to take a look.”
Penelope studied one of the photos, then tossed it to her assistant, frowning. “What kind?”
“What bites on the ankle?” Ducci said sarcastically.
“What? Rats, mice? What?” Santorelli stared glumly at the picture.
Little animals gnawed holes. None of the detectives said anything.
“Woof woof. Here comes the mailman.” Ducci rolled his eyes.
“Oh, God, the dog.” Penny slapped her forehead and looked around for Mike, who had been the one to brief her for the warrant the night before. The dog hairs had been part of the case. Dog hairs in the first victim’s nose.
“You still got the dog, Mike?”
“The dog is not in custody at the moment,” Mike said, glancing at April, who got very busy making a note. She had acquired hair samples from the puppy, but had let Camille take the dog home with her.
“Better get that animal in here before it disappears,” Penny said sharply.
“It isn’t going to disappear.” April spoke for the first time, though she wasn’t as confident as she sounded. Pretty stupid to send the dog home with the suspect’s girlfriend.
“What makes you so sure?”
“It helps with its owner’s sanity.”
“It could still disappear if somebody finds out it’s material evidence in a homicide.”
True. Camille’s loyalty was more likely to be with Bouck than her dog. “I’ll take care of it.”
Penelope switched her attention to the first homicide. All they had were a few fibers, a few hairs, a signature in a store guest book, and the victim’s clothes found in the basement of the suspect’s house.
“Let me get this straight,” she said finally. “You want to arrest this man Bouck?”
Mike looked at April and didn’t say anything. Sergeant Joyce said, “Yes.”
“But you don’t have a case.” Penelope took her glasses off and rubbed her nose.
“He had several unregistered guns. He shot a police officer.” Joyce made this declaration with as little conviction as it deserved.
“He could have shot ten police officers, Sergeant, but that doesn’t help with these two homicides. Unless you can come up with his prints, his hair and fiber—
April cleared her throat. “The psychiatrist doesn’t think the woman could have done it.”
Penelope looked up sharply. “What psychiatrist?”
“Ah, we were having some difficulty questioning the suspect.” April paused. “Her behavior was erratic. She was out of control, self-destructive, incoherent. She didn’t seem to know about the murders and had no idea why she was here. I called in a psychiatrist we’ve worked with before.”
“Who’s that?” Penny raised her pencil to write it down.
“Dr. Jason Frank.”
Penny frowned. “He’s not one of ours. I don’t know the name.”
“We’ve worked with him before,” Sergeant Joyce said. “We know the name.”
“Okay, we’ll let that go for the moment. What was Frank’s diagnosis?”
“He said Camille was more likely to hurt herself than someone else,” April replied. “He hasn’t had time to make a full report yet.” And it was her neck if he didn’t. April let Camille go with the material evidence in her arms.
“Where is she now?”
“She’s under surveillance at her house.” April shivered. She hoped.
Penelope made a face.
“It was a pretty weird scene over there,” Ducci broke in. “We see it as the boyfriend dressed up in the woman’s clothes. That explains the large sizes he put on the dead women. Maybe stuff he woulda liked for himself, you know?”
“And he carried the woman’s dog?” Penny said sarcastically.
“So it would appear,” Ducci said.
Penny shook her head. “What about a wig, shoes, underwear, Sergeant? You find all that?”
Mike spoke up. “We found an arsenal, a straitjacket. He kept that woman locked in the attic. His medicine cabinet was full of pills—uppers, downers, you name it. No wig. No women’s shoes that would fit him.”
“Then we don’t have anything,” Penny said.
“He shot a cop,” Santorelli threw in. “We have that.”
“Maybe he thought he was protecting his girlfriend. Took the fall for her.”
Penelope shook her head. “We can’t nail him for this without some evidence. Find out if he liked to dress up in women’s clothes, if the neighbors ever saw him carrying the dog around. See if you can come up with a motive. Check the signature in the guest book. A red wig would help. And a confession. That’s about it for now.” She stretched and collected her papers. “And don’t rule out the woman.”
April glanced down at her own notes. Maybe she wasn’t so triple stupid as her mother said. The night before she had written down the same questions. Except the one about not ruling out the woman.
65
What are you doing here? I thought you were finished with me.” Albert Block stood at his front door. He had a mug of coffee in his left hand.
“I was in the neighborhood,” April said. “I thought I’d drop by to say hello.”
“I don’t think I believe that.” Block was dressed in another plaid shirt and string tie, jeans, and his lizard cowboy boots. His face was bloodless, as if he’d been deprived of oxygen for the last day or so. He looked nervous and scared, and sorry he’d pushed the buzzer downstairs to let her in.
April glanced around the living room. It looked as if he had decorated it very recently from Ikea. The black- and-white area rug on the floor was so new, a piece of its price tag was still wired to the end. The white nubbly sofa against one wall had a white pillow at each arm and a squat blond wood coffee table in front of it. On the coffee table were two twisted candlesticks with unused candles in them, and a brass pot filled with what looked like a sheaf of wheat. A matching blond wood table with two chairs floated in the middle of the floor by the closed folding doors of the tiny kitchen. There was not much in the way of clutter. Everything was very clean, neat. April wondered if Maggie Wheeler had ever been entertained there. She guessed not.
Block followed her eyes. “You’ve already searched the place. What do you want?”
“I just wanted to talk to you. Do you mind?”
He shrugged. “Yeah, sort of.” But he closed the door behind her anyway.
“Why’s that?”
He shrugged again, put his mug down on the single mat that indicated his place at the table. The mat was some kind of black woven plastic. There was nothing else on it.
“I don’t have anything else to tell you.” He said this like a man who’d been thinking things over and decided for sure he didn’t want to be a murderer after all.
“I think you do.”
He shook his head. “I saw the papers.”
April looked around again. She didn’t see any newspapers. “So?”
“So, I know, uh—there’s been another one. I didn’t have anything to do with it. I didn’t know her. Nothing.” He waved his hand at the sofa. “You want to sit down?”
“Sure.” But she didn’t want to sit on his sofa. She pulled out the closest chair at the dining room table and retrieved her notebook from her bag, checked her watch. She had only a few minutes for this. She wrote the day and date, the location and Block’s name.
“I’m not here about the other one. I’m here about Maggie,” she said.
He played with the empty cup. He didn’t want to talk about Maggie anymore.
“You and Maggie were friends, right?”
“I already told you that,” he muttered. “I didn’t kill her.”
