“That would be incriminating if it’s the same one in the pictures we have,” Olivia said. “But we have more.”
“Well, let’s see if it is,” Kenny said. He got up, walked to a steel door, and unlocked two locks. He came out with a Jim Bowie replica knife wrapped in plastic film.
“We got the Mobile police lab to take prints off it this afternoon,” he said, “they’re better equipped to do that than we are. They’re also having their expert see if there’s a match between Mr. Daniels’s prints and the ones they took off this.”
He unwrapped the Jim Bowie replica as Matt opened his laptop and turned it on.
“Well, what you have here is a big knife that looks just like the big knife in the picture,” Sergeant Kenny said. “I don’t suppose they made more than five or ten thousand knives just like this.”
“In the photo, Sergeant,” Olivia said, “those… spots, I suppose is the word… on the blade are sperm. We can make a DNA comparison.”
He looked at her for a long moment but said nothing.
“Was there a camera, Sergeant?” Olivia asked.
“Yes, there was. Looked like brand-new. One of those digitals.”
“Our doer left a digital camera at the scene. We took those photographs from it,” Matt said.
“And a mask?”
“A black ski mask.”
“What we believe, and what the psychiatric profiler believes, Sergeant,” Olivia said, “is that our doer has previously done what he did in this case. That is, stalk a young woman until he feels comfortable in breaking into her home. He then ties her to her bed with plastic ties…”
Kenny turned and went to the closet, returning with a Ziploc bag full of plastic ties.
“Like these?”
“Like those,” Matt said.
“… and when she is terrified sufficiently, and her clothing has been cut off,” Olivia went on, “he humiliates her sexually and takes photographs of various stages of the assault.”
“And then kills them?”
“No. We don’t think so,” Matt said. “We think he didn’t mean to kill our victim. It just happened.”
“Would you agree, Sergeant,” Olivia asked, “that there is a similarity in the modus operandi of our doer and what this man was apparently about to do last night?”
“I think you could reasonably conclude something like that,” Kenny said. “So what do we do now?”
“I don’t know,” Matt confessed. “I have no idea what the legal procedure is. But I know there’s enough here to tell my lieutenant about it.”
Sergeant Kenny pointed to the telephone on his desk. Matt started to reach for it, then stopped.
“Would it be possible for us to have a look at this man?” he asked. “I don’t mean interview him. I just have a feeling I ought to have a look at him.”
Olivia looked at him in surprise and disapproval.
Kenny considered Matt’s request a moment, then nodded, stood up, and nodded again, this time toward the door.
“If you’ve got weapons,” he said, as he unholstered his pistol and laid it on his desk, “it’d be better to leave them in here.”
Matt and Olivia laid their pistols on his desk, which gave Matt a chance to take a closer look at Kenny’s shiny revolver. It was, Matt saw, more than a little surprised, a Smith amp; Wesson Model 29 in. 44 Magnum caliber. Identical, except for the five-inch barrel on this one, to the weapon Clint East-wood had made famous in the movies.
Well, hell, why not? As big as Kenny is, he probably doesn’t even feel the recoil.
Sergeant Payne’s experience with jails was limited to those in Philadelphia, and a cell in the Spring Lake, New Jersey, jail in which, at sixteen, he and Mr. Chadwick T. Nesbitt IV, also sixteen, had been confined overnight, charged with disturbing the peace of that seashore community by taking a midnight swim in the Atlantic without bathing attire.
The Daphne jail was like none in his experience. It reminded Matt more of a hospital than a jail. It was spotless. The walls were of white tile. The bars on the six cells were white. The in-cell toilets were of stainless steel, and there was no graffiti on the walls.
The first cell was empty. Sergeant Kenny pointed to the second. It held a large, crew-cutted man wearing white coveralls on the chest of which was embroidered DAPHNE JAIL in red.
Matt stepped in front of the cell and looked in. Olivia stepped up beside him.
Homer C. Daniels, as if he was trying to be friendly, at first smiled-if a little uneasily-at the young couple standing with Sergeant Kenny looking into his cell.
Then the smile vanished.
“Who are you?” he asked, and when there no response, angrily demanded, “Sergeant, who the fuck are these people?”
“Watch your mouth, Mr. Daniels,” Sergeant Kenny said. “You see the lady!”
“I’m Sergeant Payne, Mr. Daniels,” Matt said. “And this is Detective Lassiter. We’re from the Homicide Unit of the Philadelphia police department.”
“What do you want with me?” Daniels asked.
“I’m sorry, sir. But that’s about all I can say to you without your attorney being present.”
He turned and walked toward the door through which he had entered the cell block. He stopped just inside, out of sight of the cell, and gestured almost frantically for Kenny to follow him, but Kenny waited until Olivia had turned away from the cell and started for the door.
They both looked at Matt in bewilderment.
Matt frantically silently mouthed something to Sergeant Kenny. He had to do it three times before Kenny understood, thought it over, shrugged, and then dutifully repeated what Matt had mouthed.
“You think that’s your man, Sergeant?” he said, speaking a little more loudly than he normally did.
“No question about it,” Matt boomed, confidently. “That’s him. It all fits. The knife, the mask, the digital camera. Same modus operandi. All we’ll have to do is match the DNA, and there’s no challenging DNA. I’ll start the extradition paperwork tonight.”
Olivia shook her head in disbelief.
Matt gestured for Olivia and Kenny to go through the door. When they had, he closed it.
“Now we call the Black Buddha,” he said to Olivia.
Olivia rolled her eyes.
Oh, shit! There goes my automatic mouth again.
“ ‘The Black Buddha’ is what we call my lieutenant,” Matt said, “who is an African-American gentleman slightly larger than you, Sergeant, and generally regarded as the best homicide investigator between Bangor, Maine, and Key West, Florida.”
“Bigger than me?” Kenny asked.
“Bigger than you, Sergeant,” Olivia said.
Kenny smiled. “How do you start the extradition paperwork? ”
“I haven’t a clue,” Matt confessed. “I’ll ask Lieutenant Washington.”
“What was that business in there?” Kenny asked.
“When I saw that sonofabitch, the idea of him getting a good night’s sleep, thinking he was going to bail himself out of here tomorrow, annoyed me. And then I remembered what Washington told me-”
“The Black Buddha?” Kenny interrupted.
Matt nodded.
“-about the likelihood of a suspect who has (a) time to reflect on his sins and (b) not had much sleep telling you a lot more than he would if he had had neither.”
“You’re not actually thinking of interviewing him?” Olivia asked.
“I’ll do exactly what Washington tells me to do,” Matt said.
“Hello?” a female voice said. Matt recognized it to be that of Martha Washington.
“Matt, Martha,” Matt said.
