rug out of here. You got that?”
“ I'm on it, Captain.”
Rychman recalled what Darius had said about finding several unusual fibers matted in the old woman's blood. It was like two puzzle pieces had just gone neatly into place, and it gave Alan Rychman a minor feeling of hope.
“ And where the hell's Dr. Archer?” he bellowed as Lou started out.
Archer showed up in the doorway at the same moment. “Sorry, but that driver I got was timid about getting here.”
Rychman nodded, knowing full-well that anytime a coroner was called out, he had to be escorted by an officer who also escorted the M.E. and his findings back to the morgue. No one was above suspicion when it came to evidence in a murder case, so there were formal rules of conduct for everyone on the crime scene, thanks mainly to Dr. Darius.
“ You can get out of here for now,” Rychman told the superintendent. “It's all yours, Dr. Archer.”
“ Sorry I couldn't locate Darius for you, but I think the all-nighter took a lot out of him. Heard he was recuperating with orders not to be disturbed. He'll likely be back at the lab later. Leastways, that's what I was told.”
Archer's voice held a subtle edge. He probably felt he should have handled the scene at Scarsdale. Alan knew Archer was in line for Darius' job if and when Darius finally called it quits.
“ Well, we're glad to have you here, Doc.” Alan tried to reassure him. “Anybody but Perkins, I always say.”
“ High praise,” joked Archer. He got down to business, opening his black bag and taking blood scrapings, searching for fibers, fingerprints, hairs, anything he could bag up for microscopic analysis back at his lab.
Rychman took this opportunity to investigate the room further, careful to steer clear of where Archer painstakingly worked. Rychman stared at Mrs. Phillips' card table and single chair, wondering what had happened between her and her long-ago husband; what had driven them apart and left her alone. Fights, money, drugs, lust, dishonesty, divorce or death? Life was brutal. He parted a curtain that acted as a divider and saw an alcove being used as a bedroom. A single bed with neatly tucked corners stared back at him, apparently untouched by the murderer.
Rychman searched the coverlet for any tell-tale signs, and when he saw what might be a stain, he got excited.
He called Archer in to look at the stain. Archer was skeptical, but he took a pair of scissors and cut around the stain, giving it wide berth, then placed the tiny patch of cloth into a specimen envelope to examine closely later. “Nothing's getting by me,” muttered Archer, “but don't hold your breath on this one, Captain.”
“ Understood.”
“ Still, you've got a good eye for this kind of work.”
“ I've had enough experience, God help me.”
Rychman continued his tour of the little apartment. Yellowed plaster on the walls was crisscrossed by occasional cracks, apparently painted over at some time only to return to haunt the occupant. The small icebox sat like a silent sentinel over the horror that had occurred here, atop it another photo of the woman's so-called daughter, herself at a young age. Wedged between the comer and the wall was a bag of bird feed, half-empty. Rychman saw a roach peeking from around the bag, and its antennae twitching nervously and avoiding any contact with the blood of the victim, as it made its determined way into the shadows.
Rychman knew from experience that a body-whether fit or frail-was heavy and cumbersome. The super's missing rug likely meant that Mrs. Phillips had been concealed within and carried down the back steps and into the darkness; in fact, a blood trail indicated as much. Did the killer have help in transporting the body? He speculated on the probables here. It seemed more tantalizing than ever to adopt Jessica Coran's idea that the ungodly work of the Claw could well be the work of a pair of killers, especially since the madman's handiwork had taken on this added dimension of two victims in a single night. The creeping notion of an innocent-looking decoy entered Rychman's thinking, a dupe who might do the Claw's bidding, someone he could control, and someone who presented no threat to others, someone Mrs. Phillips and Mrs. Olin might, without fear, open their doors to.
“ Christ,” he muttered to himself, “maybe Jessica's theory has merit.” The hypothesis was tempting for another reason: if his detectives accepted the supposition, they could narrow the field, focusing on criminals known to have worked in tandem before. He'd give it more thought, talk to Jessica again, and perhaps at the next task- force meeting, which had now been postponed until tomorrow morning at 6 A.M., he'd pursue it.
While teams of detectives scoured the neighborhood, he and Lou Pierce found a nearby diner and ordered up breakfasts. Just as the steaming second cup of coffee, their bacon and eggs with toast and jelly arrived, so did the TV and radio reporters. It was already a long day.?
Thirteen
Jessica Coran and Dr. Luther Darius had enjoyed a peaceful breakfast. Darius had shut off his beeper, as was his habit when he had had enough. He'd announced the fact with a mischievous grin. While they'd eaten, they'd been treated to a delightful sunrise in New York Harbor where the tugboats bellowed out their intentions and large freighters and cruise ships were assembled below the watching eyes of thousands of sea gulls.
As they walked back to the lab, their heads cleared of the spider webs that had accumulated from lack of sleep. Each was anxious to get deeply involved in the forensics information they had gathered, and Jessica was particularly interested in hearing from J.T. in Quantico.
They spoke of many things, but the conversation somehow worked its way back to Darius' physical condition and his present situation with the coroner's office.
“ They're shopping around for a replacement, but haven't done so well. Who wants the headaches? I gave it the best years of my life, and what happens? The moment I have a bit of a health problem, they want to discard me like yesterday's newspaper.”
“ I'd say a stroke is more than a little health problem, Doctor.”
He frowned. “It was a small stroke.”
“ And now they've asked you to return?”
“ Until they can find a suitable replacement.”
“ No one could replace you.”
“ We're all expendable, Dr. Coran, believe me.”
She knew what he meant. She felt her relationship with her own superiors was shaky and she mentioned this. Then you have some idea how they can make an old man feel.”
They spoke no more, simply enjoying the walk and the company.
When they arrived at the lab, they found the place buzzing and learned the search for them had been on. Apparently the police had located and entered the apartment of the elderly woman, and it was clear that she had been killed by the Claw in her Brooklyn apartment-miles from Scarsdale.
“ I want to get out there,” she told Dr. Darius.
“ Archer is there; he will do a fine job. You should get to work here.”
She took a deep breath, considering this. “Perhaps you're right.”
He smiled. “I am right. I am always right.”
A few hours later Jessica stopped work and went to the telephone in the office that was temporarily hers. She dialed FBI headquarters in Quantico. Her assistant, J.T., came on with a glum tone, and after the amenities, she asked him what was wrong.
“ I got back this morning and found your first-priority case was back-shelved.”
“ What?”
“ I had Glenn working on the materials you forwarded, thought all was going well, and then found out O'Rourke ordered him off it and onto something she called more pressing.”
“ God damn her. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear she was trying to drive me out. Undermining every damned thing I do, lately.”
