“Nope.”
“How could the guy bring a corpse all the way out here without leaving something behind?”
“By being very careful.”
And that in itself was telling.
I searched for, spotted, then approached Crenshaw. He was crouched on the ground, going over the metal floor of the plane with a small brush. Beside him was his fingerprint examiner’s field kit, a five-level tool chest filled with everything he might possibly need-powders, lifting tape, ink, flashlights, petri dishes, baggies, tweezers, distilled water, and a lot of other stuff I couldn’t identify. “How’s it hanging, Tony? Seen any exciting friction ridges lately?”
He smiled a little. “Are you working this case?”
“Strange but true. Got any identifiable prints?”
“Not yet, but I’m still working. I’ll have to take some of this stuff back to the lab before I can be sure.”
“I would’ve thought the killer would get his paws all over the place, dragging a heavy corpse into the plane.”
“I would, too, but he didn’t. We found nothing inside the plane-except for one little smudge. On the body.” He pointed down at the corpse with which I was now altogether too familiar. “Probably touched her before he transported her. Possibly even before he killed her. Maybe when he undressed her.”
“Could the print belong to someone other than the killer?”
“Anything’s possible, but I got it off her back, so it isn’t her own. If she’s been captive for a while, it almost has to be the killer’s.”
“What is it? Index finger?”
“Unfortunately, it doesn’t appear to be a finger at all. I can get a print off any section of volar skin-fingers, soles, lips, ears. This is a palm. It could be worse-some courts won’t admit non-hand or -foot prints. But it could be better, too. Although palms are just as unique in pattern as fingerprints, no one is databasing them.”
“So even if your print pays out, we won’t be able to run it through VICAP.”
“Right. We might use it to verify a suspect-once you have one. But that’s it.”
I nodded. “Keep looking.”
“Will do.”
I wandered around a bit longer till I found the impression examiner, a woman about my age named Amelia Escavez. She’d joined the force maybe six months before.
“Whattaya got?” I asked, crouching at her side. God, this felt good. Back in the swing of things. Doing what I did well.
“Tire print.” She tended to be succinct when she spoke to me. Perhaps if I’d ever asked her out to dinner, made a friend of her, she’d be more forthcoming. But of course I hadn’t.
“The killer?”
“Possible. He must’ve used some kind of vehicle to get the body to that plane. Since he couldn’t get through the locked gate, he presumably needed something sturdy enough to make it down that steep off-road slope. And the airport officials tell us none of their personnel has had any reason to be out here recently. So…”
She reached into her field kit, took out a fixative, and began stabilizing the impression. She’d use dental-stone casting or some similar material to transfer the print. I noted that her kit was even bigger than Fielder’s. She seemed ready for anything we might throw at her-evidence vacuum, envelopes, bottles, boxes, cutting implements, disposable filters, glass slides, measuring tools, bindle paper, lifters, acetate covers, lifting tape, even an infrared spectrophotometer. Left the electron microscope in the car, I supposed. Looked cool, though, I had to admit. Maybe I should get a kit. What would I put in mine? Rorschach ink blots, multiphasic personality tests, a copy of The Silence of the Lambs…
“It’s a small print,” she explained. “There was a spot of oil, still somewhat damp, on the pavement. That’s what caught it.”
“Just the one?”
“ ’Fraid so. I looked for a matching opposite-side impression but didn’t get one. This concrete isn’t a very good surface for that sort of thing, absent the oil.”
“Can you identify the tread?”
“I don’t have enough to do it by sight, but once I get it into my computer, I may be able to give you a brand or even make. The FBI has a huge tire tread database.”
“I need anything you can give me now. Can you at least put me in the neighborhood?”
She hesitated. I could see she was reluctant to make an unverified guess that might come back to haunt her if it turned out to be wrong, especially since she didn’t have any reason to trust me. But she did it anyway. Good woman. “Looks like a pickup to me.”
I nodded. Yes, that seemed right. Would make it easier to transport the body, and you could get it down that sharp slope.
“Any footprints?”
“I wish. Sorry, no.”
“You’ll get me a copy of that print?”
“Sure.”
“Lifting material?”
“Thought I’d use overlapping tape affixed to white card stock. Soon as it dries a little more.”
“Sounds like a winner. Thanks.”
I stayed another hour or so, chatting up the techs, the ones who would talk to me, and trying to learn whatever I could. For the most part, I just absorbed. The place, the victim, the whole scenario. Tried to get inside the killer’s head. What was he playing at? What made him do the things he did? I don’t like to admit it, but I was more than a little creeped out. Maybe it was just the effect of being hung over on a body that was already in poor condition, but I couldn’t shake this ominous feeling. I mean, I’ve worked some horrible crimes in my time, but that business with the teeth-who would be capable of that?
At the edge of the crime scene, I saw O’Bannon motioning to me.
“I’m on my way back to HQ,” he explained. “Will I see you there when you finish up here?”
“Sure.”
“I’d like it if you could drop by my house tonight. Maybe around nine-thirty.”
My eyes narrowed a bit. “May I ask why?”
“Well, I’m not coming on to you, if that’s what you’re thinking. Bring a chaperone, if you like.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“I want to review the case. Get your preliminary thoughts. You know the press is going to be all over this case. I want to be ready to tell them something.”
“And it couldn’t wait until tomorrow morning?” I looked him straight in the eyes. “You don’t want to hear my thoughts on the case. You want to make sure I’m not drunk.”
“I’m trying to help you, Susan.”
“You think if I’m alone tonight, I’ll drink. Do you know how offensive, how utterly-”
He cut me off with a harsh glare. “Don’t be stupid, Susan. When people offer you help, take it.”
“I don’t need help!”
“See you at nine-thirty,” he said curtly. He waved to Granger, and together the two of them left the scene.
When I got back to headquarters, I was in for a few surprises. The temporary office set up for me was a desk, an old crappy one, wedged into an alcove just a few feet from the men’s room. This not only guaranteed that I would be constantly bombarded with manly odors, but also ensured that every guy in the building would trip over me at least twice a day.
Fine. Let O’Bannon play his little games. I was going to solve his case.
First thing I did was call that pettifogger of mine and tell him I was gainfully employed.
“So how much are you going to make as an LVPD consultant?” Delacourt asked.
“I’m a little fuzzy on that.”
“Not as much as your previous salary.”
“Probably not.”
“Well, it’s better than nothing.” Man was damn hard to please. “Look, I got you a hearing. Two weeks from yesterday.”
“Two weeks? Why so long?”
“In case you haven’t heard, Susan, the Las Vegas family courts are swamped, and there was no emergency.”
“I think there’s an emergency!”
“The child is not in danger.”
&n
bsp; “I think she is. The longer Rachel is forced to stay with Darby and Joan, the more they’re going to warp her mind.”
“Susan, I had to pull a lot of strings to get two weeks. Would you just ride with it?”
I closed my trap. “Anything I can do?”
“Yes, since you ask. You could become a model parent. Keep regular hours. Stay sober. I got a report from NDHS that says you’re not going to the IOP classes.”
Goddamn spies. “I can’t very well earn a living and support my niece if I go to classes all day long.”
“A sound point, but not one they’re likely to be sympathetic to. I’ll let you know if anything else turns up. In the meantime-keep your nose clean. For your sake, and Rachel’s.”
After that entertaining badinage, I got to work. My desk was already buried in paper. The reports on Murder Victim Two were just trickling in, but O’Bannon had sent over the voluminous reportage on Murder Victim One. I started at the top and tried to become familiar with the case, all the while pretending that I didn’t feel as if I’d been buried alive myself, as if my head weren’t throbbing, as if I didn’t desperately want a drink. Not to get drunk-that had been a stupid mistake and I wouldn’t do it again. I just needed a little pick-me-up, something to take away the pain so I could focus on my business. I’d stop after one.
I started with the autopsy protocols for the first murder and what little preliminary information they had provided regarding the second. I’d done this often enough to know I could safely skip the pages of minutiae on the body organs and glands, which would probably not be helpful and which I wouldn’t understand even if it were. In both cases, the coroner reported an increase in serotonin and histamine levels. In the first murder that was to be expected. She had a long, painful time to be terrified before she finally suffocated. But it was present in the second victim, too. What’s more, the second victim’s gum wounds showed much higher histamine than serotonin. So she lived a good while after the teeth were removed. O’Bannon was right-she’d bled to death, aspirating blood making it increasingly difficult to breathe. A slow, painful passing.
With considerable reluctance, I opened the envelope marked PHOTOS. Death had caught Victim One’s face in a hideous rictus, eyes and mouth wide, terrified, like that Edvard Munch painting. She died screaming, with no one to hear her.
The forensic analysis reports on Murder One were not helpful. The criminalists had vacuumed and grid-searched thoroughly. Even taken the trap from the vents and examined them. Found a few soil deposits, but nothing useful. Organic stains were unavailing. The preliminary victimology reports were even more of a joke. We didn’t know who either victim was, making it almost impossible to speculate as to motives or why the victims were chosen.
Now here was an interesting tidbit-Victim Two was pregnant, just barely. Did the killer know? Was that why she had been chosen? Or why she had been killed?
I read the handwriting, ink, and paper analysis that had been performed on the two messages left with the corpses. Although the notes were handwritten-probably a necessity given that many of the characters used don’t appear on a standard keyboard-the writer was probably not using his usual hand. A rightie using his left, or vice versa. It was the most common way of concealing handwriting. It would account for the shakiness of the lines, the inconsistency in character size. But that made it impossible for the expert to draw any conclusions regarding the personality being masked.
The handwriting expert did provide one interesting bit of information: the writer was using a fountain pen, gold-tipped broad nib. In this day and age. When you could find a fifty-cent Bic in any drugstore. He was using a fountain pen and a blotter.
I spent the rest of the workday messing about in the database for psychological profiling of serial killers maintained by the FBI’s Behavioral Science experts. I am a huge admirer of the work John Douglas did, interviewing serial killers and cataloging the patterns and similarities in their backgrounds, as well as their modus operandi. But I didn’t find much that pertained to the case at hand. With each new piece of information, however small, I got a growing sense that we were dealing with something entirely out of the ordinary, something I had never seen before.
Maybe something no one had seen before.
Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department-Central Division-was more hectic than M &M World on a Saturday night. Chaos reigned supreme. You’d think they had slots in there, the way people wandered in and out, back and forth. Twenty conversations going at once, not to mention a few scuffles and one flat-out fistfight between a plainclothes vice cop and a young lady of the evening he had in custody. The room was humid and noisome, reeking of sweat and stale coffee and fetid breath.
How did people work under these conditions? he wondered. What utter banalities these officers were, with their rolled-up sleeves and underarm stains. All they needed were Irish accents and a box of crullers to complete the picture. It seemed unlikely that this crowd could apprehend a purse snatcher. And these were his adversaries?
He was astonished. And in all honesty, a bit disappointed.
Where was she, the raven woman? The one who tried to understand.
He’d chosen his disguise with exquisite care. It had to be subtle; she would detect any major attempt at subterfuge. And he did not want to bury himself so deeply that she could not perceive his true self. Just enough that any formal description she might give at a later time would be useless. He wore a false mustache, a simple bit of misdirection, but one that seemed to alter the entire character of his face. He’d forgone his contact lenses and was wearing the wire-rimmed glasses of his early youth. And in his boldest stroke, he’d darkened his hair. He had considered going blond-he’d always fancied the effete, sensitive poet look-but he sensed that she would be more comfortable with dark hair. Black, like her own. Black like the raven.
He would be forced to prevaricate, for his own safety, and he wasn’t happy about that. A southern gentlemen does not tell tarradiddles. Except, he felt it fair to add, in self-preservation. His appearance itself was a lie, come to that, so what additional damage to his integrity could a few words do?
He waited for what seemed an interminable time but saw no traces of her. In fact, he saw no female at all, discounting the ones wearing handcuffs. How was he to learn anything about her when he didn’t even know her name?
He approached the front desk clerk. “Beg pardon, sir. I need to speak to someone.”
The clerk looked up. “Wanna give me a hint?”
“It’s about the young woman found at the Transylvania.”
“Okay,” he said wearily. “What about her?”
“If you don’t mind, I need to talk to someone working on the case.”
“Granger isn’t here.”
“Actually, I need to speak to the woman…”
The clerk seemed lost. “The dead woman?”
“No, the one working the homicide.”
“Granger hasn’t brought in any female detectives.”
Patience, he told himself. Patience. “I wonder if perhaps you might be mistaken. I’m quite certain I saw her yesterday at the crime scene.”
No reaction from the clerk.
“I don’t recall her name, but she was quite tall. Slender.” He paused. “And hair the color of the raven.”
“You talkin’ about Pulaski?”
“Perhaps I am.”
“She isn’t on the case. Not officially, anyway. She isn’t even on the force anymore. She’s just been brought in to give advice or something. Weirdos are her specialty.”
“Do tell.”
“Yeah.” He lowered his voice. “Big mistake, if you ask me.”
“You don’t care for… Miss Pulaski?”
“Not that I’m one to talk out of school.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Bitch and a half.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“She was never exactly Shirley Temple. But since her old man died…” He whistled.
�
��Is she… coping with her loss?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s coping.” He made a drinking motion with his hand. “In the worst possible way. Look, if you want to talk to her, she’s coming up the stairs right now.” His voice dropped again. “But if I were you, I’d stick with Granger.”
He pivoted and cast his eyes down the staircase that bisected the room. There she was. Hair as black as the night. And those eyes-that magnificent dark eye!
It was the Eye that transfixed, that vexed me…
“Are you Lieutenant Pulaski?”
The woman peered at him, a quizzical expression on her face. “Sort of.”
“My name is Ethan Jenkins. I need to talk to you.”
She gave him a quick once-over. “I’m sorry, but I’m very busy right now.” She started to pass.
“I know. I heard about the second victim on the news. That’s why I’m here.”
She stopped. “You know something about the murders?”
“I think so, yes. I saw the most recent casualty, just two days ago. At the Tropicana. She was gambling.”
Pulaski’s eyes narrowed. “You’re sure about this?”
“I am. I saw her picture. It’s the same woman. And someone was following her.” He looked around, frowning at the distracting clamor all around them.
She pointed her head toward the front door. “Walk with me.”
“So he escaped?”
“I’m afraid so,” he explained. “I just happened to be in the parking lot at the time and was able to intervene on her behalf. I’m no fighter-I’m an accountant, actually. I think he had some martial arts training.”
“We haven’t received any reports from the Tropicana.”
“I don’t think they know it happened. As far as I could tell, no one at the hotel was aware of the incident.”
“With all those cameras they have? I’m surprised anyone could escape notice.”
“I believe the cameras are in the casinos. Not the parking garage.”
“But muggers love to lurk in parking garages!”
“Lieutenant, I’ve been in Vegas long enough to understand that casinos install those cameras to protect the casinos, not the patrons.”
Dark Eye Page 10
