CHAPTER EIGHT
“Well, there’s not a lot I can tell from this,” said Elena Krieger, holding the evidence bag between her manicured thumb and forefinger as though it contained excrement. “I’m a forensic linguist, not a magician.” With her German accent, “linguist” came out “lingvist.”
Detective Butts snatched it from her and tossed it on his desk. “Well, pardon me for asking.”
It was ten o’clock the next morning-the two of them had been in each other’s company less than fifteen minutes, and already they were quarreling. Perched on the side of Butts’s desk, Lee was already regretting their decision to call in Krieger for a consult. If there were two people more unsuited to be in the same room with each other than Detectives Butts and Krieger, he hadn’t met them. This was their fourth case together, and the air was still charged with their mutual enmity.
“It’s two words, for god’s sake!” she said, the base of her elegant neck reddening. Even at this hour in the morning, it was hard not to look at her. She wore a creamy pantsuit over a black silk blouse, her strawberry blond hair gathered back in a ponytail fastened with a gold clip. She crossed her arms over her stately bosom defiantly. “What did you expect me to say?”
“I don’t know — nothin’, okay?” Butts growled. “Sorry to waste your time.”
“I mean, there are no obvious grammatical mistakes-a lot of people misspell ‘you’re’ as ‘your,’ so we know he’s not a complete moron. Probably has a decent education.”
“That’s something,” Lee said hopefully. Butts just shook his head and turned away.
“You probably knew that already,” Krieger remarked. “Based on your profile, I mean.”
“I’ve worked up a few ideas,” Lee said.
“Can I see what you have?” asked Krieger.
“I guess,” Lee said, with a glance at Butts, who threw his arms up in surrender.
“Sure, whatever. Stay, go-do whatever you want.”
“How kind of you, Detective,” Krieger replied icily. “I choose to stay.”
“What ever, ” Butts muttered under his breath.
Lee copied the list he had made the night before onto the whiteboard, adding a couple of things he had thought of that morning.
• Stabbing-phallic symbol-meaning of sword in particular?
• Fear important to his emotional satisfaction
• Threatening note-bold, taunting; challenging law enforcement
• Knows Mindy amp; Sara, at least by sight
• Careful planning, low-risk victim
• Highly organized offender, profiles his victims
• Blends in with social milieu of victims
• Upper middle class, educated?
• Probably white, young (25–35)
• Possibly in theatre in some capacity, or a fan
• Mask-part of ritualistic staging of the body
“I gotta say,” Butts said, “just about every guy in that theatre company fits this profile.”
“Except Carl Hawkins,” said Lee.
“ ’Cause he’s black?” said Butts.
“More because he’s the wrong age.”
“But the others-”
Lee nodded. “They all fit. And given all the factors, it has to be one of them.”
“Do you think he has a record?” Krieger asked, studying the list.
“He might have,” Lee said. “If he does, it could be Peeping Tom offenses, or even breaking and entering. On the other hand, he might have been smart enough to avoid getting caught.”
“None of the actors showed up on VICAP,” said Butts.
“He’s just getting started,” Lee said.
“Jesus,” Butts said. The phone on his desk rang and he grabbed it. “Butts here. Yeah? Okay, thanks-yeah, let me know if anything turns up.” He turned to the others. “That was the crime lab. No prints on anything so far.”
“What about trace?” asked Krieger.
Butts shook his head. “Nothin’. The mask was wiped clean of any prints, so he musta worn gloves.”
“What about the autopsy?” asked Lee. “Is there a chance that might turn up something?”
“It’s possible-the weapon might have left something behind that we can use to trace it,” said Butts. “So what makes you think this guy is gonna kill again?”
“Well, apart from the fact that he’s threatened someone else-”
“Assuming the note came from him,” Krieger pointed out.
“Right. Assuming that, the bizarre nature of the crime points to someone who is motivated by something other than personal dislike for the victim. He didn’t even take her money, and leaving the mask is highly ritualistic behavior. So is the sword, for that matter-if that’s what he used.”
The phone rang again and Butts snatched it up.
“Detective Butts here. Yeah? No kiddin’? Yeah, fax me the results, great. Thanks.” He hung up and looked at them triumphantly. “That was the ME’s office. We got trace after all. There were some fibers in the wound that didn’t match the vic’s clothing. Blue wool, like from a coat.”
“Well, that’s something,” Krieger said.
Butts looked at his watch and frowned. “I gotta go meet Mindy’s parents. They flew in from Ohio last night and I told them I’d stop by their hotel.”
“You want me to come with you?” Lee asked.
“Naw, that’s okay-I know you hate it as much as I do.”
“I’ll come,” Lee said, putting on his coat.
“One last question,” Krieger said to Lee. “Before you leave.”
“What’s that?”
“Are you sure this killer is working alone?”
“It’s likely, but no, I’m not sure. Why?”
“No reason-I just wondered.”
Butts frowned. “So you think one guy might be doin’ the killing while the other one is writing the threats?”
“I just asked the question, Detective,” said Krieger. “I don’t think anything.”
Butts grunted and put on his coat. “You got that right,” he said under his breath as they left the office.
Krieger’s voice rang out behind them. “I heard that!”
Butts rolled his eyes as he and Lee walked through the precinct lobby. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.”
“Why, Detective,” Lee said. “I do believe you’re in love.”
CHAPTER NINE
Facing bereaved family members was one of the most uncomfortable tasks of homicide detectives, and the meeting with Mindy’s parents was predictably draining. The worst part was that Lee and Butts couldn’t give Mindy’s parents any concrete information about her killer, other than to say they were working very hard to find him.
When Lee got home that night he was bone tired. Not for the first time, he felt the heavy relief in closing the front door behind him and slipping on the three locks, the tumblers clicking into place with a satisfying sound, locking out the demands of the world. He stood looking out of the window at the lone mimosa tree in front of his building before heading for the piano, hungry for the soothing purity of Bach.
When he was halfway across the living room, the phone rang. Without looking the caller ID, he answered it.
