"We'll get you desks and stuff tomorrow," Renz had assured Quinn.
That had been two days ago. Quinn and Fedderman were still working out of Quinn's apartment, or sometimes the claustrophobic room Fedderman had rented in a residence hotel in the Nineties.
They were in Quinn's den today, the contents of the murder files arranged in something like chronological order before them on the floor. Quinn was seated in his desk chair, which he'd rolled out from behind the desk, leaning out over the mess on the carpet with his elbows on his knees, gazing down like God at His miscreants. Fedderman was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. He'd become almost bald on top, his graying hair too long on the sides and curling over his ears. His pants were wrinkled, and his brown suit coat was wadded in a chair. Fedderman had no respect for clothes. They didn't like him, either. He was tall and narrow-shouldered, and nothing seemed to fit his thin, awkward body, with the potbelly and abnormally long arms.
"What we know," Quinn said, "is both victims were brunettes, in their thirties, attractive though not raving beauties. They both were drowned before they were butchered. No signs of sexual activity. No semen found in the bodies or anywhere at the scenes."
"Probably untaped after death," Fedderman said. "He wouldn't want them splashing all over the place in the bathtub while he was holding them under."
"And he took the used tape with him."
"Neatnik," Fedderman said.
"Trauma to the heads of both victims before death."
Fedderman nodded and nudged one of the morgue shots with the unpolished toe of his brown shoe. "Sequences probably the same. No indications of forced entry into either apartment. So he's let in, whaps them in the head, and undresses them and tapes them up while they're unconscious. Then he carries them into the bathroom and places them in the tub. He makes sure the stopper's engaged and turns on the water."
"That's probably when they come to," Quinn said.
Fedderman thought about that. "Yeah, the cold water. Then they realize where they are, the fix they're in. Jesus!"
"When the water's high enough, he turns it off and drowns them," Quinn said.
"Thank God for that, considering what comes next."
"He wouldn't let them just sit there and drown. Their heads would be too high, anyway, and he wouldn't want them struggling, even taped tight like they were. They'd still be able to splash around some. Maybe work loose the tape over their mouths and make some noise."
"So he holds them under," Fedderman said.
"Then, when they're dead, he removes the tape and uses the tools he's brought with him to start carving."
"Ignores the knives in the kitchen?"
"Has so far."
"Must have brought his tools in a box or a bag of some sort."
"Uh-huh. Maybe somebody noticed. Something to check."
"Gets together all his cleaning agents first," Fedderman said. "Before he starts to carve. No blood in the kitchen. None in the cabinets where the stuff would have been kept."
"Yeah, sounds right. He uses the shower curtain to protect the floor, so he won't be walking or kneeling in blood while he's…" Quinn paused and gave his cigar a George Burns look, even the faint smile. It occurred to him how good it felt to be having one of these give-and-take conversations with Fedderman again, homing in on the facts, or at least the hypothesis, and nudging ideas alive. "No, Feds, he's got to undress. He'd be working nude, even before he drowns them. Wouldn't want to get his clothes wet. Somebody might notice when he leaves."
Fedderman nodded. "Shower curtain keeps whatever mess there is outside the tub contained. I'd say he opens up his victims and sits there a while and lets them bleed out in the tub, much as possible without a heartbeat, then washes the blood down the drain and begins his carving. Probably just gets residue blood on his hands and arms, maybe upper body; easy to wash off, while he's cleaning the body parts."
"Then he cleans his tools."
"After stacking the severed body parts in the tub." Fedderman looked disgusted, maybe a little scared, his features as mismatched as his clothes. "What the hell have we gotten ourselves into, Quinn?"
"Nothing we haven't been in before."
Or is it?
"Body parts stacked exactly the same way," Quinn said, pressing on, "in the same order."
"And everything washed so clean," Fedderman said. "Like maybe he was trying to wash away his sins."
Take me to the river… Quinn sat back in his chair. "It's still too early to get inside this one's head. We can't make any assumptions. Other than he's one sick cookie, and he's got a thing about brunettes."
"Lots of us have a thing about brunettes."
"I talked to the ME," Quinn said. "Near as he could make out, sharp knives, and probably a cleaver or hatchet of some kind, were used to disassemble these women. But some body parts would be too difficult to remove with a knife or cleaver. The severed large bone ends suggest a saw was used. Because of the finely serrated blade, most likely a power saw."
"Dangerous to use one of those around water, even a portable with a battery. Might get your ass electrocuted."
"Still, my guess is he used a portable. They're quieter. And they make them plenty powerful enough for the job now. He'd be using it after the water was gone from the tub, and most of the blood and other body fluids were drained from his victims."
"Like in a butcher shop." Fedderman made his disgusted face again.
"Exactly like, Feds. He did butcher them." Quinn sighed and let his gaze roam over the photographs, statements, and reports arranged on the carpet. "Apparently the two victims didn't know each other and had no friends or acquaintances in common."
"That's ground we can go over again," Fedderman said. "They might have frequented the same bar or restaurant, shopped at the same store."
"One lived on the East Side," Quinn pointed out, "one on the West."
"They had one thing in common, anyway. The killer."
"Yeah, they-"
The phone rang, interrupting Quinn.
He scooted with his feet so his chair rolled closer to the desk, then stretched out an arm and lifted the black plastic receiver. Said, "Quinn."
After a while: "Uh-huh." He rolled the chair even closer so he could reach a pen and make a note on a pad on the desk corner. "You sure about the address?"
Apparently, whoever had called was sure.
"We're leaving now," Quinn said, and hung up.
Fedderman knew better than to try a guess at what the conversation was about. Quinn was always the same on the phone, calm, almost mechanical. He'd tell Fedderman when he was ready.
"Better straighten your tie, Feds," Quinn said, standing up from his chair. "That was Renz. We've got a third victim, woman named Ida Ingrahm, 197 West Eighty-second Street, apartment six-B."
Fedderman jotted down the name and address in his own note pad. "Not far from here." He stood up slowly, unfolding in mismatched sections, gave his tie a tug, and shrugged into his wrinkled suit coat.
He pulled down his right shirtsleeve and rebuttoned its cuff. Something about the way he wrote, or maybe the cheap shirts he wore, made his right cuff button always come undone. He was adjusting the baggy coat so his shoulder holster didn't show, when he suddenly stopped and stared at Quinn.
"You positive about that location?"
"I had Renz repeat it," Quinn said. "Pearl's old address."
6
The victim's was a small, corner apartment that looked a lot neater than when Pearl had lived in it. For one thing, it was completely painted. Pearl had always been in the process of painting the place, never finishing. There were no newspapers or magazines strewn on the floor, and the furniture looked…well, arranged.