Pulse

5

Quinn and Pearl found the Beymore Arms with no trouble. Renz was waiting for them beneath the green canopy. He was wearing a well-tailored blue suit, a white shirt, and a red and black striped tie. He looked ready to broadcast the evening news, but the clothes didn’t disguise the fact that he’d put on even more weight since becoming police commissioner.

The three of them waited for a break in traffic that was already starting to build on Park Avenue West, and then fast-walked across the street. Fat as he was, Renz moved quickly and gracefully. They climbed over the low, age-darkened stone wall that bordered the park. Quinn was curious to see if Renz would go over the wall that way, which involved not much more than boosting up the body, then sitting, and swiveling. Renz clambered over the low wall with impressive nimbleness. Didn’t do his tailored suit much good.

They walked across dew-damp grass toward a cluster of trees that emitted a faint white glow. Then Quinn saw the crime scene tape, and that the glow was coming from a white tent that was eight or ten feet square. Shadow movement on the taut white material indicated a lot of activity inside.

A tall, poker-faced uniform posted outside the flap entrance to the tent seemed not to pay them any attention. Renz stood to the side of the flap and motioned with an arm for them to enter, but he stayed outside in the interest of giving people in the tent more room to move.

What was going on inside the tent was nothing like social networking, even with the Napoleonic and twisted little medical examiner, Dr. Julius Nift, smiling from where he stood over the body and saying, “Miss Macy Collins, may I present Frank Quinn and Pearl Kasner.” He made a motion with his hand, palm up. “Pearl, Quinn, this is-”

“Just shut up,” Pearl said.

The tent had no floor and was illuminated by brilliant lights on flimsy-looking metal stands. Quinn had to duck his head slightly, but Pearl could stand up straight. Where there was room to move, two CSU guys were using it, carefully tweezering up possible evidence and placing it in plastic evidence bags. They were dressed in white and wearing white gloves and looked as if they’d arrived in a box with the tent.

What was left of the victim lay on bent and bloodstained grass. A rectangular flag of gray duct tape clung by a corner to her lower lip. Her bulging brown eyes bespoke horror.

She was on her back with her arms taped to her sides, her legs together, toes turned down as if frozen that way by painful spasms. Her body was arranged with a symmetry and neatness suggesting she’d been posed after death. She was wearing only blue panties. Both of her breasts had been removed.

“Her breasts-” Quinn began.

“Haven’t found them,” Nift said. “Judging by the removal circumference, she must have had quite a rack.”

Quinn was aware of Pearl stiffening beside him. “Sick necrophiliac,” she said under her breath.

Nift heard her and smiled. He enjoyed getting under people’s skin, and Pearl was a favorite target.

“There’s a mathematical formula for everything,” Nift said.

“Like for how much longer you’ll live with that mouth of yours,” Pearl said.

Nift seemed not to have heard her.

The CSU techs said they’d done all they could until the body was removed, and left the tent.

Quinn nodded toward the victim. “Notice anything about the panties? The way they’re rolled up at the waistband in back?”

“She didn’t put them on,” Pearl said. “Somebody else did, after she was dead, and while she was lying on her back the way she is now. The panties dragged and rolled in back and didn’t go all the way up.”

“I was wondering when one of you would notice that,” Nift said. “Very good, Quinn. Now, another question: do you recognize the M.O.?”

Any cop who’d been involved in a serial killer case, anyone at all interested in serial killers, would recognize the M.O.

So like the Daniel Danielle murders.

Quinn nodded. Beside him, Pearl said, “Daniel Wentworth, aka Daniel Danielle.”

“Or Danielle Daniel,” Nift said. “Depending on which sex he wanted to be at the moment.”

“There’s not a lot of blood on the scene, either,” Pearl said, “considering what was done to her. Daniel Danielle was good at managing blood flow. Got a guess as to the actual cause of death?”

Nift grinned at her. “I’d estimate that she was alive when all or most of the butchering was done. He wanted to share that with her. If she was lucky, she died of shock at some point before the abdominal wound.” Nift’s grin widened. “You look down where you’re used to seeing what musta been a huge rack of tits and see your insides instead, it’s probably quite a shock.”

A cop near the door flap was giving Nift a fish-eyed look. Not much expression. Probably he knew Nift. Almost everyone who dealt with the city’s lower forms of life knew Nift, at least by reputation.

Pearl moved over to see the newspaper page lying on the floor near Nift’s black leather medical case. There were bloodstains on it, but it was readable. The E VERYTHING S LASHED Macy’s sale with its play on the victim’s name.

“I saw it,” Quinn said, before she pointed it out. “Sick sense of humor.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Nift said.

“That’s for damn sure,” Pearl told him. “You don’t have the slightest idea.”

Nift merely continued grinning at her. “I love getting under your skin,” he said. “No pun intended.”

Quinn gave him a look, letting him know he’d gone far enough. Knowing dangerous ground when it started to shift on him, Nift stopped grinning.

“Any sexual interference?” Quinn asked.

“I’ll have to do the postmortem to know for sure.” Nift was all business now, tired of verbally poking at Pearl. “I can call you later with the details.”

“Got an estimate as to how long she’s been dead?”

“Not more than a few hours. But that’s an approximation. We can be more precise later.”

Quinn looked over at the cop with the scarred eye. “You catch the squeal?”

“Yeah, but not alone. They directed two radio cars over here. No nine-eleven call. An anonymous call direct to the precinct house. They took it serious.”

“He must have left here shortly after the murder and made the call,” Quinn said.

“He might’ve wanted there to be a show for us when we got here,” Pearl said. “Might’ve even watched us arrive. A shared experience. That’s how these sickos think. Ask Nift.”

“Set a sicko to catch a sicko,” Nift said, not bothering to glance over at her. “Pearl’s right. The killer might be standing across the street right now, taking it all in. Maybe waiting for the body to be removed.”

Quinn knew that what Nift said was true in some cases, but this killer was different. Always had been.

If it was the same killer.

Nift did a quick visual study of the corpse, head to toe, as if trying to fix everything in his memory. He flashed his nasty little smile. “Just like in the textbook chapter on the Daniel Danielle murders.”

Quinn nodded. “What do you think? The methodology the same all the way through?”

“Close enough. Would I swear this is a Daniel Danielle murder? No. I couldn’t call it that close. I never actually saw one of his-or her-victims.” He shrugged without seeming to have moved any part of his hefty little body. “And of course it couldn’t be a Daniel Danielle murder, Daniel Danielle being dead. Killed in a hurricane. Body never recovered.”

“Tornado,” Quinn said.

“What’s the difference?”

“Smaller.”

“Copycat killer?”

“Well, there’s that same lively sense of humor. Most of that didn’t get into the media. But I couldn’t rule out a copycat. They’re most likely to be inspired by infamous killers.”

“That would give the killer a motive,” Pearl said.

“Which is?” Nift asked.

“He’s nuts. Like you are.”

Nift chewed on his tongue and seemed to consider that. “No, not like I am.” He leered at Pearl. “Well, maybe a little.” He nodded toward the body. “One thing’s for sure-the killer’s got Daniel Danielle’s taste in women. Macy would have had the second best rack in the room.”

Pearl took a step toward Nift. “You asshole.”

Quinn raised a plate-sized hand as a signal for her to stop, which she did. They had more important things to consider than Nift’s bad manners.

“Take a look at the vic,” Quinn told her. “Imagine her with her hair brushed back off her forehead.”

“I don’t have to look,” Pearl said. “The resemblance struck me when I walked in the room.”

In one way or another, the Daniel Danielle victims had all resembled Pearl. Quinn hadn’t liked that ten years ago, during the killer’s rampage of death, even though Daniel had never taken a victim in New York. He didn’t like it now.

Nift stooped, then snapped his rubber gloves and peeled them off. He began arranging his instruments in his bag, preparing to leave. “When you’re done with the beautiful Macy, you can have her removed. She and I have a date for later.”

When Nift straightened up and moved toward the tent flap, Quinn stood in the way with his arms crossed.

“Something more?” Nift asked.

“The missing breasts…”

“I rolled her over and looked under her, looked all over the place. The CSU had uniforms search the surrounding grounds. They will again tomorrow. But we both know the killer must have taken them with him. Like Daniel Danielle.”

“Souvenirs,” Pearl said.

“Or maybe more souvenirs,” Nift said, and strode around Quinn and out of the room.

That was when Renz entered.

His suit had taken the night’s strenuous activity pretty well and still looked as if he’d just put it on. The brilliant lights in the tent glittered off his gold accoutrements. Renz looked like what he was-a corrupt politician. Quinn wondered if, when people got older, they began to look more and more like what they were. Renz’s overstuffed features were beginning to resemble a rodent’s.

“So Nift introduced you to Macy Maria Collins,” he said.

Pearl made a note of the victim’s full name.

Renz waited with feigned politeness until she’d finished writing. “College girl living in the Big City, maybe looking for a summer job.”

“Where’d she go to school?” Quinn asked.

“Someplace upstate. Wycliffe… Waycliffe. Kinda place where you have to be either rich or smart to get in.”

“Or both,” Pearl said.

“Jealous?”

“Not of Macy Collins. If you look close enough you might notice she’s dead.”

Renz grinned and looked at Quinn. “She’s still got the mouth, huh?”

Quinn shrugged.

Renz flashed a gold cuff link and glanced at his watch. It looked like a gold Rolex. “Gotta run. Late for a meeting.”

“At this time of night-morning?”

“Uh-huh. We all sit around with cards and chips. I interrupted the game to come over here. Thought you should see the crime scene. I knew you’d understand why.”

Quinn did.

“I’ll call you later,” Renz said.

“No doubt.”

Ignoring Pearl altogether, Renz nodded to Quinn as he turned, ducked his head into the folds of fat beneath his chin, and left the tent.

Quinn and Pearl followed Renz and breathed in fresh morning air.

The CSU guy in charge was still standing outside the tent, smoking a cigarette. Quinn almost said something to him about fouling a crime scene and then saw that it was one of those battery-operated cigarettes that look like the real thing.

He was a short man, built like a miniature bull, with a thick neck and sloping shoulders. Quinn had worked with him before. His name was Bronsky. He waited with patient brown eyes for what Quinn had to say.

“What’ve we got so far?” Quinn asked, thinking that after Renz it would be a pleasure talking with somebody like Bronsky. Crime Scene Unit types were almost always all business and no bullshit.

“Looks like the killer wore rubber gloves, so we might as well forget about fingerprints,” Bronsky said. “So far, he didn’t leave much if anything behind. We might pick up more on him from the victim herself, try for some of his DNA.” He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and held it up for Quinn to see. “I just got off this,” he said. “We got her address from her purse, and we’re going through her apartment.”

“Great,” Quinn said, wondering again why Renz wanted this one in the worst way.

“There are signs of the killer washing up some in the bathroom, but still with the gloves on. Plenty of smudgy prints here and there throughout the apartment, some bloody. He musta gone there after the murder.”

“He was letting us know that,” Quinn said.

“We did lift other prints from the apartment, but they’re probably what you’d expect-the victim’s, neighbors’, former tenants’, the super’s…”

Quinn waited until Bronsky finished with the list. All the prints would have to be matched with the people who’d made them. The prints that couldn’t be matched would be placed in a separate file, in the faint hope that someday they’d help to convict the killer. Tedious work, but necessary.

“The bloody prints. Could you say if they were a man’s or a woman’s?”

“No way to tell. Because of the gloves.”

Quinn sighed. “So maybe the lab will come up with something.”

“Maybe. We’ll get the usual hair samples from the carpet. A few nail clippings from the bedroom. But my guess is they probably won’t amount to anything useful.” He rotated his head on his thick neck. “Not as much blood here, or in her apartment, as you’d think.”

“M.E. said she probably went into deep shock when she saw what he’d done to her. Her heart must have stopped shortly after that.”

Bronsky pulled a face that made him resemble Edward G. Robinson in an old tough-guy movie. “Jesus! Not a nice man.”

“The M.E. or the killer?”

“Killer. I already know the M.E. is a prick. You going in now to look over the apartment?” The question sounded almost like a warning about what was waiting inside.

“I was about to,” Quinn said.

Bronsky took a drag on his cigarette that meant nothing. “Two bedrooms with two twin beds in each. I heard somebody say the victim shared the place with three other students. The roommates all went home for the summer. What if they’d been here, though? All four girls?”

“Richard Speck,” Quinn said.

“That’s what I was thinking. Would this creep have killed all of them?”

“Why not?” Quinn said.

“Those other girls should know that,” Bronsky said. “Realize how lucky they are to be young and still alive. They might be more careful the rest of their lives. More appreciative.”

“It’ll give them something to talk about,” Quinn said. “Then in a few days or a few weeks they’ll go back to being themselves.”

Bronsky made his Edward G. Robinson face again. “Why do you figure that is?”

“We’re all who we are,” Quinn said.

“Yeah, I guess we have to live with that.”

“And die with it,” Quinn said.

He left Bronsky, who continued puffing on his faux cigarette, blowing faux smoke. Six feet away from the dead woman who was real.