criminals and crime in general.
In each apartment the killer had entered through the victim’s bedroom window. In the Linneker murder, he’d cut away a crescent of glass and used masking tape, a bit of which was still on the outside glass, to catch and hold the detached glass and keep it from falling and attracting attention. Davis’s window had been unlocked and open slightly to allow in a summer breeze after a brief shower.
Horn examined each windowsill and found scratches and dents on the wooden one but nothing on the marble sill. It was impossible to tell if the marks were from the killer’s entrance, but some of them looked fresh. In both murders the women had been wound in their sheets. Since there was no sign of struggle, this was done while they were still asleep, or so quickly and deftly they hadn’t time to resist. Duct tape was placed over their mouths to silence them. They’d apparently been killed with the same weapon that was used on Sally Bridge. Davis, with thirty-seven stab wounds, had bled to death. Linneker had a fatal heart attack-after being stabbed thirty-six times. In neither case had the killer left anything behind that hinted at his identity.
Maybe Paula and Bickerstaff had learned something new in reexamining the two apartments earlier, as Horn had instructed. Probably it had been a waste of time, like so many things in homicide investigations.
Horn figured he might have better luck stumbling across something new and pertinent in Sally Bridge’s apartment, which was still an official crime scene.
He got the key from the super but when he reached the apartment found he didn’t need it. The yellow crime scene tape had been untied from the doorknob, and the door was unlocked.
When Horn entered he found Paula and Bickerstaff inside.
They’d heard him in the hall and were standing about ten feet apart, staring at the door to see who might come in.
Neither of them appeared surprised, but both seemed relieved. Horn wondered if they thought Bridge’s killer might have wanted something in the apartment and returned for it.
“Learn anything at the other two crime scenes?” he asked, noticing that the apartment still smelled of death, the faint coppery blood scent that could almost be tasted.
“Nothing that isn’t already in the files,” Paula said. “And so far we haven’t found any connection at all between any of the three victims.”
“Show me this footprint,” Horn said.
Paula led the way into the bedroom. The air was stale and smelled more strongly of blood. Bickerstaff stayed in the living room.
There was the footprint by the bed. It was faint but it was there, and Horn could understand how the techs could bring it out so it showed as the enhanced image in the file. The heel and ball of a bare foot, probably a man’s, medium size. A few distinctive lines, maybe enough to make a match that would mean something in court.
Sally Bridge’s bed hadn’t been touched since the murder. It was stripped down to the bare mattress. The pile of bloodied sheets Horn had seen in the crime scene photos had been taken to the lab for testing and evidence entry.
“They ever get a make on the blood type?” Horn asked, staring at the stained mattress.
“O-negative,” Paula said. “Same as the victim’s; when the DNA match comes in, it figures that all the blood in the apartment will be hers.”
Horn wandered over and examined the window where the killer had entered. The glass and handle had been dusted for prints, revealing only that the killer had worn gloves, but Horn was still careful when he slid the window open. It moved easily in its wooden frame.
“The lab said the killer used candle wax on the window frame,” Paula said. “Just ran it over the tracks so the window would raise real easy and wouldn’t make noise.”
“Uh-huh. So we look for a guy who carries a candle in his pocket.”
“Narrows it down,” Paula said, smiling to let Horn know she was joking.
Horn leaned out of the window and looked down.
“Heck of a climb,” Paula said.
“I don’t think so.”
He didn’t elaborate, and Paula figured she should hold her silence. She still wasn’t completely comfortable around Horn. The stories about his NYPD exploits sometimes contained touches of brutality. That didn’t seem evident in the man, despite his size. He acted more like a kindly uncle than a legendary tough homicide cop and political infighter.
She watched as he stared pensively at the window for a while longer before closing it.
“No marks on the marble sill,” he said. “Maybe a slight scuff mark from the killer’s shoe. But we can’t be sure.”
Paula said nothing. She wasn’t sure of anything yet in this case.
“Nothing for sure on the windowsills at the other two crime scenes, either,” Horn said.
He walked back into the living room, and Paula followed.
“You reinterview the neighbors here?” he asked Bicker-staff.
“We just finished up before you got here. There were a few slight discrepancies, but their stories are pretty much consistent with their first interviews. Basically, nobody saw or heard anything unusual.”
“We were about to leave when you arrived,” Paula said.
“I’ll leave with you,” Horn said. “After we get done on the roof, we’ll find someplace to eat supper and compare notes.”
“Roof?” Paula said.
Horn nodded. “Yeah. You know-the windowsills.”
“But they were left mostly unmarked when the killer climbed in.”
“And out,” Bickerstaff added. “The techs found nothing even microscopic that was of use on the windowsills.”
“Like a microscopic dog that didn’t bark in the night,” Horn said.
Paula grinned. “Sherlock Holmes.”
“I’d have guessed Lassie,” Bickerstaff said.
“Got a handkerchief in your purse?” Horn asked Paula.
She searched but couldn’t find one. “Only tissues.” Among other items she pulled from her purse while rummaging through it was a white latex glove of the sort used to examine crime scenes.
“That glove’ll do,” Horn said.
Paula and Bickerstaff glanced at each other.
They followed Horn into the bedroom, where he got a wire hanger from the closet, straightened it, and tied the white glove on one end. He then went to the window and opened and closed it, wedging the hanger between frame and sill so the end with the glove stuck outside about eighteen inches.
“Oughta do,” he said.
Understanding now, Paula led the way out of the apartment. She was starting to like this, Horn thinking a little outside the box. Sometimes a little was all it took. Outside was outside.
She could hardly wait to get to the roof.
As soon as they were on the roof, Bickerstaff wedged a piece of tile in the service door so it wouldn’t close and trap them up there. Then they went to the low brick parapet at the roof ‘s edge, approximately above the window to Sally Bridge’s bedroom. About ten feet from the parapet, Horn held out a hand and stopped them. “Look at the tar and gravel near the edge,” he said. “It seems it might have been disturbed.”
Paula looked. The gravel adhered to the blacktop roof seemed to have been rearranged recently, some of it even kicked or scraped loose.
Horn went to the parapet and examined it, then leaned over it, staring straight down.
“I see the glove sticking out right under the disturbed gravel,” he said, turning away and standing up straight. And there’s a spot on the parapet where the tile’s been rubbed clean. And look at this.”
Paula and Bickerstaff moved closer to see where he was pointing. There was what appeared to be a fresh hole low in the brickwork of the parapet, as if something sharp had been driven into the brick and mortar at an angle.
“A whatchamacallit, maybe,” Bickerstaff said. “One of those steel spikes mountain climbers use to fasten
