“So you think this was one of your extreme raves?” she teased.
He rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated breath. “And then some. They did some cleaning up inside, but left the garbage on the other side of the building. The wind sent it all over kingdom come. The crime scene unit is working inside and out, but contamination is a huge problem. We’re printing the place, but getting anything useable—”
“I know. A couple hundred stoned kids, a complete mess, limited resources. If you need our lab, let me know.”
“Will do.”
The NYPD had a decent crime lab, and because it was local Suzanne preferred to keep evidence here. Because Panetta was a well-respected, well-liked, twenty-two-year veteran, he worked the system well and most of the time could get results faster than if Suzanne shipped evidence to Quantico.
“The press is going to be all over this,” Panetta mumbled.
“No comment.” She never spoke to the press—not after her diatribe five years ago during a missing child case. That had landed her on the evening news and in front of the Office of Professional Responsibility. Further, she’d been left with the moniker “Mad Dog Madeaux.”
“We got a lot of nothing,” Panetta said.
There was extensive physical evidence on all of the victims’ bodies, but not anything they could use to track the killer. The first three victims had multiple sex partners within twenty-four hours of their death, but none of the DNA left behind brought up an ID in the system. They had evidence of eight different males on the first three victims, but none were the same suggesting the killer went to extraordinary lengths to avoid leaving DNA on his victims, and possibly didn’t have consensual or nonconsensual sex. Because of the multiple sex partners and the nature of these extreme parties, the coroner could not determine either way whether the victims had been raped by their killer.
Not having conclusive evidence as to the motive of the killer made profiling him that much harder. A sexual sadist had a different profile than, for example, a man who killed prostitutes because he thought they were whores. Serial killers who raped or tortured their victims would have a different profile than those who didn’t sexually molest their victims. The task force couldn’t even pinpoint whether the killer was one of the party-goers, or whether he waited nearby for a lone female to attack.
Whatever was used to suffocate the victim was taken by the killer—along with one shoe—and their bodies weren’t moved. The coroner was also sure that the victims had died while standing, which suggests that the killer held on to the girls as long as it took for them to die—three to five minutes.
Panetta said, “By the way, this one didn’t die last night.”
“I didn’t inspect the body that closely.”
“The day guard only works Wednesday through Friday. He doubts that the other day guy does much more than a slapdash inspection of the properties. Our Jane Doe might of been here as early as Friday night.”
“Because?”
“Our ex-cop walked through here on Friday afternoon and she wasn’t here then.”
“And you don’t think he’s the killer?” She was only half-joking.
“I don’t think so, but I’ll check him out anyway. I did take a long look at the body, and rigor is already broken. She’s probably been here more than thirty-six hours. The coroner should be able to give us a range.”
“I’ll leave the forensics in your capable hands. I need her identity ASAP, and in the meantime I’ll review the other three victims and re-interview friends. Someone knows something. I’m getting damn pissed at these bratty college kids who zip their lips because they don’t want to get in trouble for illegal drugs and parties, but don’t seem to care that a killer is hunting on their turf.”