Fedderman pressed TALK. If the call was one he didn’t want Penny to overhear, he was ready to remove his napkin from his lap and stand up from the table.
But it was Quinn who did most of the talking, and the call promised to be brief: “We’ve got another Skinner victim, Feds. Woman named Judith Blaney.” He gave Fedderman Blaney’s address.”
“On my way.”
After breaking the connection and slipping the phone back in his pocket, Fedderman said, “That’s something that hasn’t changed about police work. We get a call, day or night, and we have to respond.” He reached across the table with his right hand and stroked the back of Penny’s hand, so delicate and smooth. “I’m sorry.”
“We both are,” she said. “But I understand.”
Fedderman noticed that his right shirt cuff was unbuttoned. He raised his arm to fasten it, at the same time waggling a finger to summon their waiter.
“I’ll put you in a cab, then I’ll have to drive cross-town,” he told Penny. He’d driven them to the restaurant in the unmarked and had it parked outside near a fire hydrant.
The waiter arrived with the check and surveyed their half-eaten food. “Wanna box?” he asked.
Fedderman, who’d planned on spending the evening with Penny in her apartment and wanted to punch someone, felt like telling him yes, he did want to box, but instead declined.
Penny accepted the waiter’s offer, but she had in mind angel-hair pasta rather than pugilism.
44
When he glanced across the room, over what was left of Judith Blaney, Quinn saw Fedderman enter the apartment. Fedderman had his designer suit on, causing a few of the uniformed cops and white-clad techs to regard him with new respect. Maybe Fedderman had been elevated to their superior in some way they didn’t yet know.
It was a good thing the victim’s apartment was spacious. Vitali and Mishkin were also there, along with Pearl. Nancy Weaver, in plain clothes, was also there, and nodded to Fedderman, or to the suit. Nift was at work on the body. The techs were doing the dance of white gloves. The two uniformed cops who’d taken the squeal stood near the door, controlling entrance and egress. They were Bob Stanze and Paul Goldak, two of the NYPD’s best. Fedderman wondered if they’d just happened to take the call or they were there by design because Judith Blaney was somebody important. The apartment was big and in an expensive neighborhood-but not that expensive for Manhattan.
“Was she queen of something?” Fedderman asked Stanze, as the handsome young cop moved to block the entrance again.
“Office manager for Bleaker and Sunshine, Mad Avenue ad agency.”
Fedderman must have looked blank.
“You know, the talking goose?” Stanze said.
“Oh, yeah. The Southern Morgan Bank commercials.”
“Blaney must have known everything the goose was gonna say,” Goldak said. He was a small man with a big heart, and a kidder. It was impossible to know if he was joking or suggesting a possible motive.
Quinn, wondering what they were talking about, motioned Fedderman over.
“What was that all about, Feds?”
“Talking goose.”
Quinn felt like sighing. Did talent for detective work come with a skewed view of the world?
Like the killer’s?
“Lots of artistic blade work this time,” Quinn said, gazing again at the victim.
The silver letter S and its chain were draped across Judith Blaney’s forehead and open eyes instead of looped around her neck and resting on her chest and breasts, as with the previous victims. Part of the reason was that the Skinner had removed both breasts and tucked each neatly in its corresponding armpit. The usual shreds of flesh were there, barely still attached to the rest of the body. This time there were also intricate, curving cuts. Designs. Then the wild stabbing and slashing of the abdomen and pubic area. A waddedpanties gag lay near the victim, presumably removed by Nift, and her mouth was open, clogged with blood that had welled up from her throat instead of a scream.
“No shoe in the mouth this time,” Nift said, “like with the last victim.”
“Same killer, though,” Quinn said. “He’s just trying to throw shit in the game. They do that sometimes.”
“Or he might not have found a shoe he liked,” Fedderman said. “One that would make a good unicorn horn-if that’s what it was supposed to be.”
Nift nudged Judith’s hair aside, and for the first time Quinn noticed something white stuffed in her ear. “What’s that?”
“Cigarette butt,” Nift said. “He extinguished a cigarette in each ear. Looks as if it happened some time before her death.”
“Mother of God!” said one of the techs, who’d overheard.
“Hardly.” Weaver’s voice.
“Anybody make anything out of those carved designs or symbols?” Quinn asked.
“Just that the Skinner’s a head case,” Vitali rasped.
“The letter S seems to turn up several times,” Weaver said, “but that could be because the Skinner just liked to make wavy cuts with his knife.”
“Or because you’re looking for them,” Quinn said.
“They could have some sort of religious significance,” Pearl said. “The necklaces with the letter S, for Satan.” She thought for a moment. “Or for sacrificial goat. Remember the victim with the high heel taped to her head to look like a horn.”
Weaver ignored Pearl’s brainstorming other than to give a disbelieving little “Hmph.” Quinn could see that Pearl didn’t like that. He reminded himself again to keep these two separate as much as possible. Not easy to do, since Weaver was Renz’s liaison officer.
Screw them! Quinn thought. If they couldn’t get over their petty disagreements and do their jobs, they could take a walk.
Of course, he had to live with Pearl.
Wanted to, anyway.
Pearl might have been right about Weaver imagining her own letters on what were random carvings. There seemed nothing significant in the almost elegant cuts other than that the killer was having his grotesque version of fun.
“Did the same knife do the carving that did the rest of the work?” Quinn asked Nift.
The little ME with the Napoleon haircut squatted with his head bowed for a few seconds, pondering. “Yes. I think we can assume the same knife did all the cutting, including the removal of the breasts. And the nipples. Which are, incidentally, beneath the breasts.”
Nift stood up and puffed out his chest. Quinn thought he might have actually slipped his fingers inside his shirt a la the famous Napoleon portrait, but for the bloody gloves. “Odd thing about this one. The hate is there. The passion. But there’s also a kind of wild exuberance in the random, swerving cutting on the body. More as if the killer was entertaining himself instead of grimly exercising vengeance. And those aren’t deep cuts. She was alive and watching and feeling when those were happening. How the Skinner must have enjoyed it!”
Quinn turned away and exchanged glances with Pearl. Nift sounded exuberant himself, and it was sickening.
“When are they gonna-” Pearl began, but Quinn raised a hand to silence her, then led her away.
“I was just wondering when that little prick will finally be fired,” Pearl whispered to Quinn.
“He’s a city employee,” Quinn said, “and he knows the secrets of the dead.” He gave her shoulder a slight squeeze to make sure he had her attention. “He’s our colleague.”
Pearl said something about lying down with dogs and wandered away. Quinn could tell she was seething.
