Mike nodded. The sour expression on his face seemed a permanent fixture, and was likely to remain so until he got the hell out of this house of horrors. “What have the forensic teams turned up?”
“Damn near nothing. Hair and fiber boys have turned up a few trace elements, but so far they all match clothing found in the victims" closets.”
“What about prints?”
“None.”
“None?” Mike was incredulous. “This killer must’ve been in here for a good long time.”
“Just the same, the dusters found no prints, other than those belonging to the deceased. And not many of those.”
“In their own bedroom?” Mike thought for a moment. “Our killer must’ve wiped the place. Before he left.”
“That was certainly … professional of him.”
“Yeah. So what have we got to go on?”
Tomlinson spread his hands. “Frankly, not a hell of a lot.”
Mike took a step back and surveyed the gruesome scene. The sheets were off the corpses again; the videographers were making their record, preserving this nightmare for all time. The glare of the klieg lights did nothing to soften the grotesqueness of it all, particularly the inhuman mutilation on the right side of the bed.
There’s something I’m missing here, Mike thought quietly. Something that doesn’t add up. But what?
“Who was this guy, anyway?” Mike asked. “The victim, I mean.” Tomlinson had been here barely an hour, but Mike knew he’d have the basics on all the victims. Since Mike had drafted him onto the homicide team a few years back, after a nasty serial killer case, he had proven himself to be a top-notch assistant. Best Mike had ever worked with, in fact. “What’s his name?”
Tomlinson flipped his notebook open. “Name’s Harvey Pendergast. He’s fifty-three, white male, married, slightly overweight and balding. Wears glasses for myopia.”
“What’s he do?”
“He works for the Blaylock Industrial Machinery Corporation. Over in Blackwood. Some kind of middle-management executive. Makes about a hundred and twenty grand a year.”
Mike whistled. “Not bad.”
“I guess he needed it,” Tomlinson commented. “He’s got more clothes in that closet than JCPenney’s.”
Mike allowed himself a wry grin.
“So what do you think?” Tomlinson asked. “An enforcer?”
Mike slowly shook his head. “Doesn’t seem quite right.”
“You said yourself this was a very professional job.”
“Well, it wasn’t an accidental death, that’s for damn sure. But a hit man wouldn’t have taken the time to batter poor Harvey around like that. He would’ve just put a bullet through the man’s head and disappeared.”
“Prescott thinks it was a robbery.”
“Prescott?” Mike’s teeth ground together. “Was he here?”
“Only for a while. He was in the neighborhood and heard about the killings on his scanner. He disappeared just before you arrived.”
“Lucky for him.” Prescott was the department’s other homicide detective. To say that the two did not get along would be an understatement of monumental proportions. “I don’t want that screwup anywhere near this case.”
“Understood.”
“You know these murders are going to get major play in the press. I don’t want anyone mucking up our chances of making a collar.”
“Got it.”
“Why in God’s name would he think it was a robbery?”
“Harvey’s wallet was emptied. Some of his wife’s jewelry appears to have been taken.”
“But the mutilation—”
“Prescott says that was just a dodge. To throw the cops off.”
Mike rolled his eyes. Was it any wonder he couldn’t tolerate Prescott? In addition to being arrogant, in addition to getting his job through political connections instead of by merit, in addition to endangering prosecutions by flouting procedure—he was just stupid! “This was no robbery. No robber would stand around here banging at the victim when he had a gun in his pocket and there was so much more loot in the house.”
“But the stolen jewelry—”
“That was the dodge. A bit of misdirection intended to confuse us.”
“Then you agree with me.”
“What’s your theory?”
“Serial killer. I think this has to be the work of some kind of major crazy.”
Mike thought a good long while before answering. “I don’t know. Sure, the perp’s got to be a little off-kilter to do what he did to that man on the bed. Tying him up. Beating him over and over again. Unless …” His eyes drifted back toward the bedroom. “Unless he had a reason.”
“A reason? What sane reason could there possibly be for that kind of torture?”
Mike turned abruptly, grabbing his coat from the chair. “That’s what I have to figure out.”
Through the high-powered binoculars, his green eyes peered out toward the house that last night had been visited with so much carnage—at his hands. From his secure hiding place across the street, he could watch the furious come and go of the various crime technicians, all going about their separate and specialized tasks, rather like ants in an anthill. They would make all their tests and studies, use all their high-tech paraphernalia … and they would come up with nothing.
He smiled. There was a certain pride a man could take in this sort of work, he realized. To commit an act so horrible, at least by the standards of contemporary society, an act so vilified, and to get totally and utterly away with it—well, one couldn’t help but get a little egoboost out of that. They couldn’t catch him. It simply couldn’t happen. Wasn’t within the realm of possibility.
As he watched, he spotted a face he knew emerging from the house. A man wearing a stained and rather disgusting trenchcoat. He couldn’t think of the man’s name, but he knew he was a police detective. He’d seen the man’s picture in the paper. The World seemed to think he was quite the Sherlock Holmes, that he could solve anything.
He laughed quietly. This time, Sherlock Holmes had met his Moriarty. There was no way that boob in the tacky coat could catch him. No way he could even get close. And even if he did get close—
He laid his hand gently upon the ball-peen hammer still in his coat pocket. He seemed to draw strength from its presence. A current of energy surged through it to him, reminding him that he was invincible, telling him he could destroy anyone who stood in his path.
No, there was no way he could be caught. Which was important. Because he still had work to do. If he was going to find the merchandise.
Still, he cautioned himself, it wouldn’t do to get too cocky. Pride goeth before a fall. And advance preparation was the key to success. Perhaps he should take a few precautions. Vary his routine a bit. Just to keep the police swimming in circles.
His smile broadened. Yes, that was exactly what he would do. It would be smarter that way—and more fun, too. His eyes twinkled in anticipation. After all, variety was the spice of life, right?
And humans, being the resourceful creatures they were, had devised so many different ways to kill. So so many.
“Is something wrong?” Sergeant Tomlinson asked.
Mike rubbed the back of his neck, then scanned the surrounding neighborhood. They were standing in the driveway of the house where the murders had taken place, preparing to get into their respective cars. “I don’t know. I just got a sudden chill for some reason.”
“Probably the aftershock. That scene inside was pretty gruesome.”
“Yeah. I suppose so. Look, when you get back to HQ, I want you to get all available personnel working on this case.”
“Understood.”
“Pick two men and have them start running the details of this crime through the FBI database. See if there are records of any recent murders resembling this one.”