would have been wearing size twelve shoes.
'Now, the soils.'
The soil was a mixture of decomposed granite and beach sand, and the CS techs had found it in various locations in all three scenes-the Fernandez apartment, the Ellisons' suburban home, the Wynn's big custom house. An alert CSI had checked the blood smears on the walls at the Wynns' and found the sand granules mixed with the blood, along with acrylic fibers most likely originating from the Eye's gloves. A small mound of the granite/sand mix had been found on the floor next to Shareen Ellison's side of the bed. The word mound told me how it got there.
'Why a mound?' Chet asked me.
'He knelt down to look at Mrs. Ellison before he attacked-one knee up, one down. The sand came out when his cuff emptied.'
'How did it get into his cuff to begin with?'
'The beach. It's beach sand, right?'
'Correct.'
Chester's next finding was contrary to what Kim had described, though her mistake was understandable. The murder weapon was not a baseball bat at all, but a heavy length relatively soft steel alloy, commonly used to make standard irrigation pipe. Yee had found microscopic shards of the metal in the skulls of Mr. Ellison, both Wynn adults, and Sid Fernande He found no wood or aluminum that would indicate a sporting bat. From the relatively controlled fury that the Eye had employed on his first three victims-the Fernandezes and Cedrick Ellison-Yee had been able to establish that one end of the pipe was fitted with what was probably a standard threaded cap, giving the weapon a rounded rather than a sharp edge. 'I suspect that the other end is capped also,' said Chet, 'Or at least drilled.'
I waited, as did Karen. Chet had the same smug, almost flirtatious look that he always got when he'd made a tough leap and landed squarely.
'Picture this,' Chet continued. 'He must find a way in the homes. In the Fernandez apartment, he was lucky and used an open door. At the Ellisons', he climbed through a window At the Wynns', he cut a five-foot slot through the screen-door mesh and slipped through it. We must assume he arrived at all three scenes by car or motorcycle- surely he can't cover so much of the county by foot and not be noticed-so in each case he must've walked from the vehicle to the home.'
I waited again.
'Where does he keep a two-to three-foot-long, one-and a-half-inch-diameter-I would guess-club? Does he waste free hand on it? Does he risk being seen holding it as he approaches the scene? No. He fits one end with a loop. Leather or maybe thick twine, even a strip of cloth. He cinches the knot up against the cap, or maybe he's drilled a hole for it-remember, this pipe is manufactured to be relatively soft and rust resistant because it's often buried. The loop goes over his left shoulder, leaving the weapon to lie against his side. It's hidden, out of the way, but quickly accessible.'
'Raskolnikov's MO,' I said.
Karen frowned.
'Yes,' said Chet. 'He's taken the page from Dostoyevski, although I doubt he's read Crime and Punishment.'
'How do you know what he reads?' Karen asked.
'Nobody who misspells hypocrite or ignorance reads the masters,' I said maybe a little snottily. I was hoping to buy Karen's kindness with forensic competence, but the tone of voice came out wrong. She colored and looked away from me.
Chet gave me a very odd look at that moment but nodded, first to me, then to Karen, then studied me again. 'Yes.'
'Nice, Chet, but a yard-long pipe dangling from a man's shoulder isn't exactly hidden,' Karen said.
'That is correct. And that is why, as Kim told Russell, the Midnight Eye wears the green robe.'
The green robe turned out to be a blanket-an inexpensive acrylic blanket, fibers from which Chester had already placed at all three scenes. It was likely old. It was very dirty. Fibers of it were found at the Wynns', mixed with decomposed granite and beach sand just inside and to the left of the master suite's door.
'Holding a blanket around you still takes a free hand,' I said. 'If you're going to keep it over your shoulders.'
'He takes it off once he's inside-the CS team found the fibers tightly grouped in all three scenes. He has set down the blanket, in each case, just inside the bedroom door, always on the left, using his freer right hand to slip it down and off.'
'Like taking off his warm-up jacket,' said Karen. 'I wonder if he uses pine tar on his club, for a better grip.'
'No evidence of pine tar, Karen. But I had Evidence send up the Wynns' screen door this afternoon, for a closer look the cut. The jagged ends of the mesh were rich with green acrylic fiber-the top, where his shoulders went through, and the bottorn, too, where the blanket dragged across.'
Karen looked at me a little wearily. 'Nothing on the blanket, Russ. It's too easy to ditch and get another. Winters said okay on physical description and method of entry only.'
Chester coughed quietly. 'I would not release information on his facial hair, for roughly the same reason, Karen. A man with a full beard is much easier to spot than one who is clean shaven.'
'Too late, Chet. We're going with the picture.'
Chester shrugged.
Karen hesitated for a moment. A flutter of confusion crossed her eyes. It was then that I realized she was truly making the calls for me, that for all her carping about Winters this and Dan that, Karen Schultz herself was in charge of me and what I wrote. That's why she'd been sitting on me so hard. A mistake was hers and hers alone.
Chet coughed again, cupping his hand to his mouth. It struck me as a little nervous. I assumed he was plugged into Karen's distress at my presence.
'We know he carries a knife-short-bladed, and I would guess a substantial handle for… leverage. It is likely a hunting knife, or one for skinning. So,' he said. 'That is the picture I've drawn for you. What do you see?'
I gathered my thoughts for a long moment, drawing Chester's images and information, extrapolating what I could, trying to let a coherent whole emerge. 'A beach bum. One of the homeless you find in beach cities. He's got long hair and beard because he can't afford to have them cut. He wears blanket for warmth, and to hide the club. He spends his time at the beach because it's free, he can panhandle, use the public rest rooms, check the dumpsters for edible trash, steal from the tourists. On the tapes he made, I heard waves in the background, and voices. He hangs out at a place where the cops are halfway lenient, where other homeless people congregate-no use standing out, and at six two he's not exactly inconspicuous to start with. Venice Beach is a possibility, but it's too far north. The cops would run him out of Huntington or Newport, so Laguna is the best bet. I'd look for him in Laguna. He steals cars to get around because he's too poor to afford one of his own. He gets them in Laguna, leaves them there when he's done. You'd find beach sand in the floor mats, green acrylic fiber on the upholstery, and if you were lucky, Chet's mystery polymer on the headrests. He's a Rastafarian-or thinks he is-from all the Jah shit he paints all over the walls. Rastas smoke a lot of dope-it's part of their religion-so I'd expect him to be around the smoke. Again, he can't buy it, not much of it, so he hangs with people who supply him. We know he's got access to a tape recorder, so I'd guess he stole it from a tourist who was out in the water, not looking after his things. He's either got a speech impediment or he's heavily under the influence when he makes the tapes-maybe both. Epilepsy is possible. We could figure out only half of what he said, and that didn't make a lot of sense. Last, I'd say he's pretty smart. He wears gloves, hides a three-foot steel club under his blanket. He's brave and he's getting braver. First, two people alone in an unlocked apartment, then a couple in a locked house, then a family of four. He won't stop because the more he kills, the hungrier he is for more. There's no sexual turn-on for him in it; he does it because he thinks he has to. Probably hears God-Jah-telling him he has to do this shit. Maybe that's who's talking on the tapes. That's what I see.'
Chet said nothing for a moment, then finally looked Karen. She had her back to us, staring out the vertical slot window that constituted-twelve hours a day-Chet Singer view of the outside world.
'Good,' said Chet. 'I understand you have actually talk to him.'
