the victim’s palms. Your sister was one slash ten, Cuthburt was two slash ten, and Fiorio is three slash ten.”
She crossed her arms and asked, “Why didn’t you tell us this before?”
He shrugged, but to be clear on this point, I asked, “He’s numbering them?”
“Yeah. Also, he’s whackin’ the donkey on them.”
Janet gave Spinelli a stern look and asked, “On Lisa, too?”
“On yer sister’s trouser leg, we found sperm. But we got a big problem… and you won’t be hearin’ this one on the news.”
“Go on.”
“The DNA’s different.”
“Different?… explain different. ”
“Hey, I know. Weird.” He added, “The sperm on Captain Morrow don’t match the sperm on Cuthburt. And there’s sperm on Fiorio’s leg, too. We’ll know by tomorrow whether it matches the sperm on yer sister or Cuthburt. But right now, we’re assuming we got a pair of idiots.”
Janet pondered this a moment, then said, “That doesn’t make sense, Danny. The profiles for serial sex killers point to loners and social misfits. They regard these events as very intimate.”
“I read the trade manuals. But it is what is.”
She asked, “Any pubic hair at either scene?”
“Only the victim’s.”
She was shaking her head. “That doesn’t make sense either.”
“Tell me about it.”
I suggested, “Unless the killers, you know, shave.”
Spinelli gave me a startled look. “Yeah. We hadn’t thought of that, you know, guys shaving down there. I mean, what kind of guy… ?”
I walked around a moment, trying to think about this newest development. I said to both of them, “So the killer knew Fiorio had this big event last night, like maybe it was publicized ahead of time?” Spinelli confirmed this with a nod, so I continued, “He probably tracked Fiorio for a few days and learned that she used a limo service. He waited outside her studio until the limo pulled up.”
Spinelli pointed at a spot between his eyes and informed us, “Martinez got there about thirty minutes ahead of schedule, called his dispatcher, and waited a block or two from the studio. Our guess is the killer walked right up to the car window, like he needed directions or a light, and Martinez, not knowing any better, opened it. Probably the gun was silenced. The powder burns on Martinez’s forehead indicate it was fired about three inches away. The barrel was pointed downward, like Martinez was looking up, and the killer wanted the bullet to go straight down the throat and into his chest cavity, but not exit, you know, so it didn’t leave a big mess Fiorio might notice when she got in. He even slapped a piece of electric tape over the hole, to keep blood from seeping out.”
“The type of pistol?”
“From the hole under the tape, we’re estimating a forty-five.”
“At point-blank range, directed straight down?”
“Right.”
“Expert technique and expert choice of weapon. The slow velocity and large caliber assures catastrophic damage. Probably used a soft bullet, so it didn’t ricochet off any bones, exit his body, and create a big mess.” He nodded as I added, “He probably held the door as she got in the car.” I asked, “Time of death, around nine, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And we saw what they did during their two hours together.”
Janet considered this, then suggested, “He apparently likes to get to know his victim. Or he likes his victim to get to know him.”
Spinelli said, “Different things.”
“Yes, they are… and I’d guess the latter,” Janet replied. “That he ejaculates afterward indicates… what?” She considered her own question, then said, “Cuthburt and Fiorio were bound and tortured. God knows what he intended for Lisa, probably some variation of that treatment. He breaks their necks because it’s manual, personal
… the final domination. The climax must come right after he kills them. He never got to torture Lisa, and he still ejaculated.”
“You keep saying he,” Spinelli noted. “You doubt there’s two of them?”
“I definitely do doubt it.”
“Explain the DNA difference.”
“I can’t. But the whole act fits the silhouette and pattern of a killer who operates alone. The domination, time spent with the victim, the sexual release afterward, everything.”
He said, “Maybe two assholes formed some kind of bond. They coordinate, but act separately.”
She was shaking her head. “What are the odds of two of these maniacs getting together?”
He said, “Well, the FBI’s got a coupla their profilers studying this thing. We’ll have an assessment from the pros tonight.”
I said to Spinelli, “Anything else?”
He regarded us closely, apparently concluded we were lost causes, yet could not resist one more shot. He said, “Yeah. If either one of you’s holdin’ back on me, I swear I’ll fry your balls.”
I nodded, then escorted Janet back to my car. Oddly enough, my respect for Spinelli was growing. Respect; not affection. Cops are trained to analyze the facts and reach conclusions. But the really good ones have a nose for the invisible and a sort of intuition about people, and Spinelli was right-Janet was withholding something.
But not only from him. And I’d had enough.
CHAPTER TWENTY
He fingered the photograph of Anne Elizabeth Carrol even as he maintained a studious ear on the television coverage of Carolyn Fiorio’s gruesome murder.
The coverage was pleasingly pervasive: constant chatter on the news channels; a jarring succession of those pesky special reports everywhere else. Cold shock was the general mood. Every station made note of the awful irony that mere minutes before her appalling death Fiorio had taken a bold stand against the death penalty. Two stations promised instantaneous documentaries that night on her life and many impressive accomplishments. The one at 9:00 P.M. sounded more intriguing and he made a mental note to catch it. He had been using the remote to switch back and forth. His thumb eventually got so damned tired that he settled on CNN for its fifteen-minute updates.
The FBI Director had looked huffy and pink as he had galloped through the crime scene, preening for the cameras and struggling to create the impression that he and his Feds would nip this nasty thing in the bud.
Pictures of that long black limo had been shown from every conceivable angle and direction. Knowing the cargo made it appear gloomy and funereal. The local limo companies were about to encounter a cruel drop in business, he was willing to bet. The news helicopters circled overhead, mechanical vultures that showed shot after shot of cops milling around, jotting notes, taking foot imprints, stuffing their heads inside the limo, trying futilely not to look as generally befuddled as he was confident they were.
It didn’t help matters any when the FBI rolled out that smooth-tongued devil to spin the story. Hilarious really, watching him wriggle and squirm. He looked like he’d been kicked in the ribs when the reporters from NBC and CBS assaulted him with insights they just weren’t supposed to know. The FBI spokesman had finally seen it was a lost cause and fled from their incessant cameras and piercing voices.
The journalists were infuriated and emotional. Fiorio was one of their own and had died cruelly. A journalist gets it and the damned apocalypse has arrived. The bunch of phonies. More than a few were calling their agents and begging for a chance to fill her spot, dreaming of that six-million contract. Damned shame what happened to poor old Carolyn Fiorio, but hey, the world must go on.
The face he was looking for popped onto the screen and he jerked the volume back up. Jerry Rosen, CNN’s
