Thank God I’d had no time for breakfast. Throwing up would not only be unprofessional, it would convince O’Bannon I’d been drinking. I’d seen some seriously twisted, weird, ugly stuff in my time, and it took a great deal to get a gasp out of me, even on a day like this when I was well off my game. But I was sickened by the thought of the pain she must have endured, both mental and physical. This was not the work of any ordinary killer. Not even an ordinary psychopath. This was something-someone-altogether different.
“I’ll want to see the coroner’s preliminary report,” I said, letting her mouth relax. “As soon as it comes in.”
“Natch.”
“I’ll want the files on the first victim, too. Everything you’ve got.”
“I’ve already had them sent to your office.” O’Bannon coughed. “Your temporary office. Downtown.”
“Criminalists got anything useful yet?”
O’Bannon shrugged. “Not that I’ve heard.”
“What about blood splatters?”
“Do you see any?”
“No.”
“Neither do we. Even after we went over the area with leucocrystal violet.”
Which confirmed my feeling that the young lady was killed somewhere else. And cleaned up afterward. “Firearms?”
“No indication.”
“Forensic entomology? Botany? Zoology?”
“Possible they’ll turn up something. But so far, no.”
“Hair and fiber evidence?”
“Nope.”
“How could the guy bring a corpse all the way out here without leaving something behind?”
“By being very careful.”
And that in itself was telling.
I searched for, spotted, then approached Crenshaw. He was crouched on the ground, going over the metal floor of the plane with a small brush. Beside him was his fingerprint examiner’s field kit, a five-level tool chest filled with everything he might possibly need-powders, lifting tape, ink, flashlights, petri dishes, baggies, tweezers, distilled water, and a lot of other stuff I couldn’t identify. “How’s it hanging, Tony? Seen any exciting friction ridges lately?”
He smiled a little. “Are you working this case?”
“Strange but true. Got any identifiable prints?”
“Not yet, but I’m still working. I’ll have to take some of this stuff back to the lab before I can be sure.”
“I would’ve thought the killer would get his paws all over the place, dragging a heavy corpse into the plane.”
“I would, too, but he didn’t. We found nothing inside the plane-except for one little smudge. On the body.” He pointed down at the corpse with which I was now altogether too familiar. “Probably touched her before he transported her. Possibly even before he killed her. Maybe when he undressed her.”
“Could the print belong to someone other than the killer?”
“Anything’s possible, but I got it off her back, so it isn’t her own. If she’s been captive for a while, it almost has to be the killer’s.”
“What is it? Index finger?”
“Unfortunately, it doesn’t appear to be a finger at all. I can get a print off any section of volar skin-fingers, soles, lips, ears. This is a palm. It could be worse-some courts won’t admit non-hand or -foot prints. But it could be better, too. Although palms are just as unique in pattern as fingerprints, no one is databasing them.”
“So even if your print pays out, we won’t be able to run it through VICAP.”
“Right. We might use it to verify a suspect-once you have one. But that’s it.”
I nodded. “Keep looking.”
“Will do.”
I wandered around a bit longer till I found the impression examiner, a woman about my age named Amelia Escavez. She’d joined the force maybe six months before.
“Whattaya got?” I asked, crouching at her side. God, this felt good. Back in the swing of things. Doing what I did well.
“Tire print.” She tended to be succinct when she spoke to me. Perhaps if I’d ever asked her out to dinner, made a friend of her, she’d be more forthcoming. But of course I hadn’t.
“The killer?”
“Possible. He must’ve used some kind of vehicle to get the body to that plane. Since he couldn’t get through the locked gate, he presumably needed something sturdy enough to make it down that steep off-road slope. And the airport officials tell us none of their personnel has had any reason to be out here recently. So…”
She reached into her field kit, took out a fixative, and began stabilizing the impression. She’d use dental-stone casting or some similar material to transfer the print. I noted that her kit was even bigger than Fielder’s. She seemed ready for anything we might throw at her-evidence vacuum, envelopes, bottles, boxes, cutting implements, disposable filters, glass slides, measuring tools, bindle paper, lifters, acetate covers, lifting tape, even an infrared spectrophotometer. Left the electron microscope in the car, I supposed. Looked cool, though, I had to admit. Maybe I should get a kit. What would I put in mine? Rorschach ink blots, multiphasic personality tests, a copy of The Silence of the Lambs…
“It’s a small print,” she explained. “There was a spot of oil, still somewhat damp, on the pavement. That’s what caught it.”
“Just the one?”
“ ’Fraid so. I looked for a matching opposite-side impression but didn’t get one. This concrete isn’t a very good surface for that sort of thing, absent the oil.”
“Can you identify the tread?”
“I don’t have enough to do it by sight, but once I get it into my computer, I may be able to give you a brand or even make. The FBI has a huge tire tread database.”
“I need anything you can give me now. Can you at least put me in the neighborhood?”
She hesitated. I could see she was reluctant to make an unverified guess that might come back to haunt her if it turned out to be wrong, especially since she didn’t have any reason to trust me. But she did it anyway. Good woman. “Looks like a pickup to me.”
I nodded. Yes, that seemed right. Would make it easier to transport the body, and you could get it down that sharp slope.
“Any footprints?”
“I wish. Sorry, no.”
“You’ll get me a copy of that print?”
“Sure.”
“Lifting material?”