Strip search sp-2

by William Bernhardt

  I held the little ball of fluff in my hands. There was nothing extraordinary about it. I was glad no one else was in the room, because if they were, I felt certain I would become an instant object of ridicule. At the same time, there was something…

  I squeezed the teddy bear, hard. I don't know what I expected-maybe it would cry "Mama" or something. It didn't. No sound at all. But inside, I felt something crunch.

  Zipper in the back. I opened it up and found a long envelope. Stuffed with cash.

  Now I was cooking with gas. A slush fund. Payoffs. Bribes. The stuff murder motives were made of. I pulled the envelope out and stared at it.

  Only four words on the front: CLARK COUNTY CHILDREN'S HOME.

  The money was going to a children's home? An orphanage for wayward children or something? What would be the point of making a charitable contribution in cash? You wouldn't even get the tax deduction. I'd never heard or read anything about this, and Gina didn't mention it, so it couldn't have been for publicity purposes. What was going on here? A quick riffle through the cash suggested that there were several thousand dollars tucked in there.

  I bagged it, marked the bag, then tucked it inside my jacket. I had no idea what it meant. But I was certain it was important. Not that I had any illusion that this was the big elusive secret I had been seeking. But perhaps, with a little luck and intuition, it might lead me to it.

  I found Darcy outside the studio-far outside, actually. I was afraid I had lost him. I did find him eventually, almost a quarter of a mile away, walking around an old water tower in an uncultivated dusty strip of desert behind the studio.

  "Find anything of interest?" I asked him.

  He was pacing in circles, staring at the muddy ground. "I did not like the studio. I think that is a place where they do sex." His hands began flapping with the utterance of the last word.

  "Well…perhaps. Mostly simulated, I think."

  His head tilted at an odd angle; the inflection of his voice, though questioning, was all wrong. "Simulated?"

  "Yeah. You know. They fake it."

  "They were doing sex but not really doing sex?"

  "Yeah, they just-look, I don't really know that much about it."

  "About doing sex?"

  "About-" I pressed my hand against my forehead. I was not getting dragged into this. "Look, let's get back in the car and head downtown. I'll tell you what I learned. Maybe you can make some sense of it."

  He looked up at me, hands still flapping. "Do you know how many water towers there are in Las Vegas?"

  I gave him a long look. "Two hundred and twelve."

  His eyes widened as if he were impressed. "That was true in 1971. You should update the books in your library."

  "Yeah, well, I'm on a tight budget." No way I was going to tell him I just plucked that number out of the air.

  "Today there are four hundred sixty-six. And twelve more are being planned."

  "Do tell."

  "We need lots of water towers. Las Vegas is in the middle of a desert."

  "That fact I actually knew."

  "This one leaks." He pointed up at the base of the water repository, then down to a wet patch on the ground. Apparently it had been dripping for some time because the muddy area was quite sizeable.

  "Well, when we get back to headquarters, we can report that to the city officials. Don't want our tax dollars going to waste."

  "The leak makes mud."

  "Water and dirt will do that."

  "The killer tracked mud into the crime scene."

  I stopped, pivoted. "And how did you know that?"

  "I saw where the tracks had been fixed and lifted when I-"

  "When you broke into the crime scene. Yes, don't remind me." I crouched down on the ground. "So you think this is where the mud came from?" I placed a finger in the sticky ooze. That would explain the presence of mud when we haven't had rainfall for about two months. But why would the killer be hanging around the water tower?

  Darcy grasped a rung on the ascension ladder on the east side of the tower. "Do you know that this ladder has one hundred and forty-two rungs?"

  "Does it? I wouldn't have guessed a rung over one-forty. But why would anyone want to-"

  I looked up to the top of the ladder, and the answer to the question was so obvious I didn't even need to finish asking. Not so obvious that any of us had noticed it before, mind you, but obvious once Darcy led you to it. "If he climbed to the top and used a pair of field glasses," I said, "he could see straight into the studio's second-story soundstage."

  "If he was not afraid of heights. I do not like heights. I like for my feet to be on the ground. Do you like-"

  "And that would explain how he knew so much about what was going on in there. How he knew that handcuffs-real ones-could be useful. How he knew everyone else had left and Danielle was alone. How he knew where to find her. He'd been spying on her from this water tower, waiting for his opportunity."

  Darcy looked up at me sheepishly. "Have I been useful?"

  "Of course you have. This confirms that she wasn't chosen randomly. That the killer was waiting for an opportunity to get to Danielle. And perhaps, that it was important that he confront her in her workplace."

  "Do you think that maybe he wanted to do sex with her?"

  "No." I batted a finger against my lips. "No, I don't think that has anything to do with it."

  "Then what does?"

  "I don't know." Teddy bears. And that formula for testing prime numbers. Not that any of that makes the slightest amount of sense. I squeezed him on the shoulder. "I suppose I don't need to mention that this investigation has become a custard event."

  He jumped up and down. "Very Excellent Day! Very Excellent Day!"

  "An overstatement, perhaps. But I'm starving. What flavor are we having today? Wait, don't-"

  But it was too late. "Today is Thursday, and it is the third Thursday of the month, so that would mean whichever flavor is third in the alphabet, unless they have Pumpkin Crunch, because Pumpkin Crunch always wins on Thursdays, unless it is spring, because in spring they have fruit flavors that they do not have in the fall, like…"

  We had almost made it to the custard joint when O'Bannon rang me on my cell phone. "Where are you?" he asked, without even bothering with niceties like "hello."

  "I'm on my way back from DannyDunn Studios," I said, not exactly answering the question-but close enough to get by, I hoped. "Why?"

  "We have a third victim."

  "God." I felt my heart sinking to the base of my chest. "Are you sure?"

  "Well, we haven't found the corpse yet-at least not the majority of it. But all signs point to the same guy. How soon can you get to the Legal Arts Office Complex on Sanders and 47th?"

  "About ten minutes. I'll just have to drop off-" I stopped myself just in the nick of time. "My dry cleaning."

  "Huh?"

  "I'll be there before you know it. So…I suppose you're working off what was left behind? Another head? Or just the face?"

  "Neither."

  "Then how do you know-"

  "This time the bastard chopped off his left arm."

  "His-" I felt my blood pressure rising. "What sense does that make?"

  "That's what we keep hoping you'll tell us. See you soon." He rang off. I'd have to be deaf to miss the seriously gruff tone in his voice.

  "Darcy, you'll have to give me a rain check on the custard. Got to visit another crime scene."

  "I want to go with you!"

  "I know you do. And I wish you could. But it's not a choice. And don't go stealing any more badges from your father." I gave him a wink. "I'll sneak you in myself. As soon as I can."

  "Promise?"

  "Swear to God and hope to die."

  "Could I-Can-Maybe-Can I wait outside in your car?"

  "Oh… I suppose. But keep your head down. Especially if your father shows up. As soon as I know something, I'll come tell you." And I meant it.

  That's what we keep hoping
you'll tell us.

  But…first maybe I'd stop for gas, maybe a vanilla Coke. Anything to wash a pill down. No way I could face this without a triple dose. At least. And as I swallowed the pill, I tried not to think about the fact that I was getting dangerously near the bottom of Amelia's bottle. I didn't know how I could survive without this stuff. "

  All taken care of?" Esther asked him, as she slid the key into the lock.

  "Perfect. No problems. This was an easy one."

  "Thank goodness."

  "From now on, I think we should leave all the bodies at places that don't have people swarmin' around. Makes it a lot easier."

  "Unfortunately, that choice is not for us to make."

  She pushed open the door and entered the deserted office. The cluttered cubicles, the desks stacked high with paperwork, the flickering image of computer screen savers, all gave notice that this was a busy office during the day. But now, in the dead of the night, they had it to themselves.

  "This computer seems to be operational," Esther said, as she slid into one of the barely functional chairs in a tiny cubicle.

  "Why do you use a different one each time?"

  "Just to be cautious. Computers leave a trail that can be followed. If someone knows where to look." She punched a few keys and brought up a large database formatted in Microsoft Excel with the speed of someone who had done this many times. "And now, to determine who comes next."

  "I brought the calculator," Tucker said.

  "You're a dear. But let me see if I can do without." She mentally processed the calculation, entered the variables. Once she had a list of names, she ran them through the numerology algorithm she had devised herself. And a few minutes later, she had a name.

  "Did I get it right?" she asked.

  Tucker had been using the calculator to check her work, hovering over her shoulder. "Perfectly. You're a perfect woman. You make me wanna-"

  "Yes, yes, we'll talk about that later. For now, let's keep our focus on the matter at hand. See who this person is."

  A few more keystrokes and she had a picture with a condensed biography.

  She let out a slow whistle. "Tucker-do you know who that is?"

  "Nah. Should I?"

  She smiled to herself. "I suppose not. Joshua Brazee is one of the most successful performers in Vegas. He headlines at the Florence. I wonder what he did." A few more keystrokes, then she scanned the screen that appeared. "It seems even fame and fortune cannot immunize you from…cruelty. The sin of ingratitude. This will be a pleasure. A difficult operation, to be sure. But a pleasure. I don't know any situation that better could have served our purpose." She blanked the screen, then turned to face her accomplice. "I know this must all seem random to you, Tucker, but I have a strong feeling that our destiny is somehow…being guided."

  "You're my guide."

  "I know. But there's more to it than that."

  "The numbers?"

  "Indeed. The numbers. With a consciousness of their own." She printed out the essential information, then tucked it into her pocket. "Come, Tucker. This will require a lot of preparation. The next prime is tomorrow."

  "Whatever you say. Whatever you say." Like an obedient puppy, he followed her, careful not to make any unnecessary sound, as they left the office and closed the door behind them. The door that read, in large black stenciled letters: DEPARTMENT OF HUMAN SERVICES.

  22

  I don't know-maybe I've watched too many episodes of Boston Legal. I just expected to find something a little snazzier when I stepped onto the sixteenth floor of one of the highest of high-rises in downtown Vegas and entered the front offices of Hucalak amp; Llewellyn, a top Vegas law firm. Instead, I found a lobby that looked as if Godzilla had used it for a pinata. The front window by the door had been smashed; shattered glass lay all over the floor. Chairs were upended; files were strewn everywhere. Almost every piece of furniture had been dented or damaged in one way or another. But the worst was the receptionist's desk. It had a huge gash in the outside right corner; unless I was very much mistaken, the signature of the executioner's axe. Attached to the leg of the desk, a dangling pair of handcuffs. And attached to the other end of the handcuffs-a severed arm, surrounded by a pool of blood.

  "What the hell happened in here?" I asked Granger, who as usual, was standing around the crime scene "supervising." I guess once you're promoted to head of the detective squad you can let your minions do all the work.

  "That's what we were hoping-"

  "Yeah, yeah, I know." I scanned the room, standing on tiptoes so I could see over the heads of all the criminalists buzzing around the premises. "Cause of death?"

  "No official word. But look." He pointed to the immense stain on the carpet. "Rennard tells me there's maybe seven pints of blood on the floor. And the average joe only has ten to twelve."

  He bled to death. Swell. "When did it happen?"

  "Last night."

  "I saw a security desk downstairs. Have you checked the Admit list?"

  "We will. But it looks as if the perp broke in." He pointed to the glass shards by the door. "Shoved his hand through the tinted glass then opened the front door from the inside."

  I nodded. "Is there a head somewhere that goes with this arm?"

  "Yes. But it isn't here."

  "Then where-"

  "Still attached to its neck. Got a call a minute ago, while we were waiting for you to show up. Found the body in a rock quarry about ten miles north of here."

  "And you're sure it's the right one?"

  "Unless there are multiple corpses lying around town missing their left arm, yes. Think it's the same killer?"

  "Hard to say. The modus operandi-or rather-the murderus operandi-is somewhat different, cutting off an arm instead of the head or the face, but…" I paused. "Heave you heard whether the body was branded?"

  Granger nodded. "Letter C."

  "Then it's the same creep."

  I closed my eyes and let it all soak in. I didn't know why the killer had taken the chance of coming to a high glitz palace like this, or why he took an arm instead of a head, or why he branded them, or really, anything else. But just the same…

  "Any witnesses?"

  "Sort of. A secretary was here. Karen Dutoi. Tried to shove him out of the way and make a run for it. He was too strong for her. She only saw him for an instant before he chloroformed her. Her description matches what we got from the parking lot attendant." His eyes got all squinty, which I knew meant he was thinking, always a dangerous prospect. "What's wrong with you?"

  "What do you mean?" I said, arms akimbo. The best defense is a strong offense, right? So I tried to be seriously offensive. "There's not a damn thing wrong with me, except that there's some maniac running around hacking off people's body parts for no apparent reason."

  "You sound…funny."

  "Are you going to start that crap again? Because I've had it up to here with these false accusations."

  "Did you hear that? 'Cause if you didn't, I did."

  "Hear what?"

  "There's only one s in the middle of accusations. But you made it sound as if there were ten."

  "You're full of it."

  "It's not as if you don't have a history."

  "I haven't had a drink in months, asshole. This is just your way of trying to get me off the case."

  "No. This is just my way of protecting my investigation. But since I can't fire you-not at this moment, anyway-why don't you get to work?"

  With pleasure. I pushed past him and scanned the room, trying to decide who I wanted to tackle first. I saw a sketch artist working with an elderly man-probably last night's security man describing everyone he saw come into the building at or around the time of death. Kestner, the department's accountant, was going over some ledgers; Granger was probably chasing the angle that the murder might relate to some financial impropriety. It didn't. Crenshaw and a chemist I didn't know were working over the glass shards by the front door while someone else sprayed for fingerpri
nts. Spotted a CSI geologist scrutinizing a brownish stain on the floor; my guess was our killer still had mud on his shoes. Rennard, the serologist, was working on the copious bloodstain on the beige carpet. Everyone seemed to have something to do-everyone but me. My specialty was supposed to be the criminal's mind. Pity he didn't leave it behind for me to examine.

  I decided to start with Crenshaw. He'd never failed me in the past. "Anything of interest, Tony?"

  "What have I taught you, Susan? At a crime scene, everything is of interest."

  "Yeah, yeah, but-"

  "Have you met Sean Latham? He's a chemist. Specializes in glass."

  He was a short man, bespectacled, slightly balding, toothy smile. Reminded me of Wally Cox. "Nice to meet you, Sean. What can you tell me about the glass?"

  "Well," he said, clearing his throat. Did I make him nervous? I seemed to have that effect on people sometimes. I have no idea why. "Glass is actually not a solid but a liquid that has been cooled to such a degree that it solidifies and is held together between two outer layers. That's why it breaks so easily."

  I saw Tony behind him, grinning. "That's fascinating, but what I really meant was-what can you tell me about the glass in this room?"

  "I am telling you about the glass in this room. Like all glass, it breaks in a predictable manner. Every shard from a broken pane will have the same intrinsic properties as every other piece."

  "I still don't see-"

  Tony decided to be merciful. "Tell her about the hackle and rib marks," he said, cutting in.

  "Oh, that." Latham cleared his throat again. "Those are the fracture marks-envision them as strands in a spider's web, if you will. By studying them, we can tell whether the glass was broken from the inside or the outside."

  "And here?"

  "The glass was broken from the inside."

  "The inside? But then shouldn't the glass shards be on the outside?"