“Whatever. Something from her home or his that-”
“I think maybe it was a rug. Do you think maybe it was a rug?”
I paused. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I see the-”
“Did you know that murderers sometimes wrap bodies in rugs to make them easier to carry? During the 1934 torso murders in Cleveland, the killer-”
“But if the killer brought the corpse in a rug, where is it?”
“I think maybe he must’ve taken it home with him.”
I considered. “No. The body couldn’t have been wrapped, and he must’ve dragged it part of the way. There was dirt on the body.”
Darcy crouched down low again. “There’s a lot of dirt on the floor of the plane. Why would there be dirt on the floor of the plane?”
“I… guess the door blew open and-” Right. We were in a sea of concrete. “He brought the body from somewhere else. Probably got tired at some point and dragged it. It got dirty.”
“I didn’t see the body,” Darcy said. “Was it all scraped up?”
“Well, no. Actually, it seemed well cared for, even washed. Almost like he really cared about her.”
Darcy brushed his hands off and stood. “I think that maybe he brought this one here in a rug.”
And damn it all, I knew he was right. “But where did the dirt come from?”
“I think that maybe he brought that, too.”
“But why? For what reason?” I asked, but I realized that brilliant as he was, Darcy could never deduce the answers to these teleological questions. Because that required someone who understood the wild and wooly ways of people. Perhaps someone blessed with hyper-empathy. Yours truly. I thought a moment…
Because this was a burial, that’s why. At least in his deranged mind, this was a burial, so he’d brought dirt. Why hadn’t I seen it before?
I knew the answer to that question, too.
Because I hadn’t had Darcy before.
I put my arm around his neck and gave him a squeeze. He pulled away but not too hard. “Darcy, my friend, I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
He smiled cautiously, eyes up but chin tucked. “Did I-did I do something good?”
“You hit the ball out of the park, slugger.” Bizarre as it sounds, being with Darcy, working with him-if you can call it that-made me feel… better. Stronger. Like maybe I really could still do this.
“Does this mean that we could go for custard later? I like to eat frozen custard. Custard is my favorite thing because I know whenever I have custard it’s going to be a Very Excellent Day. On Wednesdays, my favorite is vanilla toffee, but my dad likes the bubble gum flavor-”
“Your dad likes bubble gum custard? Get out of here.”
“Sometimes he gets Oreo Cookie Mash. If we went now I think my dad wouldn’t mind and it would be okay and I don’t think it would spoil our dinner, do you?” He grinned that goofy grin again. Irresistible.
From a landing bay outside the Arrivals deck, he watched the crime technicians work through high-powered binoculars. His hand still hurt from the bite, but he had cleaned and dressed it and all his fingers were functional, if a bit weak. He was wearing his uniform, which was not the same as those of airport security but was more than enough to keep people from interfering with him. When a man in a uniform went to the airport, no one messed with him, especially these days.
Watching the crime techs at work was fascinating-and rather discouraging, too. It was of considerable interest to him to see where they focused their attention. The careful steps they took to ensure that no tracks or footsteps were obliterated-not that he had left any. All right-one tire track. He was human. What could they possibly do with that? He would change the tires on the truck tonight, just to be safe.
These people spent hours coating the area with a fine white dust, hoping to find a fingerprint. Absurd. To leave behind clues of that caliber, one would have to be a fool. No, he wanted to scream at them, I didn’t leave behind any hair-I wore a net the entire time. Did they think they were dealing with a beer-sozzled redneck? A tripped-out tourist? Had he not made it abundantly clear that he was a serious man doing serious work?
Thank heaven Susan finally arrived. His sweet, beautiful Cassandra. Yes, his totem had been right, had been prophetic. It was still early days, but he felt certain that she would be the one to appreciate what he had done. She’d barely been on the scene a minute yesterday before she had Annabel’s mouth open, something none of her predecessors, not even the representatives from the coroner’s office, had the sense to do.
Her understanding encompasseth mountains…
But Susan’s return to the scene today was fraught with disappointment. For starters, she did not come alone. Who was this new companion? He hadn’t been at the police station. He was dressed casually and didn’t appear to have any official status. And yet, Susan talked to him constantly. It was as if she was feeding him information, soliciting his opinion about every aspect of the case. Was he her friend, her partner? Or something more? He seemed younger than she, surely too young to be…
And yet there was something between them, something real, important. He tightened the focus on his binoculars, zooming in for a closer look. He stared at the young man’s eyes, watching the way he moved, the way he talked, for a considerable period of time. And yet, he couldn’t get a reading on him. The young man’s eyes were like reflecting mirrors. There was something… elusive about him. Something inscrutable. As if there was an emotional lacuna where a soul should be. As if… as if he wasn’t entirely a part of this world.
Dream-Land? No. He might not be able to discern what drove Susan’s young cohort, but he was certain it was not enlightenment. There was more confusion about him than determination.
And yet he couldn’t help but wonder…
Did he pose a threat? The others, with their by-the-book approach and mundane sensibilities had little hope of ever discovering the truth. But this new interloper…
He would have to keep a close eye on this young man.
On his way out of the airport, he bought a newspaper from a self-serve kiosk. He would want the day’s story for his History. The article about the discovery of Annabel’s body was rather disappointingly small, even though there were no other stories of great import. Was this town so jaded that murder no longer captured its imagination? What was this distorted mentality that bestowed more attention on Siegfried and Roy than a messiah?
SECOND BODY FOUND IN
ABANDONED AIRCRAFT
BY JONATHAN WOOLEY
Another naked corpse was discovered late Friday afternoon by FAA investigators in one of the many abandoned aircrafts housed on the rear field at McCarran International, authorities confirmed at a noon press conference. Although officials did not offer an opinion as to whether this death was linked to the body found two days before at the Transylvania Resort Hotel, they did acknowledge that both bodies were entirely naked, and that both were found with a mysterious written message.
“We’re doing everything we can to solve this case,” said Chief of Police Robert O’Bannon. “Even calling in federal experts. But it would be a mistake to prematurely conclude that the killings are linked without more information.” When pressed, Chief O’Bannon acknowledged that there was a strong possibility that both crimes were committed by the same assailant or assailants. He offered no opinion as to who that might be or what motive might lie behind the crimes. He did note that the two deaths were very different in nature. The woman found at the Transylvania died of asphyxiation, while preliminary indications were that this latest victim had died from exsanguination.
Even if the crimes are linked, O’Bannon noted, it is important not to create a panic. “Las Vegas is a large city, and there is no reason to believe that anyone, especially tourists, are in danger.” Lieutenant Barry Granger, the homicide detective assigned to the case, also urged that…
He closed the paper, disgusted. Why did they always interpellate O’Bannon and Granger? They didn’t know anything. O’Bannon was a supervisor and Granger was a fool. Why didn’t they talk to Susan? Susan understood that this was not just another murder case; he was sure of it. She could give them a story worthy of publication. He would be interested to hear what she had to say. What she thought of this case, these crimes.
What she thought about him.
He had always considered himself a paragon of decorum and chivalrous behavior. He had modeled himself after the prophet in word and deed, sensibilities, even adopting the euphuism of his era. But there were so many unanswered questions. He would follow Susan constantly now, as much as he was able. To keep an eye on her. To ensure that her interest didn’t flag. And as to this new man-perhaps he would have to arrange a meeting. If there was danger afoot, he had to know. So he could take the appropriate action to eliminate it.
11
There were some advantages, I was beginning to learn, to having an office adjoining the men’s room. True, it meant I was on display like a museum exhibit, or perhaps more accurately, like a zoo animal, caged all day long. But it also meant that no one could avoid me, certainly no one male, no matter how much they might like to do so. Even Granger did not possess a cast-iron bladder. Earlier, he had tried to slip past by pointedly looking the other way, so I complimented him on something, I think on the way the coffee stain on his tie matched his underarm stains. For his afternoon visit, he decided to take the offensive. And he was pretty darned offensive about his offensive, too.
“Pulaski,” he growled, even before he got to my desk. “What the hell were you doing with O’Bannon’s kid?”
“I was investigating, sir. It’s what investigators do. Perhaps you were absent the day they covered that at the academy. Darcy was quite useful.”
“I know the kid’s story, Pulaski. And I saw how he acted at the crime scene. There’s no way-”
“You don’t know anything about it.”
“I know he’s been nothing but a burden to his father. I know O’Bannon never mentions him. Never.”
I wondered if that was true. “There’s no reason for anyone to be embarrassed about a neurological disorder. It’s no one’s fault. It just happens. We don’t know why.”
“None of which explains why you were dragging this poor boy all over two grisly crime scenes. Are you trying to suck up to O’Bannon?”
“Don’t be imbecilic.”
“You really think if you play out this charade with O’Bannon’s son you’ll get your old job back?”
“The thought never entered my mind,” I said quite honestly.
“Well, leave the kid alone. Let him work in that day care or whatever. No telling what a crime scene might do to a mental case like that. Might give him ideas, even.”
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change and not kill Granger in the process. “I’m just trying to catch the murderer. Just like you.”
“Which reminds me. You were not hired to sniff around the forensic evidence or to repeat the work of others more qualified to do it. You were hired to prepare a psychological profile. Have you done that?”
“I’m working on it. It’s difficult when we don’t know who the victims were.”
“I can help you with that.” He slapped a folder down on my desk. “If I were you, I’d get something down on paper. The FBI profiler will arrive tomorrow.”
My head jerked up. “What?”
“I’m told he’s one of the best. Most of the boys think O’Bannon hired you so he could tell the press he was doing everything possible to catch the killer. But after the Feebie arrives, I can’t imagine what the point of paying for an outside consultant would be.” And on that note, he galumphed toward the men’s room.
“Thanks for stopping by, Granger,” I couldn’t resist saying. “You honor David’s memory.”
He stopped short, his shoulders rising. “Better than you do,” he muttered under his breath. Then left.
I didn’t allow myself to focus on what the son of a bitch had said or what he meant by it. I had work to do. If Granger remained in charge of this investigation, the killer could work his way through Poe’s collected works three times over without getting caught.
A federal profiler? Why? Had O’Bannon requested it? Because he had no faith in me anymore?
I put it out of my mind. If the man was coming, I would have something ready to show him.
The file Granger dumped on me was more helpful than I could’ve imagined. The two victims had been identified, thanks to the pictures run in the daily paper. The first was named Helen Collier, and she lived here in the Vegas ’burbs with her mother. Mom had been visiting friends and didn’t know her daughter was missing-till she saw her pic in the paper at the airport on her way home. Hell of a shock that must’ve been. Helen had been a petite girl and cute, judging from her school photo. Too cute to end up suffocating, clawing for air in a buried coffin.
The second girl was named Annabel Spencer. She was originally from New York but was going to school at MIT. No one had any idea what she was doing in Vegas. The only person who even knew she was gone was her boyfriend, and so far he wasn’t providing any details. But here’s the kicker: Annabel Spencer was the only daughter of Dr. Fara Spencer, acclaimed TV shrink. Her afternoon TV show was huge; Lisa swore by it. Sort of a cross between Dr. Phil and Judge Judy, Fara alternated between administering homespun wisdom to the worthy and tongue-lashing the unworthy. Her hour was the hottest thing in syndication.
And her daughter was the second victim. As if this case could get any weirder. Or more complicated.
I jotted down the address of the Collier residence. That had to be my next stop.
I was almost out the door when an intern brought me a message.
“Lieutenant?”
She was a Hispanic woman who I knew worked in toxicology. She’d been here more than two years, but if she hadn’t been wearing a badge I wouldn’t have known her name was Jennifer. “Yes?”