2nd Cycle of the Harbinger Series Collection

by Carolyn McCray

  The captain stifled a laugh. “Fine. If you can convince Dr. Murray to give you permission, then go for it.”

  Darc could see nothing amusing about this situation at all, but he now had a clear pathway toward his goal of better efficiency at a crime scene. That was the salient fact at this particular moment.

  A disturbance at the entrance to the Laundromat pulled Darc’s attention away from the body for a moment. A scruffy-looking man in a hoodie ducked under the police tape and flashed a badge at the uniformed policeman manning the entrance. Interesting. The man did not look like a police officer. If Darc had to guess, he would have said drug dealer. Or pimp.

  As the man approached, Captain Merle spoke to Darc in a low voice, “This is Officer Trey Keane from vice. I called him down to see if the victim was a prostitute and this was just a date gone bad. It’s the right area for it. Otherwise…”

  Otherwise, the strong possibility was that this was one of Hairless Harry’s victims. Seattle had suffered a string of bizarre killings, all with the same M.O.—the hair of the bodies was completely shaved, with the Roman numeral “XIII” carved into their sternums.

  Of course, if the captain would simply allow for the body’s removal, they would know immediately whether or not this was one of their serial killer’s victims. One more reason why logic should take precedence over regulations.

  As the vice cop ambled his way down the aisle toward the row of dryers where Darc and Merle awaited, he checked each of the machines, seemingly checking for quarters. He waved at the two of them, a grin plastered on his face. Nodding at the corpse’s leg, Keane clapped his hands together and rubbed them in mock enthusiasm.

  “So, we got a 187, extra fluffy?”

  CHAPTER 2

  Trey wasn’t normally up this early. One of the nice things about working vice was that the hours were a little more… flexible, shall we say? But if he had to be up at dawn, he was going to make the most of it. Like by attempting to get this crusty captain and his frowning sidekick to crack a grin.

  It looked like a challenge, but Trey was pretty sure he was up for it—although his best smile hadn’t even made a dent in the serious faces he saw in front of him.

  The detective at the captain’s side stepped forward, his eyes two diamond-tipped awls ready to punch holes in Trey’s leather. He was tall, with a shaved head and a close-cropped beard, his eyes heavily lidded but with an intensity to them that was off-putting.

  “The code for homicide is 010 in Seattle. One-eighty-seven is for California.”

  Okay, so maybe this was going to be a tougher nut to crack than Trey had originally thought. “Dude. Not cool.”

  The detective’s face registered almost nothing, but his tone was quizzical. “Cool? What does correcting your error have to do with the temperature?”

  “Wow.” Trey glanced at the captain, a large man with a heavy brow, who was currently rubbing with vigor at a spot on his forehead. “So that… that is a response.”

  “Officer Keane.” The captain reached out a large hand to shake Trey’s. “Thank you for coming in.” He gestured to the bald detective at this side. “This is Officer Darcmel. You can call him Darc; everyone does. We wanted you to take a look at our Vic to see if it was someone you recognized from your beat.”

  “Oh, I can tell you right now that this one isn’t one of mine. She’s not a working girl. At least not one who works the streets. High-end escort, possibly.”

  “That is impossible to tell without moving the body,” Darc replied, his tone flat. “All we can see is part of her leg and one shoe… a Jimmy Choo knock-off. That fits with what we might expect in terms of a prostitute’s typical attire.”

  “Oh, those aren’t knock-offs,” Trey corrected the detective. As he spoke, he watched the man’s spine stiffen. Whatever this guy’s deal was, he didn’t like to be contradicted. “Check out the soles. It says JIMMY CHOO in all caps along the length of the sole, with “London” right underneath. It has “MADE IN ITALY” stamped right above the shoe size. Now, this sole looks like real leather. It should have the words “VERO CUOIO” stamped there, as well. Go ahead. Take a peek. If those are knock-offs, I’ll buy a round of drinks for everyone here.”

  Both the captain and Darc perused the sole of the shoe. The captain was satisfied after mere moments, but the bald wonder continued his examination for much longer. Probably looking for something to trip Trey up with. What was Darc’s problem here? It seemed to go beyond simple professional competition. Maybe his blood sugar was low.

  “Dude,” Trey said, looking at Darc. “You had breakfast? Most important meal of the day.”

  The detective didn’t turn from his examination of the shoe, but Captain Merle did.

  “Thank you, Officer Keane,” The captain said, shaking Trey’s hand once more. “You’ve been a great help. We can now rule this out as a John losing it on a streetwalker.”

  “So. This one of Harry’s?” Trey asked. When the captain showed some surprise, Trey continued. “Come on. You can’t turn on the TV without hearing about Seattle’s favorite serial killer. What is it, like five now?”

  “Six and counting. If this one turns out to be another, the total will come to seven.” The captain rubbed the same spot on his forehead and turned back to face the dryer and the body within. “We should know pretty quickly once the M.E. shows up.”

  “We would know right now if you would simply allow me to move the body,” Darc chimed in, his inspection of the shoe complete.

  “Dude. I’m vice, and even I know not to touch the body.” Once again, the bald detective completely ignored what he had to say. Trey was more than a tad surprised by Darc’s statement. For someone who seemed like such a tight-ass, moving a Vic without the examiner present seemed like it was way outside standard procedure.

  Maybe there was more to this guy than was evident at first glance. But whatever that “more” might be, Trey just couldn’t bring himself to care all that much. He’d done his job here. Time to get back to bed.

  “All right, guys.” Trey nodded to the two in front of him. “I’m out. Let me know if there’s ever anything more vice can do for you gents.” He tipped an imaginary hat at the captain, whose lips twitched slightly in an upward direction. Okay, so one out of two wasn’t so bad.

  Although the thoughtful look the captain was giving Trey as he turned on his heel to leave was more than a little disconcerting.

  * * *

  The annoying vice cop was gone. The manner in which Officer Keane had ascertained the veracity of the brand of shoe had been mildly impressive, but upon further reflection, Darc assessed that the possibility of needing that kind of expertise in a future homicide was less than 1%. Statistically, not of extreme importance.

  Darc turned to the captain, ready to press his case on the merits of early body removal, when more noise came from the front of the Laundromat. It was the C.S.I. team, including the M.E., making their way through the glass door with all of their equipment. The examiner’s assistant, Billy, was looking around the area, a large grin plastered on his face. The medical examiner himself had surpassed Darc’s estimate by two full minutes, which indicated that Dr. Murray had more than likely exceeded the posted speed limit. By quite a large margin.

  Considering the nature of the request Darc was about to make of him, it might be advisable not to bring that bit of intelligence to bear in his conversation with the examiner. This was another of those murky gray areas for Darc, but it seemed that one of his previous partners had mentioned something along those lines. If only Darc could get a codified system of rules for social interaction, the whole process could be streamlined.

  “What have we got?” Dr. Murray called out as he moved toward the back of the Laundromat. Darc started to respond that they had no idea what they had because they had, as yet, been unable to move the body, when the captain spoke in his stead.

  “Looks like it may be one of our Hairless Harry Vics.”

  “Well, let’s get in th
ere and see, shall we?”

  Darc assumed that Dr. Murray’s use of the plural pronoun was not literal, as he had already been blocked once from touching the body, or even the door to the dryer. The C.S.I. team swarmed over the area, snapping pictures, taking swabs, lifting fingerprints. This was the other difficulty with having to wait for the M.E. There were always delays above and beyond the simple wait for the man to arrive.

  While he was waiting, Darc pulled one of the investigators aside and put in a request for the team to pull video footage from all the traffic cameras in the area. While not probable, they might be able to track the killer by his license plate number.

  The captain spoke to Dr. Murray, his tone respectful. “Doctor, if the body shows the other markers, make sure to take samples from under the fingernails. The one DNA sample we have so far showed the perp to be male, but was too badly degraded for any further analysis. I’m hoping we can get something useable here.”

  The examiner nodded, his attention fully riveted to the body now emerging from its mechanical cocoon. Moving toward the body, the doctor pulled on his latex gloves, prepping for his initial inspection. His assistant was jabbering away at the doctor’s side.

  “I hope this is one of Harry’s. That would be awesome. Have you noticed the consistency of the size of the Roman numerals? Almost like it was stenciled on before he made the cuts. And how he managed to shave them down while they were still alive, get their clothes back on them and still escape? This guy’s the real deal.”

  “Billy, please,” the M.E. muttered. “Could you maybe ratchet the enthusiasm down a notch? It’s a little creepy.”

  The assistant did seem to know quite a lot about the case. Darc wondered if perhaps Billy had been assisting on the other autopsies. If not, the amount of detail indicated some intensive research on the part of the young man. Curious. The M.E. and his assistant arrived next to the dryer and prepared to extract the corpse of the young lady.

  Realizing that once the M.E. was fully engaged with the body he might not get another chance, Darc moved in closer to the doctor. When it was necessary to gain someone’s attention, there was a protocol. The mechanics of that protocol seemed straightforward, so far as Darc could ascertain, although this was moving into gray territory. It involved making a noise that could be interpreted as involuntary but that would elicit a response to the auditory stimulus.

  Darc sneezed.

  Dr. Murray started, spinning around on his heel to face Darc. The protocol had been successful.

  “Detective Darcmel. Are you getting sick?” the examiner asked.

  “No. It was a ruse performed to gain your focus momentarily.” As Darc replied, the doctor’s expression changed. His lips tightened into a straight line and his jaw clenched. Irritation or nausea. Nausea was a not-uncommon response to dead bodies, although a medical examiner should be well beyond such kneejerk reactions at this stage.

  “What can I do for you, Detective?”

  “I need your permission to be able to move bodies before you arrive.”

  The examiner snorted, a smile pulling his lips upward. Once again, Darc was left baffled by the gray world of emotional responses. First the captain, and now this doctor. What about his request had been amusing? Dr. Murray dug around in his equipment, looking for some sort of tool to help him in his examination. He spoke over his shoulder.

  “Hey, there are days where I feel like I could use all the help I can get.”

  Finally, a response that made some logical sense. Darc turned to see if Captain Merle had been listening in on their conversation, when his attention was drawn to the front entrance.

  Officer Keane was back, carrying a brown paper sack and a drink holder in one hand, and holding the door open with the other. He was leaning against the doorframe, chatting with an attractive woman in a sharp suit and a turtleneck. Something about her attire, combined with the precision of her hairstyling and speech, caused several glowing lines of logic to separate themselves from the conversation and wind their way inside of Darc’s mind. As the lines began to coalesce, Darc saw the pattern just as Captain Merle moved toward the entrance.

  “Is that Officer Keane over there chatting with a reporter?” he growled.

  The gleaming lines confirmed the fact that the woman with whom Keane was speaking was, in all probability, a reporter. Darc followed the captain up to the front of the Laundromat.

  The reporter had long, flowing dark hair, and blue eyes that had been accentuated by makeup with an expert’s touch. She appeared to be wearing false eyelashes, as well. Her figure was full through her torso, slim through the hips and legs. Calculating the circumference of her chest, Darc assessed that she wore a size 36D bra. The woman was an almost exaggerated version of the feminine ideal. It was no wonder the vice cop seemed entranced by her.

  Something about the way the captain approached must have alerted the woman, as she smoothly detached herself from the conversation and turned her attention to the new threat. The reporter extended her hand in greeting.

  “You look like you’re in charge here,” the reporter oozed, turning up the wattage on her smile. The captain ignored the hand, but the smile only flickered for a moment. “My name’s Tracy Hendricks. I was just about to ask this gentleman if he knew whether or not we have a confirmed Hairless Harry attack here.”

  “You’ll have to wait for that information, just like we will. I hope you can understand that discussing the details of a case can keep us from closing it. I trust that keeping the citizens of Seattle safe is as much a priority for you as it is for us.” The coolness of the captain’s tone belied the meaning of his words.

  “Certainly,” Tracy demurred. “I wouldn’t want to stand in the way of your investigation.”

  “Then if you wouldn’t mind staying back from the entrance to the crime scene…” the captain tossed over his shoulder as he turned to walk back into the Laundromat. “Keane, I need to talk with you.”

  “Uh, sure,” the vice cop gave the reporter a half smile and slid the card she offered him into the pocket of his hoodie before joining the captain at the back. “Oh, hey,” Keane said, holding out the bag in his hand towards Darc. “This is for you.”

  Darc took the bag and opened it up. Inside the bag was something wrapped up in brown paper. “What’s this?”

  “Breakfast, dude. Remember, most important meal of the day? You’re looking a little low on blood sugar, so I got you a bagel with cream cheese and lox. I’m personally more of a breakfast meat kinda guy, but it was a kosher deli, so… no delicious pork, ya know? Oh, and a beverage to wash it down with.” He held out a plastic cup filled with what looked like fresh squeezed orange juice.

  Curious. Casting his mind back, Darc realized that he had not eaten since lunch yesterday, when Detective McGarren had left. And while Darc’s mental capacity at his weakest surpassed others’ at their finest, there was no reason not to be functioning at the highest level possible.

  He took the cup from Keane, placed the straw in his mouth and took a long pull. The flood of fructose from the juice immediately jolted his mental functioning to a higher level, and the acidic wash of the orange was… pleasant.

  “Oh, and here.” Keane handed the captain the other cup from the cardboard drink holder, a paper cup with a lid. “You look like the kind of guy who takes his coffee black.”

  “Ah, yes. Yes, I do,” the captain replied, a strange look on his face. It was the look of a man who seemed to be making up his mind about something. “Thank you.”

  “Sure thing, Cap. So… what’s up? You wanted to talk to me?”

  “Hm. Right.” The captain took a pull at his coffee, then continued. “I have to ask… don’t they teach you in vice not to talk to the press in the middle of an investigation?” Captain Merle’s brow was furrowed, casting a shadow over his eyes.

  “Yeah. Of course,” Keane answered, a confused look on his face.

  “Then what was all that about?”

  “Oh, I wasn’t
talking about the investigation. I was talking about Downton Abbey.” The vice cop must have seen the look of non-comprehension on the captain’s face, so he continued. “You know, the British series? Masterpiece Theatre? Airs on PBS?”

  “But I heard you,” the captain continued, his face turning a bit red. “You said something about ‘the case’.”

  “Yeah. Bates. You know, from the show. It’s totally a weak case. Completely circumstantial. Man, I love me a good English drama. And I guess the reporter’s a fan too,” he said, glancing over his shoulder, apparently to catch another glimpse of the reporter. “‘Sides, you have to admit she’s smokin’ hot.”

  “Well, steer clear of her from here on out, no matter how ‘hot’ she is. We need to keep a lid on things until you’ve finished up this case.”

  “Sure thing,” Keane replied, then stopped. “Wait. What? What do you mean, ‘until you’ve finished up this case’?”

  “You’re going to be working this case with Darc. I have a phone call to make to your superior officer, but I’m certain he’ll release you to me. This case is important enough, and we go way back.”

  That, without doubt, was the most ridiculous idea Darc had ever heard in his life.

  CHAPTER 3

  Trey was… well, Trey was pissed. And flattered. But mostly pissed.

  “You want me to work a homicide?” Trey asked, trying to keep his voice from going up an entire octave. When his voice got into the stratosphere like that, it had a tendency to crack, and he sounded like a kid going through puberty. Not exactly manly. “You know I’m not even a detective, right?”

  “This is a temporary arrangement, just for this case. Let’s call it a trial run,” the captain replied. “Although, if it goes well, I may be requesting a permanent shift. Pending the result of your detective’s exam, that is.”

  “What are you talking about? You’ve known me for like—what?—five minutes? All due respect, sir, but are you smoking something?” Trey couldn’t believe what was happening here. It was like he had stepped into some kind of alternate reality. Maybe he was getting punked.