."
"Yeah. And stupid. Which makes me think we'll be able to catch him. Without the help of the vaunted behaviorist."
I gave him a look.
"Which is just as well," he continued. "At the rate you're going, the man will die of old age before you give us a profile."
I turned my eyes back to the printed page, fighting an aching combination of panic and rage. "He was spotted by a security guard?"
"Right. He worked the parking lot, made sure everyone paid their fees and kept an eye on the cars. Tough old bird, too. He's pushing seventy and he took a hard blow to the head. But he wasn't down long. He crawled back to his guardhouse, called an ambulance, then called the police. Gave his statement just as soon as the docs wou
ld allow it."
"Did he get a look at the guy?"
"Only from a distance, before he ducked behind a row of cars. Said he was short, thick, but not overweight. Solid."
"Strong," I murmured.
"Yeah. Has dark hair, was wearing blue jeans with a rip in one knee. That was all he got. Well, plus confirming that it was, in fact, a guy," Granger added, rubbing salt in my gaping wound one more time.
"But why?" I said, changing the subject. "Why dump the body in a parking lot on the northeast side of the city? That must be, what, ten miles from where he left the last one?"
"Twelve."
"And why do it in the middle of the day, when he was bound to be spotted?"
"Maybe he wants to be caught. Deep down. He did go to the trouble of leaving us a clue, after all. That crazy equation."
I shook my head. "That was a tease, not a clue. Meant to show how superior he was to us, that we would never be able to catch him. There must be some other explanation."
"Well, I don't know what it is. And apparently you don't, either. But I do know this." He leaned in close. "If you don't give us something soon, not even O'Bannon-or his son-will be able to keep you on this case."
I rose out of my chair. "You stupid, ignorant son of a-"
"I'm your superior officer, Pulaski."
"I don't care if you're Mother-fucking-Teresa."
"I'll put you on report," he said, voice rising.
"You try it," I said, matching him decibel-for-decibel, "and I'll put my fist up your-"
"What the hell is going on here?"
It was Chief O'Bannon, standing right behind Granger.
"Do either of you alleged officers understand that this is a police station? We're supposed to suppress civil disturbances, not create them."
We both kept our mouths closed.
"My officers should set an example."
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