Then Spinelli turned his eyes back to me and asked, “Remember that asshole Martin you met in the parking lot?”
“An asshole in the parking lot?” I looked at him. “Oh… yeah. I’m sure his name wasn’t Martin, though.”
He mumbled something under his breath that wasn’t very clear. He then said, “He wants words with you. You know the way to the Alexandria station?”
I did. And the drive over was fairly pleasant, as Janet kept Spinelli occupied, chatting about his life as a CID agent, him boasting about how many bad guys he’d busted and bagged, her filling his ears with admiring things that fed the little prick’s ego.
Incidentally, I lied about the drive being pleasant.
However, it was both illuminating and edifying to watch a pro at work-her, I mean. It is not uncommon for runts, or, these days, altitudinally challenged males, to develop ego complexes, from insecurity to Napoleonic. Clearly Spinelli’s I-love-me wall intimated a man who landed somewhere along that spectrum. I had the sense that Miss Morrow had given him some thought after our first testy session, and settled on a strategy to win his heart and mind. I love scheming, manipulative women, incidentally. And, again, she had great legs.
Anyway, we finally arrived, and Spinelli seemed to know his way around the police station. We ended up inside a big room that looked just like a detective office, with about twenty wooden desks, half of which were manned by guys, some of whom were interviewing people, some of whom were talking on the phone, and some of whom were eating bag dinners.
I pointed out to Spinelli that there were no donuts anywhere in sight, and perhaps we’d come to the wrong place. He didn’t think that was funny. Perhaps it wasn’t.
We entered a glass-enclosed office in the rear of the room, and Lieutenant Martin shooed out two detectives. Spinelli and he eyed each other apprehensively a moment, as Martin pointedly said to me, “Major
… good to see you again. And you must be Miss Morrow?”
“Janet, please.” She handed him her card, which he quickly read and then stuffed into a pocket.
He then asked if we knew why we were there. We indicated we did, so he said, “Okay, good. Please, everybody be seated.” He lifted a photograph off his desk and handed it to Spinelli, who handed it to me, who, after a quick peek, handed it to Janet. She handed it to nobody, but studied it intently for nearly half a minute. Her eyes narrowed, but to the best I could tell, she was emotionally detached. I hadn’t expected her to vomit or anything, but a slight groan or twitch of disgust would’ve been in order.
The photo-black-and-white, a naked corpse resting on her elbows and knees with her bare rump up in the air, hands and feet trussed together, head turned gruesomely back so that her face actually peered over her right shoulder. The floor beneath her was carpeted, and a side table with a stack of magazines was beside her body. This was obviously not the position in which Miss Cuthburt had been murdered, and it occurred to me again that her corpse had been posed in this obscene manner by her killer, an in-your-face message to the police, a vicarious way of shooting the moon. The victim herself-brunette, young, bruised in a number of places, and her facial expression was a study in terror.
“I don’t know her,” Janet informed Lieutenant Martin. She tossed the photo back on his desk.
I said, “Likewise.”
“Please take another look.” He handed us another picture, a color shot, enclosed in a brass frame, showing a young lady in a graduation gown, gripping a diploma, standing between a Mom and Pop bursting with pride and hope. Martin had filched it from Miss Cuthburt’s apartment, obviously. But who cared? She didn’t.
Not a knockout, but Julia Cuthburt had been pretty enough, slender, creamy-skinned, though a bit dreamy and gullible-looking in my view. She had that fresh-off-the-farm look pimps hunt for in young runaways at bus stations, and the next stop was a nightmare. Why is it a look of innocence is nearly always an invitation to evil?
“No, I don’t know her,” Janet informed Martin, and I nodded likewise.
Martin said, “Well, I apologize for dragging you in here. And for this.” He indicated the police photo, and added, “I had to be sure.”
“It’s not an inconvenience,” Janet replied. “I’m here to help in any way I can. When was she killed?”
“Approximately nine o’clock last night.” He stared down at Miss Cuthburt’s photograph. “She was having plumbing problems, and her landlord let himself into her apartment this morning.”
Janet suggested to him, “Implying the killer knew where she lived. Just as he knew Lisa’s car?”
“Don’t assume it’s the same killer.”
“But you obviously think it’s the same man?”
“Don’t stretch the similarities.” He sighed, rubbed his forehead, and insisted, “ Any conclusions would be premature at this point.”
Which was copspeak for, Yes, same guy. Martin struck me as decent and honest, and his studied reticence, or, in civilian parlance, his bald-faced lie, was understandable. If the general public learned a murderous sex maniac was on the loose, his job would get a hundred times harder.
“Evidence in her apartment?” Janet asked.
“That’s the odd thing,” Martin commented. “He cleaned up after himself. He wiped down the tables and even vacuumed the floor. But the forensics people did find some clothing fibers, some rape debris-semen, to be specific-and leather in her fingernails. The lab’s doing a workup. We’ll have his DNA type in a few days, then we’ll look for a match.”
Janet glanced in Spinelli’s direction and said, “So he wore gloves?”
Martin said, “Yes. Deerskin gloves.” Bingo-same guy.
I said, “And you’ll obviously forward the lab results to the FBI?”
“Standard procedure in cases of this nature.”
“The rape?” Janet asked. “Just vaginal?”
“We’re not sure. Swabs from her orifices are at the lab.” He pointed down at her photo and added, “There was semen on her back. Right there.”
Janet suggested, “Indicating that the rapist may have masturbated on her? Or perhaps had an involuntary ejaculation?”
“Or dripped, or missed. You could manufacture many possible explanations. We’ll know when the lab’s finished.”
I said, “In the meantime, you’ve got two murders in three nights. The attacks occurred at roughly the same time, and the broken necks and deerskin gloves suggest it’s our guy.”
Martin replied, “That’s circumstantial. It’s still too early to draw conclusions.”
“Indicating,” I persisted, “a pattern with ugly possibilities. Our killer could be on a spree. He might have a number of victims lined up in advance-”
“There’s no reason to-” Martin said.
“And,” I said over him, “if he’s a creature of habit, and 9:00 P.M. is his witching hour, in thirty minutes or so, a repeat performance could be in the offing.”
Spinelli, who’d been uncharacteristically quiet, stated, “That stays in here.”
“Unless he decides otherwise,” I pointed out.
From the looks Spinelli and Martin exchanged, they’d already had this conversation. If another female was murdered, the public would have to be informed and the fun would begin-single women freaking out, politicians banging the drums, Feds rushing in, task forces forming, hourly press conferences, and a bunch of befuddled cops trying to look and sound confident, which is nearly always a mask for cluelessness.
Janet walked over to the desk, picked up the picture, and studied it again. She asked, “How did he get into her apartment?”
Spinelli scratched his nose. “He picked her locks.”
“Can you be more detailed?”
“Miss Cuthburt had two locks. He employed a special tool to get past the tumbler lock… a bolt cutter to get past the chain.”
“Thank you.” She very insightfully asked, “And how did he keep her silent?”
Martin explained, “A halter… like a modified dog halter with a strap for her throat and a bit that went into her mouth. The killer seems to be into bondage, humiliation, and possibly sadism.” After a moment, he added, “An FBI profiler will be studying the case in the morning.”