Liz said, “The distance to the Ruche home is less than a mile-point nine three to be exact.”
Milo smiled. “Geography’s in your job description?”
Reed said, “She clocked it ’cause I asked her.”
“You did me a favor, honey. Distracted me from thinking about two dead babies.” Ungloving, she took out her phone, walked a few feet to the side.
Milo said, “Moe, soon as the techies and the crypters get here, you and I are heading back to the office to run a search on missing infants. Meanwhile, call Sean. I’ll be wanting him to canvass the neighborhood.”
Moe left a message for Binchy.
Liz returned. “Just spoke to one of my old profs. He’s never seen a specimen without wires and he’s not aware of any lacquer that’s commonly used. But no one knows everything so I’ll stay on it. One bright spot: If these are relatively fresh, DNA’s likely. Speaking of which, what’s the status with the first set? DOJ hasn’t instructed me to send them yet.”
“Start the paperwork, kid.”
Reed’s phone rang. He said, “Hey, Ess-man, whusup?
As he listened, his hand tapped the butt of his service gun. When he clicked off, his face was tight. “You’re not going to believe this, they just found another.”
Liz said, “Another
Reed said, “Another DB, adult female, gunshot wound, right here in the park, the southern edge.”
Milo’s face was as animated as a frozen chuck roast. He waved a uniform over.
“Keep this area tight, Officer. No one but the techies and the C.I. gets in.”
“Yessir. That mean you’re finished here?”
“Not even close.”
CHAPTER 12
The woman was late twenties to early thirties, dark-haired, medium height, slightly heavy at arms, hips, and ankles. She lay on her right side, the front part of her body shaded by shrubbery. Her dress, short-sleeved and knee-length, was patterned in a pale green mini-paisley with old-fashioned cap sleeves.
One leg rested atop the other, a position that almost resembled peaceful sleep. No disruption of clothing, no obvious sexual posing, but Milo pointed out faint pink rings around her wrists that were probably the residuals of being bound.
A rubber-soled brown loafer encased her right foot. Its mate lay a couple of feet away to the north. Her hair was trimmed short enough to expose the nape of her neck. The bullet hole was a red-black mini-crater at the junction of cranium and spine.
A single shot, fired at close enough range to leave light stippling, entering the medulla oblongata and cutting off the respiratory functions marshaled by the lower brain.
What the papers like to call execution-style, but there are all sorts of ways to execute someone and what this wound and the wrist marks said was a killer in total control leaving nothing to chance.
The two uniforms guarding the scene said she’d been spotted by a jogger. Her bare foot, clean and white amid the greenery, had been the attention-getter.
No jogger in sight. Milo didn’t comment on that as he explored the edges of the scene.
Even without her foot protruding, the woman would’ve been noticed soon enough. This part of the park was relatively secluded but could be reached by any number of pathways or a simple walk across rolling lawn, followed by a brief pass through a planting of gum trees. The jogging trail was a well-worn rut that paralleled the park’s southern border. Where the body lay, the trail veered especially close, maybe three feet away.
Intending for her to be found? A methodical killer eager to show off?
Milo kept looking at the woman. I forced myself to do the same. Her mouth was agape, eyes half open, filmed like those of a hooked fish left too long on deck. Crusts of dried blood leaked from her ears, nose, and mouth. That and the size of the bullet hole said a small-caliber slug had bounced around her brain like a pinball.
No purse, no jewelry, no I.D. Whatever bare skin was visible was free of tattoos, scars, distinguishing marks.
I spotted additional blood speckling dirt, leaves, a rock. No need to point it out; Milo crouched like a silverback gorilla, examining one of the larger splotches.
He moved to a spot just north of the woman’s legs and pointed. A broken chain of footprints appeared to lead up to the body. A second series pointed in the opposite direction.
Large, deep impressions for both. The same person, a heavyweight. The tracks revealed none of the corrugations you’d see with an athletic shoe or a hiking boot, just your smooth heel-sole imprint lacking trademark or label or idiosyncrasy.
Both sets of prints vanished as soil gave way to grass. Tough park turf had sprung back hours ago, concealing the killer’s entrance and exit.
Milo circled a couple more times, wrote something down in his pad, showed me a pair of depressions in the grass, slightly to the left of the corpse.
Shallow indentations, as if two weighted bowls had been placed there. Easy to miss but hard to ignore once you saw them. The resilient lawn had tried but failed to mask them completely.
I said, “On her knees.”
“Has to be,” he said. “Then he shot her and she fell over.”
“Or was pushed.”
“No bruising or dirt on her face.”
“He could’ve cleaned her off before he arranged her.”
“You think she looks posed? He didn’t put that other shoe on.”
“It was dark, maybe he didn’t notice.”
He crouched, took out his flashlight despite ample sun, aimed the beam between her teeth.
Victim on her knees, check for oral rape.
I said, “Anything?”
“No obvious fluid but I am seeing little white specks on her gums.”
He showed me.
I said, “Looks like fabric. Bound
He waved the uniforms over. Both were young, male, clean-featured, with gym-rat swaggers. One was sandy-haired and freckled, the other had a dark buzz cut and suspicious brown eyes.
“You guys check for casings?”
Sandy said, “We did, sir, nothing.”
Milo did his own search, took his time but came up empty-handed. Careful shooter or a revolver.
The uniforms had returned to their original positions. He waved them back. “Who called it in?”
“Like we said, the jogger,” said Sandy. “A girl.”
“Where is she?”
Buzz said, “We got her information and let her go home. Here you go, sir.”
Milo took the paper. “Heather Goldfeder.”
Sandy said, “She lives just a few blocks away. With her parents.”
“We talking a minor?”
“Barely a major, sir. Eighteen last month, she was pretty traumatized.”
“Who made the judgment to let her go?”
The cops looked at each other. Buzz said, “Sir, it was a joint decision. She’s maybe five two, hundred pounds, so she’s obviously not the offender.”
Milo said, “Teeny toon.”
“Student at SMC, sir. She was really distraught.”
Milo said, “Thanks for the psychological profile.”
