Custus's chest was a map of scars, most of them old, pink, hardened.
'Football, Australian rules,' Custus explained. 'Rough and tumble. Lots of biting, scratching and the rare but distinctive spitting. Fun for one and all.'
Custus was grinning. Hawkes didn't grin back. Custus's scars were not the result of football injuries. He'd seen these kinds of scars before.
And then Hawkes saw it. Under folds of his clinging wet shirt and a smudge of oily filth, he saw it.
'You were sitting at the bar talking to a man you had just met,' prompted Hawkes.
'Right, well- '
'Who shot you?'
'Shot me?' asked Custus.
'You've been shot,' said Hawkes. 'Don't you feel it?'
'Not really. A little stiffness there, but nothing like the heroic agony of my broken ankle. How bad is it?'
'I don't know,' said Hawkes. 'We'll get you out of here to a hospital.'
'It doesn't have to hurt to kill you,' said Custus.
'No, it doesn't,' Hawkes said, leaning over with his flashlight to examine the wound, out of which, Hawkes could now see, blood pumped steadily.
5
THE BODY OF JAMES FELDT was discovered by a woman named Annabeth Edwards. 'Discovered' might suggest that she had either stumbled upon or been searching for the body. In actuality, she couldn't miss it as she made her way through the nooks and crannies of Strutts, McClean & Berg. The door to one of the offices was open, wide open and waiting for her to push it. She did. The room was painted red with blood and the body that lay sprawled next to the desk had its pants pulled down to reveal a horror of mutilation.
To her credit, Annabeth did not drop her bag, which contained a lemon poppy muffin and a coffee sweetened with cream and three packets of Equal. Annabeth didn't recognize the man with granny glasses dangling from one ear. She'd only been at her job for two weeks. She was here on this shit of a day to make an impression, to impress any partner who might happen in, deciding that there was something in the office worth the risk of being swept away by the deluge outside.
She stood in the doorway, hands at her side, knowing enough not to go in or touch anything. It wasn't necessary to see if the man might still be alive. He obviously was not.
It struck her that whoever had done this might still be here. She stood silently, listening. Just the rain pounding against the blood-streaked window over the head of the dead man.
'This is what I get for being a loyal employee,' she said aloud, moving back into the reception area, placing her bag on a desk and reaching for a phone.
Then, and only then, did she remember the man in the downstairs lobby who, head down, had walked out as she had come in. Their eyes had met. He had nodded. So had she.
Annabeth took out her cell phone and made the call. The woman at 911 took it, forwarded it. A pair of uniforms who were on their fourteenth hour on the job threw away their cups of coffee and drove the six blocks to the scene of the crime.
The report of the killing reached the computer screen at CSI headquarters about an hour after Annabeth Edwards had called it in.
'Look at this,' Mac said.
Flack looked over his shoulder at the screen.
''Genital mutilation,'' Flack read.
'Like Patricia Mycrant,' said Mac.
'A stretch. Someone murders a woman on a rooftop on Eighty-second and then runs to an office building in midtown to carve up a guy in an office?'
'I've got a feeling,' said Mac, sitting back.
'Me too. I've got a feeling we're on our way to look at a dead man.'
James Tuvekian, whose father was a neurosurgeon, was tall and almost anorexically thin. He sat in the dining hall of the Wallen School, wearing khakis and a tan-and-yellow striped button-down polo shirt and a smile. Not a smirk, not a smile of amusement, but the smile of someone who had learned to wear a mask.
'What did you see, James?' Danny asked.
James pursed his lips and shrugged. 'You mean in Mr. Havel's classroom?'
'No, at the movies last night,' said Danny.
'Not funny,' said James.
'Not funny,' Danny agreed.
'What did I see? Nothing. Mr. Havel was behind the table setting something up on the microscope. We filed out. End of episode.'
'Someone killed him.'
'I heard. He let us out early.'
'Why?'
'Who knows? Maybe he wanted to play with himself. Karen Reynolds is in that class. He had a thing for her. Don't think he did anything about it, but he looked and panted.'
'What about you?'
'You mean Karen?' James said. 'I look. Who doesn't?'
'Red pencils,' said Danny, placing the red pencils on the wooden table.
'I see,' said James.
'Who uses them?'
'Mr. Havel. Anyone who wanted them, or the markers, or the highlighters, could take them.'
'Ever arm wrestle?' asked Danny.
'What for?'
'Fun.' Danny grinned and put his arm on the table.
'You are one strange cop. No, thanks.'
'You work out?'
'No.'
'Okay. Give me your hands.'
Danny checked his palms. When he was finished, James rose from his seat.
'We'll talk again,' Danny said.
'I'm looking forward to it.'
'Send Karen in when you leave,' said Danny. 'And don't talk to her.'
'I don't talk to her. She doesn't talk to me. That way our love will always be a mystery.'
''Bells Are Ringing,'' said Danny.
'You like show tunes?' said the boy.
'My musical taste is eclectic,' said Danny.
'Anything else?' asked James.
'We've got trouble right here in River City.'
'Yeah,' said the boy. 'Remember the Maine, Plymouth Rock and The Golden Rule.'
Danny adjusted his glasses and nodded as the boy left the dining hall.
As he waited for the next student, he wondered how Hawkes was doing. Stella had called and briefed him on the situation, had said the fire department had assured her they would get him out. Danny thought she had sounded less than completely confident. He'd told her to call him if she needed anything, wished he could do more.
