King folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket.
“We’ll figure it out,” Hank said, and turned to King. “We’d better take a look inside.” He reached into his jacket, pulled out two pairs of booties, and handed a pair to King. The detectives went to the entrance, stepped inside, and put the shoe coverings on.
Hank glanced down the long, narrow hallway, now a hub of activity. A CSI photographer was crouched beside the body, halfway down the corridor, his camera flashing. Beyond him, a doorway at the end of the hall was open.
Doorknobs and walls had been brushed for fingerprints, the floor tested for footprints.
Hank moved toward the body, carefully avoiding glass shards littering an area a few feet inside the entrance. He stepped past an aluminum ladder that was pushed against the wall and approached lead investigator Rod Jameson.
“Morning, Rod,” Hank said. “Do we know who the victim is yet?”
“Hey, Hank,” Rod said, glancing at his clipboard. “The vic’s name is Raymond Ronson, according to his driver’s license. Sixty-eight years old.” He cocked a thumb toward the exit door. “That’s his Beetle outside. Registered in his name. According to one of the staff, he’s the janitor here.”
“Anything else you can tell us?” King asked.
“Not yet. A few prints. We’re still trying to figure out exactly what went on here.”
“Anything inside the main school area?”
“Not sure yet,” Rod said. “But we’ve secured the entire building. Evacuated all the staff and students.”
“Thanks, Rod,” Hank said. He moved further down the hall, stopped in front of a broom laying haphazardly in the middle of the corridor, and pointed it out to King. “Looks like he was about to sweep up the glass.”
Hank stepped over the broom and approached the body. He crouched down and gazed at the victim a moment. His blood boiled and he sighed deeply, remembering the victim had a name. It was Raymond Ronson, and he didn’t deserve this.
He took a deep breath, pushed his feelings aside, and leaned in, peering closely at the screwdriver. It protruded from the dead man’s chest, the shirt surrounding the area soaked with crimson.
King crouched beside Hank and pointed at the bloody shirt. “Looks like he was stabbed twice. The shirt is ripped here as well,” he said, indicating a blood-soaked area near the victim’s shoulder.
“If my anatomy is correct, the second blow is right through the heart,” Hank said. “That’s the one that killed him.” He leaned in, squinted, then looked at King. “There’s something in his mouth. I’d say it’s a rosebud.”
King looked closer. “That connects it to Adam Thorburn, no doubt.”
“Morning, Hank, King.”
Hank glanced toward the sound of the voice. It was Nancy Pietek. The medical examiner stepped gingerly over the broom and approached the body.
“Morning, Nancy,” Hank said, moving back to give the ME some room to crouch down and do a preliminary inspection.
Nancy glanced at the victim as she pulled on a pair of surgical gloves. She rolled the body slightly, lifted the victim’s shirt and peered at his back. She tested the joints, felt the skin, then looked at Hank and announced, “Time of death approximately twelve hours ago.”
Hank glanced at his watch. “About nine o’clock last night.”
“How accurate is that?” King asked.
Nancy looked at King. “Pretty close. Perhaps a half hour either way.”
King turned to Hank. “The timestamp on the email was nine fifty-four, so assuming Nancy is accurate on the time of death, it looks like the message was sent after the victim died.”
“Which means the killer sent the email,” Hank said.
Nancy leaned over the body. She worked the victim’s mouth open, reached in with two fingers, and removed a rosebud. She held it up for the detectives to see. “It appears to be the same as the last one.”
Hank squinted at the rose. “Looks the same to me.”
Nancy tucked it into an evidence bag. “I’ll get it checked out to be sure.”
Hank stood and glanced down the hallway toward the exit. There was a door on one wall of the corridor. He moved down the hall, stepped over the glass, and opened the door. His eyes roved around a small supply room. Tools hung neatly on the walls, more on a workbench. A box of fluorescent bulbs leaned in a corner, a coil of electrical wire on the floor, a power saw resting on a sawhorse.
His attention was caught by an empty spot on the wall where a screwdriver should be hanging along with the rest of the set. It had to be the murder weapon.
He glanced around the room again, then moved back into the corridor and shut the door. King beckoned toward him from the end of the hallway.
Hank went toward King and followed him past the body. King pointed at the floor. Hank crouched down and frowned at the spots of red, spaced at even intervals, leading from the body, through the door, and into the main area of the school. Hank followed the patches. They faded away after a few feet.
Hank stood and looked at King. “The killer tracked through the blood, then went down this hallway.”
“Probably to send the email,” King said.
Jameson approached them. “We got some photos of that. It looks like we have clear footprints near the body, less clear as we move this way. Probably about a size eleven shoe.”
“Size eleven,” Hank said, his brow wrinkled. “If I recall correctly, the report on the search of the Thorburn house noted Adam Thorburn’s shoes are a size eleven.”
King dug the email from his pocket and handed it to Jameson. “See if you can find out what computer this was sent from.” He pointed at the return email address. “Likely from the main office.”
Jameson took the email and browsed it. “Shouldn’t be a problem,” he said. “We’ll find the computer and check for prints.”
Hank looked at King. “Are we done here? Can you think of anything else?”
King shrugged. “I think we have it covered.”
“Then let’s get out of here and catch this guy,” Hank said. “Why don’t you see if you can find any of the staff who knew our victim? They might be able to shed some light on this.”
“Will do, Hank.”
“I need to talk to the Lincolns, then I have to find out if Mr. Ronson has any next of kin and make a visit.”
Hank moved back into the corridor, gazed down at the body, and sighed. Despite the pale white face, the victim still had a gentle look about him. Raymond Ronson didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would harm anyone, and it angered Hank.
The senseless death of innocent victims always did that to him. And it wasn’t just the death of the victim. It affected the person’s family, friends, and everyone around him.
More than one person’s life had been changed forever because of this violent act. Hank gazed at the body and doubled his vow to track down Adam Thorburn and bring him to justice any way he could.
Chapter 20
Wednesday, 9:52 a.m.
JAKE LEANED against the fender of the Firebird, his arms crossed, watching the proceedings outside the school. He glanced over toward Annie. She was chatting with one of the uniformed officers whose task it was to keep the crowd from getting too close.
Jake wanted to find out if Hank had discovered anything during his study of the crime scene that would help in the search for Adam Thorburn. He wasn’t all that particular about who eventually found the killer; whether it was them or Hank, he didn’t care, he only wanted Thorburn tracked down like the dog he was.
He looked toward the service door as Hank stepped out, removed his shoe coverings and rolled them up, stuffing them into a side pocket of his jacket. The cop glanced toward Jake, raised a finger, and spoke to the officer at the door.