'Or a hose,' Grone volunteered. 'He could have done it outside.'
'He's not apt to have soap available at an outdoor hose, and I'm assuming he didn't bring it with him or he'd probably be more consistent in his choice. They develop their favorites, you know. They like to do things in the same way, once they perfect their rituals. Johnny is showing more flexibility than most… Sounds like a cheap hotel to me.
If they have samples of shampoo, he uses those; if not, he uses the hand soap… What else from the hair?'
'They 're all Caucasian, Numbers six, five, and two had used some form of bleach, although they were blondish to begin with. None of them were too particular about their roots. Again, maybe a hairdresser, he got to know them as customers…'
'You like that idea, don't you? Do you have something against hairdressers, Grone?'
'What's wrong with it?'
I 'Nothing, it's just a little early to categorize him. You shut off too many other possibilities that way. Any pattern in the length of hair?'
'Four of them shoulder-length or longer. Two of them much shorter, fairly tight cuts. In addition to the three semiblondes, there were two brunettes and a kind of rust-colored one. She had curly hair, the others were relatively straight He has eclectic tastes.'
''Anything else about the hair?'
Grone shrugged. 'What would you like?'
'I'm surprised at you, Grone. It's not all chemical analysis. How was it cut? Scissors? Razor? Professionally? Did they cut it themselves with kitchen shears, or did they go to your favorite hairdresser?'
Grone was embarrassed. He breathed deeply before responding. 'I'll check it out.'
'And the bones. How did he hack them up?'
'He didn't hack them. They were separated at the joints with an instrument with a small blade. An awfully timeconsuming way to do it, it seems to me. Johnny doesn't seem to be in any hurry.'
'True. But he may not have any choice. Assuming he cut them up to make them easier to transport, he would need something big and heavy to cut through the bones, right? A butcher's cleaver or a big chef's knife at the least.
You can't carry that around in your pocket like a penknife. Someone is going to notice-the girls are going to notice. He probably wasn't carrying his equipment with him in anticipation of what he was going to do, no briefcase, no shopping bag, or else he would have his own shampoo with him. Sound right?'
Grone nodded.
'He may have been making a virtue of necessity. The wonder is that he managed at all.'
'He managed, but he was pretty clumsy at it,' said Grone.
Grone went down the line, lifting the bones with his gloved hands-the femurs, tibiae, humeri, and ulnae-and showing the end of each in its turn to Becker.
'Here and here and here and here,' he said. 'Slash marks. See them?'
'Like on the first bone we saw,' Becker said. 'The humerus.'
'He had trouble getting through the joints. It's not surprising.'
Becker stared at the display for a moment, then donned a pair of disposable plastic gloves and picked up one of the thighbones himself.
'Similar, aren't they?'
'How do you mean?'
'The cut marks are almost parallel. They look pretty much the same in every case. Right? Or is it my imagination?'
'You're right,' Grone agreed. 'They're very similar.' Becker walked the length of the grisly display, picking up one bone, then the other, holding them together where they joined, examining the two parallel lines on each end, seeing where they joined. In some cases he made fine motions with his hand over the bone, looking to Grone rather like a priest making the sign of the cross in miniature.
'I should have noticed that about the similarity, I'm sorry,' said Grone.
'It's not your job,' Becker said. 'Don't worry about it. You're looking at things through a microscope, it's very hard to see a larger picture that way. Not your fault at all.'
'Well…' Grone let the thought fall away. Becker was offering him a graceful way out; he decided to take it.
'A question,' Becker said, holding the tibia and femur of number five in either hand.
'Sure.'
'Am I holding these right? Is this the way these bones line up-in life?'
Grone adjusted the bones slightly.
'Okay. Like this?' Becker said. 'You're trying to separate these two with your pocketknife. There are those two parallel cuts on both sides of the joint, right? Almost exactly opposite each other.'
He placed the bones on the table in the position Grone had indicated.
The ends of the two bones were a quarter-inch apart.
'Show me how those cuts in the bone got there,' Becker continued. Using his forefinger as a knife, Grone made slashing motions in one direction, then turned his hand and made the same motions in reverse order. He looked to Becker to gauge his reaction.
'Fine, if the cuts were on the side of the bone, but they're not,' said Becker. 'They're on the interior of the joint. Make those cuts on the interior of the joint.'
Grone picked up a pencil and tried to do as he was bid. 'Can't do it,' he said. 'You can't get the right angle at it. '
Becker then separated the bones and held them a foot apart. Grone simulated the cuts with ease.
'He made the cuts after the bones were separated?' Grone asked.
Becker shrugged. 'I don't know enough about it to say, but it looks like I'd better find out.'
'Why would he do it afterwards?'
'Who knows? A ritual of some kind. It all becomes ritual to them after a while. These guys have fetishes about the way their victims look, the way they die-why not about the way they're sliced apart? Maybe these parallel cuts are a totem of some kind. Or maybe he's trying to leave a signature.'
'Leave a signature so we can find him?'
Becker shook his head. 'Myth,' said Becker. 'The tormented killer leaves a note saying, 'Catch me before I kill again'? Not very damned often. These boys are happy in their work, believe me. They're doing exactly what they want to do when they murder somebody, it gives them a greater thrill than anything else in the world. They don't want to get caught. They want to do it again and again and more often, and faster and quicker and sooner. Johnny has had these skeletons very effectively hidden for six years. That doesn't sound much like he's trying to be caught, does it? If we catch him, or any of them, it's only because of a lot of work and more dumb luck than we care to admit.'
8
Tee contemplated the young prisoner who sat on the other side of his desk and wondered why the man was lying to him. In other respects he was the model suspect. Respectful, polite, deferential, and cooperative, Tyrone Abdul Kiwasee had confessed to eight burglaries in Clamden in the past three years. He had provided dates, details of entry, even suggestions about improved security measures. His recall of the stolen merchandise had been good, he had quickly and willingly betrayed his confederates, had even implicated himself in other, lesser crimes. Tee had little doubt in his mind that the information was correct, and Kiwasee had coughed it all up so freely, so happily, he resembled the ideal sinner in the confession booth, delighted to purge his soul and find redemption. All of which made it even more baffling that he was lying about the final job.
'You're sure you know which house I'm talking about?' Tee asked. 'Yes sir, Officer McNeil drove me around and showed me all the houses on your list.'
