blood while he's…' Quinn paused and gave his cigar a George Burns look, even the faint smile. It occurred to him how good it felt to be having one of these give-and-take conversations with Fedderman again, homing in on the facts, or at least the hypothesis, and nudging ideas alive. 'No, Feds, he's got to undress. He'd be working nude, even before he drowns them. Wouldn't want to get his clothes wet. Somebody might notice when he leaves.'
Fedderman nodded. 'Shower curtain keeps whatever mess there is outside the tub contained. I'd say he opens up his victims and sits there a while and lets them bleed out in the tub, much as possible without a heartbeat, then washes the blood down the drain and begins his carving. Probably just gets residue blood on his hands and arms, maybe upper body; easy to wash off, while he's cleaning the body parts.'
'Then he cleans his tools.'
'After stacking the severed body parts in the tub.' Fedderman looked disgusted, maybe a little scared, his features as mismatched as his clothes. 'What the hell have we gotten ourselves into, Quinn?'
'Nothing we haven't been in before.'
Or is it?
'Body parts stacked exactly the same way,' Quinn said, pressing on, 'in the same order.'
'And everything washed so clean,' Fedderman said. 'Like maybe he was trying to wash away his sins.'
Take me to the river… Quinn sat back in his chair. 'It's still too early to get inside this one's head. We can't make any assumptions. Other than he's one sick cookie, and he's got a thing about brunettes.'
'Lots of us have a thing about brunettes.'
'I talked to the ME,' Quinn said. 'Near as he could make out, sharp knives, and probably a cleaver or hatchet of some kind, were used to disassemble these women. But some body parts would be too difficult to remove with a knife or cleaver. The severed large bone ends suggest a saw was used. Because of the finely serrated blade, most likely a power saw.'
'Dangerous to use one of those around water, even a portable with a battery. Might get your ass electrocuted.'
'Still, my guess is he used a portable. They're quieter. And they make them plenty powerful enough for the job now. He'd be using it after the water was gone from the tub, and most of the blood and other body fluids were drained from his victims.'
'Like in a butcher shop.' Fedderman made his disgusted face again.
'Exactly like, Feds. He did butcher them.' Quinn sighed and let his gaze roam over the photographs, statements, and reports arranged on the carpet. 'Apparently the two victims didn't know each other and had no friends or acquaintances in common.'
'That's ground we can go over again,' Fedderman said. 'They might have frequented the same bar or restaurant, shopped at the same store.'
'One lived on the East Side,' Quinn pointed out, 'one on the West.'
'They had one thing in common, anyway. The killer.'
'Yeah, they-'
The phone rang, interrupting Quinn.
He scooted with his feet so his chair rolled closer to the desk, then stretched out an arm and lifted the black plastic receiver. Said, 'Quinn.'
After a while: 'Uh-huh.' He rolled the chair even closer so he could reach a pen and make a note on a pad on the desk corner. 'You sure about the address?'
Apparently, whoever had called was sure.
'We're leaving now,' Quinn said, and hung up.
Fedderman knew better than to try a guess at what the conversation was about. Quinn was always the same on the phone, calm, almost mechanical. He'd tell Fedderman when he was ready.
'Better straighten your tie, Feds,' Quinn said, standing up from his chair. 'That was Renz. We've got a third victim, woman named Ida Ingrahm, 197 West Eighty-second Street, apartment six-B.'
Fedderman jotted down the name and address in his own note pad. 'Not far from here.' He stood up slowly, unfolding in mismatched sections, gave his tie a tug, and shrugged into his wrinkled suit coat.
He pulled down his right shirtsleeve and rebuttoned its cuff. Something about the way he wrote, or maybe the cheap shirts he wore, made his right cuff button always come undone. He was adjusting the baggy coat so his shoulder holster didn't show, when he suddenly stopped and stared at Quinn.
'You positive about that location?'
'I had Renz repeat it,' Quinn said. 'Pearl's old address.'
6
The victim's was a small, corner apartment that looked a lot neater than when Pearl had lived in it. For one thing, it was completely painted. Pearl had always been in the process of painting the place, never finishing. There were no newspapers or magazines strewn on the floor, and the furniture looked…well, arranged.
There was also a disturbing odor. Quinn had encountered it before, but not to this degree. So had Fedderman.
'Smells like a butcher shop,' Fedderman said. 'Lots of fresh blood, fresh meat.'
'He is a butcher,' Quinn said.
'A real one, maybe.'
The thought had occurred to Quinn. 'He'd have the skills, as well as the tools of his trade.'
There was a uniformed cop in the apartment, standing and staring out the window. He hadn't turned around when Quinn and Fedderman entered. Now he did. He was a middle-aged guy with a gray military haircut, his cap in his hands, over his crotch. His face was so white Quinn thought the man might faint any second. Quinn and Fedderman flashed the shields Renz had provided, and the uniform pointed toward a short hall that Quinn knew led to the bathroom and only bedroom.
'Maybe you oughta sit down,' Quinn said.
'I can stand okay,' the cop said. Point of pride.
Quinn nodded and led the way down the hall. He and Fedderman both slipped latex gloves on their hands as they walked. Quinn was a little surprised by how effortless and automatic it was, an old task still familiar.
There was no way to prepare for what was in the bathroom. In the center of the tub, Ida Ingrahm's head lay propped on its side on the stack of torso and limbs. Her damp brown hair had been smoothed back so her face was visible. Her eyes were open, darkened by blood from capillaries ruptured as she'd drowned, but they didn't so much look dead as expectant. As if she'd been waiting for somebody to come into the bathroom. Maybe Quinn and Fedderman.
'Some sight,' said a voice behind them.
Quinn turned and saw Nift from the Medical Examiner's office, not one of his favorite people. Nift was a pigeon-chested little guy with thick black hair that dangled in short bangs high on his bulging forehead. He had an imperious attitude, a smart mouth, and appeared to be strutting even when standing still. Always a meticulous dresser, he seemed to be dolling up even more for his work. Today he was wearing a black three-button suit, white shirt, and a black silk tie. Quinn thought he looked like Napoleon gussied up as a mortician.
'Some stench,' Fedderman said.
'Smells something like the morgue on a busy day,' Nift said. 'I knew you guys were on the way, so I didn't touch anything, just tippy-toed in and looked at the poor woman. I determined that she was dead.'
'Cut up like the others?' Fedderman asked.
'I wouldn't know if she had a sense of humor,' Nift said.
'I might throw you into that tub with her,' Quinn said.
Nift stared at him. 'I believe you just might, Captain.'
'Maybe you oughta give us a straight answer,' Fedderman said.
'As near as I can tell, without having moved the body parts, she seems to have been dissected in the same manner as the two previous victims. She also fits the killer's type.'
'Now you're doing detective work,' Quinn said.
