We look at each other. I can almost feel each of us crossing our fingers. People make the mistake of thinking that latex gloves prevent the transfer of fingerprints. In most cases, this is true. But not always. These types of gloves were originally developed for surgeons so they could maintain a sterile buffer during operations. The flip side of this is that the gloves have to fit like a second skin for the surgeons to use their instruments with no loss of precision or sensitivity. This tightness and thinness can cause the gloves to form-fit into the ridges and bifurcations of the prints on the hand and fingertips. If--and this is a big if, but still possible--someone wearing the gloves then touches a surface that can take an impression, they can leave a usable print. Annie's bed is made of wood. It's possible that cleaning solutions used on it could have left a residue that would retain a fingerprint impression, even through the killer's gloves.
A long shot. But possible.
"Good one," I say.
"Thanks."
Oil and ball bearings, I think. On the killing ground, this is the only place that James plays nice.
The stage is set. He's moved the bed . . . just so. The camera is positioned . . . just so. He does one last check to make sure that everything is perfect. It is. Now he gives Annie his full attention, gazing down at her. This is the first time she truly sees. He's been distracted, setting up his theater. She still had hope. Now his gaze is fixed on her, and she understands. She sees eyes that have no horizon. They are bottomless, black, and filled with an unending hunger.
He knows when she knows. When she understands. It enflames him, like it al- ways does. He has extinguished hope in another human being. It makes him feel like a god.
James and I have arrived at the same place on this timeline. We are there. We see him, we see Annie, and out of the corner of our eyes, we see Bonnie. We smell the despair. The dark train is picking up speed, and we are along for the ride, tickets punched.
"Now let's watch the video again," he says.
I double-click the file, and we watch as the montage rolls by. He dances, he slices, he rapes.
The sheer violence of what he is doing sprays blood everywhere, and he can smell it, taste it, feel the slick of it through his clothes. At one point, he turns to look at the child. Her face is white, and her body shakes as though she's having a seizure. This creates an almost unbearable, near-orgasmic symphony of delicious extremes for him. He shivers, every muscle shaking with emotion and sensation. He isn't just being bad. He is raping good. Fucking it to death. Music and blood and guts and screams and terror. The world is shaking, and he is its epicenter. He is climbing toward the pinnacle, and he lets it come to him--that point where all of it explodes in a searing, blinding light, where all reason and anything human dis- appears.
It is a brief moment, and it is the only time that the hunger and need fade to nothing. A tiny instant of fulfillment and relief. The knife comes down and there is blood and blood and wet and blood and he is climbing, climbing, climbing, standing on tiptoes at the peak of a mountain, stretching his body as far as it will go, reaching a finger out, not to touch the face of God, not to become something MORE, but to become nothing, nothing at all, and he throws his head back as his body shakes with an orgasm more powerful than he can stand.
Then it's over, and the anger that is always there returns. Something jitters in my mind. "Hold it," I say. I use the controls of the player to rewind the video. I let it play. That jitter again. I frown, frustrated. "Something's not right. I can't put my finger on it."
"Can we do a frame by frame on this?" James asks.
We play around with it a bit until we find a setting that, though not frame by frame, at least takes us through it in slow motion.
"Somewhere in here," I murmur.
We both lean forward, watching. It is toward the end of the tape. He is standing next to Annie's bed. I see a flicker, and he is still standing next to Annie's bed, but something is different.
James sees it first. "Where's the picture?"
We roll it back again. He is standing next to the bed, and on the wall behind him is a picture of a vase of sunflowers. The flicker again, he is still standing next to the bed--but the picture is gone.
"What the hell?" I look over at the place on the wall where the picture would have hung. I see it, leaning up against the overturned end table.
"Why did he remove it from the wall?" James asks. He's asking himself, not me. We run through it again. Standing, picture, flicker, standing--no picture. Over and over. Standing, flicker, picture, no picture, picture no picture . . .
Understanding doesn't just rush over me. It roars. My mouth falls open, and I get light-headed. "Jesus Christ!" I yell, startling James.
"What?"
I rewind the video. "Watch it again. This time, note where the top of the picture frame is, and track that point on the wall once it's gone."
The video moves through, we pass the flicker. James frowns. "I don't--" He stops and his eyes widen. "Is that right?" He sounds incredulous. I run through it again. There's no doubt. We both stare at each other. Everything has changed.
We know now why the picture had been removed. It had been removed because it was a frame of reference. For height. The man standing over Annie while the picture was still on the wall was a good two inches taller than the man standing over her after it was removed.
We'd reached the engine room on the dark train and had been thrown out of it by the shock of what we saw.
Not one conductor.
Two.
15
Y OU'RE RIGHT," LEO says. He looks up at James and me in amazement.
He has just finished examining the video. "That flicker is a bad splice."
Callie, Jenny, and Charlie are there, crowded around the monitor. We had filled them in on the sequence of events as we saw them, ending with this bombshell.
Jenny looks at me. "Wow."
"You run across anything like this before?" Charlie asks. "Two of them working together?"
I nod. "Once. It was different, though. A male-female team, and the male was dominant. Two males working together, that's very unusual. What they do, it's personal to them. Intimate. Most don't like to share the moment."
Everyone is quiet, mulling this over. Callie breaks the silence. "I should check for those prints, honey-love."
"I should have thought of that," Jenny says.
"Yes, you should have," James bites. He's back to his old self. Jenny glares at him. He ignores her, turning to watch Callie. Callie is unpacking a UV scope and its accoutrements. The scope uses intensified ultraviolet reflectance to detect fingerprints. It emits intense light in the UV spectrum. This light reflects uniformly off flat surfaces. When it hits imperfections--such as the ridges and whorls of fingerprints--it reflects these as well, making them stand out against the uniformity of the surface they are on. You can take crystal-clear photographs of these imperfections with a UV camera, usable in fingerprint matching and identification. The imager boasts a head-mounted display that protects the eyes from the UV rays, a UV emitter, and a hand-carried, high-resolution UV
camera. The scope doesn't always work, but the advantage of trying it first is that it does nothing to the surface you're examining. Powders, superglue . . . once these substances are applied, you can't take them back. Light leaves it the way you found it.
"All ready," Callie says. She looks like something from a sciencefiction movie. "Turn out the lights."
Charlie hits the switch, and we watch as Callie gets onto her back and squirms under the bed. We can see the glow of the UV emitter as she passes it across the surface of the baseboard. A pause, some fumbling, and we hear a few clicks. A few more clicks. The emitter light goes out and Callie squirms back out, stands up. Charlie turns the lights on. Callie is grinning. "Three good prints from the left hand, two from the right. Nice and clear, honey-love."
For the first time since Callie called me to tell me about Annie's death, I feel something besides anger, grief,
and coldness. I feel excited.
"Gotcha," I say, grinning back at her.
Jenny shakes her head at me. "You guys are truly, truly spooky, Smoky."
Just riding the dark train, Jenny, I think to myself. Letting it lead us to their mistakes.
"Question," Alan says. "How come no one complained about the music? They had the volume up pretty high."
"I can answer that one, honey-love," Callie says. "Just be quiet and listen."
We do, and I hear it right away. The thumps of loud bass, mixed with muffled treble, coming from various places in floors above and below. Callie shrugs. "Young people and couples live here, and some like to play their music loud."
Alan nods. "I'll buy that. Second point." He gestures around at the room. "They were messy. Real messy. There's no way they just walked out of here covered in blood. They had to clean up first. The bathroom looks pristine, so I'm thinking that they washed up in there and scrubbed it down after." He turns to Jenny. "Did the Crime Scene Unit check the drains?"
"I'll find out." Her cell phone rings, and she answers it. "Chang." She looks at me. "Really? Right. I'll tell her."
"What now?" I ask.
"That was my guy at the hospital. He said Bonnie spoke. Just a sentence, but he thought you'd want to know."
"What?"
"She said, 'I want Smoky.' "
16
J ENNY GOT ME to the hospital fast; she pulled out the stops, used her siren to run red lights. Neither of us spoke on the way over. I'm standing by Bonnie's bed now, looking down at her as she gazes up at me. I am again struck by how much she looks like her mother. It's disorienting; I just came from watching her mother die, and yet here Annie looks up at me, alive through her daughter.
I smile down at her. "They said you asked for me, honey."
She nods, but doesn't speak. I realize there won't be any more words coming from Bonnie right now. The glazed look of shock is gone from her eyes, but something else has settled in and put down roots. Something distant and hopeless and heavy.
"I need to ask you two questions first, honey. Is that okay?"
She looks at me, speculative. Apprehensive. But she nods.
"There were two bad men, weren't there?"
Fear. Her lip trembles. But she nods.
Yes.
"Good, honey. Just one more, and then we won't talk about it any more right now. Did you see either of their faces?"
She closes her eyes. Swallows. Opens them. Shakes her head. No.
Inside, I sigh. I am not surprised, but it's still frustrating. Time for that later. I take Bonnie's hand.
"I'm sorry, honey. You asked to see me. You don't have to tell me what you want if you still can't talk. But can you show me?"
She continues to look up at me. She seems to be looking for something in my eyes, some reassurance. I can't tell from her expression whether she is finding it or not. But she nods.
Then she reaches over and takes my hand. I wait, but that's all she does. And then I understand.
"You want to come with me?"
She nods again.
A million thoughts shoot through my head at this. About how I'm unfit to care for myself, much less her. How I'm on a case, and so who's going to watch her? I think these things, but none of it really matters. All I do is smile down at her and squeeze her hand. "I have some things to do, but when I'm ready to leave San Francisco, I'll come get you."
She continues to gaze into my eyes. Seems to find that thing she'd been looking for. She gives my hand a squeeze, and then she lets go, turns her head into her pillow, and closes her eyes. I stand there for a moment, looking down at her.
I walk out of that room knowing something's changed in my life. I wonder whether it's good or bad, and realize that just now, that doesn't really matter. This isn't about good or bad or indifferent. It's about survival. That's the level we're operating at right now, Bonnie and me. We're headed back to SFPD. The car is filled with silence.
"So, you're going to take her?" Jenny asks, breaking it.
"I'm all she's got. Maybe she's all I have too."
Jenny chews on this. A small smile appears on her face. "That's good, Smoky. Real good. You don't want a kid her age in the system. She's too old. No one would adopt her."
I turn to her. I sense something hidden here. Some undercurrent accompanying her words. I frown. She shoots me a tense look. Then relaxes with a sigh.
"I was an orphan. My parents died when I was four, and I grew up in the system. No one seemed interested in adopting a Chinese kid at the time."
I'm shocked and surprised. "I had no idea."
She shrugs. "It's not something you share a lot. You know, 'Hi, I'm Jenny Chang, and I was an orphan.' I don't like to talk about it much."
She looks at me, emphasizing that this moment is no exception. "But I will say this: You did a good thing there. Something pure."
I think about this and know what she says is true. "It does feel right. Annie left her to me--or so I hear. I haven't seen her will yet. Is it true he left it next to Annie's body?"
"Yeah. It's in the file."
"Did you look at it?"
"Yep." She pauses again. Another one of those thoughtful, weighty pauses. "She left everything in your hands, Smoky. The daughter is the true beneficiary, but she named you as executor and trustee. She must have been some friend."
I ache at this sentiment. "She was my best friend. Since high school."
Jenny is quiet for a few moments after this. When she speaks, it's a single word, but it's filled with everything she wants me to know.
"Fuck."
Fuck that, and fuck the world, and injustice, and what happened to you, and your daughter dying, and kids getting killed in general, and fuck it all till it's dead and buried and turned to dust and the dust is gone forever. That's what she's saying.
I reply in kind.
"Thanks."
17
D O YOU WANT the full version, or the condensed version?"
Alan opens the folder containing the autopsy report as he says this.
"The condensed version. Please."
"Here are the basics. The killer or killers raped her, both pre-and postmortem. He or they cut her with a sharp blade before she died, with most of the damage inflicted being nonlethal."
Torture. I nod for him to go on.
"Cause of death is exsanguination. She bled out, due to the severing of the jugular." He glances at a page in the folder. "Once she was dead, and they were done having their fun with her body, they cut her open. They removed the internal organs and placed them in Baggies, which were left by the body." He looks up at me. "All the organs are accounted for except the liver."
"They probably took it with them," James says into the silence that follows. "Or ate it." I hide a shiver at these words. I'm sure he's right.
"Examination of the wounds shows that they're consistent with those caused by a scalpel, which fits. Because the ME says that the removal of the organs was skillful. Not just the surgery, but knowing where the organs were and how to remove them intact. They not only separated the large and small intestines, they divided them into their component parts. Three for the small intestine, four for the large."
I think about this for a moment. "Did he--sorry, they--dissect any other organ in the same way?"
He consults the file, then shakes his head. "No." He looks up at me.
"They were showing off."
"That's good," I say, grim.
Leo's look at me is incredulous. "How is that good?"
Alan turns to him, answering the question for me. "It's good because the way we catch these guys is that they make mistakes. If they're showing off, that means the act itself isn't enough for them. They also want our attention. That means they're not going to be as careful as they could be. Or should be. So they're more likely to make mistakes."
"In simpler terms, child," Callie says, "it means they're even more Looney Tunes than usual. That increases the chance
s of them slipping up."
"I get it." Leo says this but looks a little bit disturbed as he thinks it over. I understand. Looking at the dissection of human organs by two psychopaths as a bright spot is hard to get your mind around. He's probably wondering if he wants to get his mind around it. Alan continues. "Once they'd removed the organs, they left the body cavity open and tied Bonnie to her body." He closes the folder. "No seminal fluids found, and there was some evidence of latex in the vagina."
They'd used rubbers to prevent leaving their DNA.
"Nothing else. No hairs or fingerprints found on or in the body. That's it."
"So what does that leave?"
James shrugs. "Look at the rest of the picture. There weren't any hesitation wounds. They were operating at a high level of certainty in what they were doing when it came to cutting her open. One of them may have had formal medical training. I think it's probable."
"Or they've just had a lot of practice," Callie murmurs.
"What else do we know?" I look around at each of them. Alan pulls out a legal pad and a pen at my words. This is a part of our routine. He's ready to jot down any relevant thoughts and musings.
"We know they're both white, both males," Callie says. "One is close to six feet tall, the other is approximately five ten. Both are in shape."
Alan speaks next. "They're careful. They understand the basics of transference and take precautions to avoid it. No hair, no epithelials, and no semen."
"But they're not as smart as they think they are," I note. "We have the fingerprints on the bed. And we figured out that there are two of them."
"Well, that's the problem, isn't it?" Alan says in a wry voice. "If they really understood transference, they'd understand it always happens, somehow."
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