“Like we thought,” Nift said, “the murder weapon was almost surely the same knife used on the last victim. She was tortured with small, painful stab wounds, and apparently by rubbing the ends of her broken ankle bones together. Looks like the ankle was broken several days ago, then reinjured. As if he struck her with something there, maybe kicked her.”
“What about the rope and duct tape?”
“Both common brands, not traceable. The tape is probably off the same roll as last time. It appears to have been firmly sealed over her mouth all through her ordeal.”
Her silent ordeal.
Quinn thought that must have been the most terrible kind of loneliness.
“Her breasts never did turn up at the crime scene,” Nift said. “They were sliced off antemortem, as with the earlier victims. He likes his victims alive when he separates their breasts from their bodies.”
“Was it done fast or slow?”
“I can’t tell for sure, Quinn, but I can guess. So can you.”
“He’d want to take his time.”
“That’s what I’d do.”
Quinn could hardly believe what he’d just heard. But that was often the way with Nift. “Why does he want them?” Quinn asked, trying to assume the same sick mind-set as the killer’s. “What does he do with them?”
“I don’t know, but they were obviously a great set. You can easily judge by the cut patterns, and what little is left.”
“ You can tell,” Quinn said, feeling a little queasy.
“Well, I’m a professional.” Nift was silent for a moment. There was a sound as if he might be shuffling through some papers. “No indications that the victim struggled. No flesh caught beneath her nails. And there were no lacerations other than those made deliberately by the killer. Looks like she didn’t so much as scratch him.”
“That’s too bad,” Quinn said.
“No indication of recent sexual intercourse.”
“Except maybe with himself.”
“No indication of that, either. This killer is a perfectionist.” Nift said. “He leaves nothing behind he doesn’t want to leave.”
“Everybody eventually overlooks something,” Quinn said. “We just have to find it.”
“So they say on the TV cop shows.”
“And they always end well,” Quinn said.
“Sooner or later they get canceled. Tell Pearl I said hello.”
“I think not,” Quinn said, but Nift had hung up.
Over dinner in the brownstone that evening, Jody didn’t mention her conversation with her grandmother. She didn’t understand why it should be kept secret, but her grandmother had extracted a sworn oath that their conversations would remain private and special. Jody, who had never had a best friend, agreed.
She did tell Quinn and Pearl about her conversation with Joseph Coil.
They both listened attentively. Pearl speared a bite of salad and considered while she chewed and swallowed.
“What Coil told you about the total malleability of the law,” she said, after washing the salad down with a sip of wine, “is bullshit.”
“Unfortunately,” Quinn said, looking across the table at Jody, “I think Coil is right.”
Jody leaned back in her chair and sipped her wine, regarding them. The gray head of Snitch the cat became visible above tabletop level. Snitch squinted at Quinn and seemed prepared to stare him down. Quinn realized Snitch might have been in Jody’s lap all through dinner.
“You guys are a lot of help,” Jody said.
“We try,” both Quinn and Pearl said almost simultaneously.
Jody grinned. “And I appreciate it.” She sat forward again. Snitch’s head disappeared. “Do you have any more information about the vic?”
“That depends,” Quinn said, “on whether you want dessert.”
38
Leighton, Wisconsin, 1986
R ory was slouched behind the steering wheel of his mom’s Impala, about to turn onto the county road near Cheever’s Hardware, when he saw one of the posters. It was tacked to a telephone pole and headed MISSING in large black letters, and beneath that was a photo of a shaggy dog as black as the letters.
At first Rory felt no connection with the poster, so deep into a corner of his mind had he pushed the night he’d struck the dog and buried it. After putting the poor animal out of its misery, he reminded himself. The humane thing to do.
He couldn’t help it. The sequence of events that night flashed through his brain. How and why they had occurred. What they meant.
No, there was nothing he’d do differently after the car had struck the dog. His actions had been harsh but right.
A horn blasted as he almost ran a stop sign.
He felt a stab of panic. He wasn’t supposed to be in the car. If his mother for some reason left her book club and found out he’d borrowed it and was driving without a license again, she’d be plenty mad.
The man in the pickup truck that crossed the intersection ahead of him glared at Rory and gunned his engine. Rory felt no surge of anger, only worry about his mom turning up and ruining his day. But he’d already figured the odds of that happening and accepted them before getting into the car. So he stopped worrying about his mom. It wasn’t logical. He again concentrated on the dog incident.
He pulled the car to the road shoulder and put the transmission in park. He’d assumed he’d never have to think about the dog again, but obviously he did. The owner was going to be proactive.
So where does that leave me? How should I feel?
No, the question isn’t about how I feel. What should I do?
The answer came immediately: nothing.
The dog, with its head crushed by a rock, hadn’t been found (which was how he’d planned it). There would be nothing that might publicly connect the dog with him, even if it was found (which was how he’d planned it). The owner missed the dog (no surprise) and was tacking up M ISSING D OG posters all over town (should be no surprise).
Logical course of action? Forget about the dog incident again-except when you have to look at one of the damned posters.
He smiled. This new development, the possibility of which he should have foreseen, posed no danger whatsoever. His initial reasoning, and his actions, had been correct. Nothing fundamental had changed.
Rory put the Chevy in drive, glanced in the rearview mirror and then over his shoulder, and pulled the vehicle back onto the road.
He glanced at the dashboard clock. His mother’s book club would be ending in half an hour, which meant he could safely drive another twenty minutes.
He drove down High Street, in the general direction of his house. A few people were walking along the sidewalks, going in and out of the shops, despite the temperature pushing ninety.
Rory settled back into the soft upholstery and steered with one wrist draped over the wheel. The air conditioner worked well; the motor was smooth, and there were no rattles. He pressed the radio buttons until he found some rap, then turned up the volume.
And saw the girl tacking up a MISSING DOG poster.
He recognized her immediately and slowed the car, staring at the way the breeze pressed the material of her blouse and slacks against one side of her body, the way her back arched as she held the poster high with one hand
