object. There was also a stab wound in the left upper thigh, and we all could guess what it contained.
Other than that, there were few similarities to the other victims. She had ligature marks on her wrists and ankles, but the body bore no evidence of torture. The others hadn't been hacked up like this. The method of disposal was different. The killer had completely changed his MO. The million-dollar question was, Why?
My concentration was shattered by a knock at the door. It was a bony little man wearing a brown bow tie and matching sweater vest. He had fair blond hair balanced delicately on an ovalish skull. Tiny eyes were distorted behind thick glasses, and a thin mustache rested on his lip like a string of uneaten spaghetti.
'Detective Daniels?'
'Lieutenant. That's Detective Herb Benedict.'
He came in without being asked. 'I'm Dr. Francis Mulrooney.'
'Congratulations,' I said.
He stood there, expecting more. 'The handwriting expert?' He flashed a grin. I held my applause and picked up the phone.
'Hello, Bill? Jack. Can you have someone run up the notes from the Jane Does? Thanks.'
I motioned for Francis to have a seat, and Herb scooted his bulk to the side to let him near the desk.
'So far on the case we've --'
Mulrooney held out his palm. 'Don't tell me. I don't want to know anything until I've seen the samples. It could influence my judgment.'
I gave Herb a look. He returned it. The FBI was bad enough. Why not just go medieval and hire a phrenologist?
'It's always exciting to work with the police.' Mulrooney grinned. His teeth were uneven. 'Is this a forgery case? Never mind, don't tell me. I'd rather see if I can figure it out. Forgery fascinates me. You see, handwriting is like fingerprints, and no two samples are exactly the same. But it's also a window into the part of the brain that understands and comprehends language. Your signature changes, for example, when you're under stress or if you succumb to mental problems. So, is this a forgery case?'
A uniform walked in, carrying the notes. The first two were in cellophane envelopes, each stained murky brown with dried blood. The third was sandwiched in an old encyclopedia.
'We store it in a book in the freezer,' I told Mulrooney. 'The cold takes away all the moisture without ruining the physical evidence. If we let the blood dry naturally, the paper will begin to rot.'
All the color drained from Mulrooney's face, making his thin blond mustache appear translucent.
'Excuse me a second.' He stood and bolted for the door. The uniform shrugged and followed him out.
'Think he'll be back?' Herb asked.
'Unfortunately.'
The pizza came, and Benedict attacked it with a ferocity often seen on PBS specials involving carnivores.
'Doesn't your tongue hurt?'
'Not so much anymore. I think eating all the time has sped up the healing process. Maybe it will work with your leg.'
Benedict offered me a slice so stacked with toppings, it had begun to topple. I declined, consuming several aspirin instead.
Our resident handwriting expert reappeared, his cockiness replaced by a serious expression.
'I apologize.' He drew his hand across his mouth. 'When I got the call I wasn't told what I'd be analyzing. Is this the Gingerbread Man case?'
'Yes.'
He sat back down, averting his gaze from the pizza Herb was devouring.
'I've read about it. Terrible. If I may?'
I offered him the notes, as well as a photocopy of the one left for the Tribune; the original was still at the lab. Mulrooney slipped on a pair of white cotton gloves. From his vest pocket he removed a leather case.
'Can I take them from the cellophane?'
I nodded, making note of it on the evidence seals. First he simply read the notes, frowning. Then he unzipped his case and removed a jeweler's loupe and some long tweezers.
I watched him work, going over the notes line by line, scribbling in a pad constantly, handling them with the utmost care and professionalism.
After about fifteen minutes, during which Herb had finished his pizza and joined in the observation, Dr. Mulrooney let out a deep breath and sat back in his chair.
'You've got one sick puppy here.' He met my gaze, intense. 'First I'll tell you what I know for sure. The same person wrote all four notes. Block printing is not as easy to analyze as script, and in court it's harder to prove, but there's enough here to be absolutely sure of it.'
'Go on.'
'He's right-handed. He clubs, which means that the ends of his pen strokes are thicker than the beginnings. That's a characteristic usually found in sadistic personalities. You can see it on the down strokes of his t, l, f, i, and on the bottoms of the y and b.'
He showed us examples. I found myself becoming interested.
