The manner and style of her death, however, comported with the little I understood about serial killers who actually prey on complete strangers, and the whole concept of murder as something ritualized, personalized, and even illogical. Also Lisa had the kind of fetching looks that stand out from the crowd, and the more I thought about it, the more sense it made. She was a poster child for serial killers and their odd hungers-attractive single women who travel alone, live alone, shop alone, all of which left them available to be raped and die alone.
“All right, I see it,” I informed him. “But it needs refinement.”
“How’s that?”
“You didn’t know the victim. I did. Lisa was a champion runner. Also, she was very smart and alert, not the type to let down her guard. How did he get close enough? How did he keep her from bolting?”
He suggested, “She trusted him.”
We both considered this a moment. I suggested, “Maybe he wore a uniform.”
“Maybe.”
Well, I suppose neither of us wanted to stipulate the next ugly stride in that progression. The military uniform, particularly an officer’s uniform, inspires trust and respect. Fellow officers, like Lisa, regard it as an emblem of comradeship and brotherhood. Even civilians, like Julia Cuthburt, consider it a mark of virtue, integrity, and professionalism. But what is true for military uniforms holds water in varying degrees for other uniforms, including cops, FedEx employees, and garbagemen. A uniform signifies membership in an organization, which implies selectivity and screening, all of which confers trust, or, at least, familiarity and acceptance.
“Have you talked to her sister yet?” I asked him.
“I intend to,” he replied. “I was wonderin’ if you knew how to find her.”
I checked my watch. “I’m supposed to meet her in thirty minutes. Come along, if you wish.”
I offered only to be polite. But the rotten bastard took me up on it. We drove in silence because the only question I could think to ask was how he became such an asshole. If I asked, he might answer.
Janet was waiting in front of the hotel, a convenience I appreciated greatly as it saved me a six-dollar parking fee. And while I was working in a rich firm, driving rich, and even dressing rich, I was all wrapping without the flavor.
Surmise from this that I had decided to remain with the cut-throats of Culper, Hutch, and Westin a while longer. I wanted to pursue Lisa’s killer, and if I was ejected for misbehavior, Clapper would banish me to a job that sucked, in a place that sucked, two commodities the Army has no shortage of. Regarding the firm, handling a few protests couldn’t be that time-consuming, and anyway, Barry and Sally would shove shivs in each other’s backs to solve Jason’s crisis, and battle for credit, partnership, and a cut of the annual take. Sly little Sean would coast on their coattails right to the finish line.
Also, I was getting a lot of compliments on my new wardrobe.
Anyway, Janet peeked in the car, saw Spinelli, and climbed into the backseat. As though they were lifelong pals, she said, “Hi, Danny. How are you?”
He grinned. “Busy as shit. We got a new development on your sister.”
He then proceeded to detail the particulars and question her on the newest deceased-Janet replied that she had never heard of Miss Julia Cuthburt, but yes, the connection to her sister’s death appeared both plausible and taunting.
Then Spinelli turned his eyes back to me and asked, “Remember that asshole Martin you met in the parking lot?”
“An asshole in the parking lot?” I looked at him. “Oh… yeah. I’m sure his name wasn’t Martin, though.”
He mumbled something under his breath that wasn’t very clear. He then said, “He wants words with you. You know the way to the Alexandria station?”
I did. And the drive over was fairly pleasant, as Janet kept Spinelli occupied, chatting about his life as a CID agent, him boasting about how many bad guys he’d busted and bagged, her filling his ears with admiring things that fed the little prick’s ego.
Incidentally, I lied about the drive being pleasant.
However, it was both illuminating and edifying to watch a pro at work-her, I mean. It is not uncommon for runts, or, these days, altitudinally challenged males, to develop ego complexes, from insecurity to Napoleonic. Clearly Spinelli’s I-love-me wall intimated a man who landed somewhere along that spectrum. I had the sense that Miss Morrow had given him some thought after our first testy session, and settled on a strategy to win his heart and mind. I love scheming, manipulative women, incidentally. And, again, she had great legs.
Anyway, we finally arrived, and Spinelli seemed to know his way around the police station. We ended up inside a big room that looked just like a detective office, with about twenty wooden desks, half of which were manned by guys, some of whom were interviewing people, some of whom were talking on the phone, and some of whom were eating bag dinners.
I pointed out to Spinelli that there were no donuts anywhere in sight, and perhaps we’d come to the wrong place. He didn’t think that was funny. Perhaps it wasn’t.
We entered a glass-enclosed office in the rear of the room, and Lieutenant Martin shooed out two detectives. Spinelli and he eyed each other apprehensively a moment, as Martin pointedly said to me, “Major
… good to see you again. And you must be Miss Morrow?”
“Janet, please.” She handed him her card, which he quickly read and then stuffed into a pocket.
He then asked if we knew why we were there. We indicated we did, so he said, “Okay, good. Please, everybody be seated.” He lifted a photograph off his desk and handed it to Spinelli, who handed it to me, who, after a quick peek, handed it to Janet. She handed it to nobody, but studied it intently for nearly half a minute. Her eyes narrowed, but to the best I could tell, she was emotionally detached. I hadn’t expected her to vomit or anything, but a slight groan or twitch of disgust would’ve been in order.
The photo-black-and-white, a naked corpse resting on her elbows and knees with her bare rump up in the air, hands and feet trussed together, head turned gruesomely back so that her face actually peered over her right shoulder. The floor beneath her was carpeted, and a side table with a stack of magazines was beside her body. This was obviously not the position in which Miss Cuthburt had been murdered, and it occurred to me again that her corpse had been posed in this obscene manner by her killer, an in-your-face message to the police, a vicarious way of shooting the moon. The victim herself-brunette, young, bruised in a number of places, and her facial expression was a study in terror.
“I don’t know her,” Janet informed Lieutenant Martin. She tossed the photo back on his desk.
I said, “Likewise.”
“Please take another look.” He handed us another picture, a color shot, enclosed in a brass frame, showing a young lady in a graduation gown, gripping a diploma, standing between a Mom and Pop bursting with pride and hope. Martin had filched it from Miss Cuthburt’s apartment, obviously. But who cared? She didn’t.
Not a knockout, but Julia Cuthburt had been pretty enough, slender, creamy-skinned, though a bit dreamy and gullible-looking in my view. She had that fresh-off-the-farm look pimps hunt for in young runaways at bus stations, and the next stop was a nightmare. Why is it a look of innocence is nearly always an invitation to evil?
“No, I don’t know her,” Janet informed Martin, and I nodded likewise.
Martin said, “Well, I apologize for dragging you in here. And for this.” He indicated the police photo, and added, “I had to be sure.”
“It’s not an inconvenience,” Janet replied. “I’m here to help in any way I can. When was she killed?”
“Approximately nine o’clock last night.” He stared down at Miss Cuthburt’s photograph. “She was having plumbing problems, and her landlord let himself into her apartment this morning.”
Janet suggested to him, “Implying the killer knew where she lived. Just as he knew Lisa’s car?”
“Don’t assume it’s the same killer.”
“But you obviously think it’s the same man?”
“Don’t stretch the similarities.” He sighed, rubbed his forehead, and insisted, “ Any conclusions would be premature at this point.”
Which was copspeak for, Yes, same guy. Martin struck me as decent and honest, and his studied reticence, or, in civilian parlance, his bald-faced lie, was understandable. If the general public learned a murderous sex maniac was on the loose, his job would get a hundred times harder.
“Evidence in her apartment?” Janet asked.
“That’s the odd thing,” Martin commented. “He cleaned up after himself. He wiped down the tables and even
