"Taking jewelry from the victim is not at all uncommon," Nelson pointed out, taking the bottle of water Chuck offered him.
"He didn't take just any jewelry," Lee said. "He took a cross. I think it's significant. It may relate to the victomology-how he chooses his victims."
Butts took a swig of Poland Spring and frowned. "Yeah? How so?"
"He's after good Catholic girls who wear crosses around their necks."
Lee's cell phone beeped, indicating he had a text message. He fished around for it in his pocket, his heart pounding.
When he read the message, though, it simply said: Hey, Boss, when can we meet?
Relief flooded his veins like a sweet river. It was only Eddie. He had completely forgotten Eddie was trying to reach him. He was a little surprised to see Eddie sending text messages-it didn't seem like his style-but he was glad to hear from him.
"Okay," Butts was saying. "So all we have to do is find a loser who fantasizes a lot and lives with his mother. Why don't we just go hang out at a Star Trek convention? You know what we got on this guy? We got bupkes-that's what."
Nelson smiled at him, but it wasn't really a smile-it was a challenge.
"Well," he said, "we'll all just have to work harder, won't we?"
Chapter Twenty-six
Chuck Morton walked down the long cold corridor of the city morgue, his footsteps sharp as gunshots. Of all his duties as a cop, he hated this one the most. As he approached the middle-aged couple at the end of the hall, huddled together, desperately clinging to one another, he recognized the body language. He'd seen it more times than he cared to remember. He took a deep breath as he got closer. The woman was transfixed on the plate-glass window in front of her, but the man turned his head toward him as Chuck approached. On his face, ravaged by worry, was written an unspoken plea Chuck had seen too many times: Tell me this isn't happening-isn't it possible you've made a mistake? Chuck looked through the window at the sheet-draped body on the steel gurney and braced himself for the inevitable flow of grief that would follow.
"Mr. O'Donnell?"
"Yes?" His voice was wary. He was tall, with thick sandy hair.
"I'm Detective Chuck Morton. We need you to-"
The woman interrupted, her voice shrill with pain. "It can't be her! Not Annie-who would want to hurt her?" She clung to her husband's arm, as if that were the only thing preventing her from collapsing onto the floor. Her eyes searched Chuck's face for any hint of reassurance. Her curly dark hair-just like her daughter's-was in disarray, and she looked as if she hadn't slept for days. Her skin was pale, and under the green glow of the fluorescent lights it was a pasty, unhealthy color.
"I'm so sorry, Mrs. O'Donnell," he said. His voice felt disembodied, as if it were coming from someone else. "But we need you to identify your daughter."
The husband turned to his wife. "Look, Margie, if you'd rather not, I can-"
"No!" She cut him off sharply. She turned to Chuck. "I'll stay with my husband."
Chuck nodded to the medical examiner's assistant, who had been waiting next to the body. He was a young Asian man with thick dark glasses. His straight black hair, plastered to his skull, gleamed wetly under the fluorescent lights. He pulled back the sheet, revealing the girl's face. Chuck was relieved to see that he avoided showing any of the rest of her mutilated body. Those details had not been released to the public or to any of the parents.
There was a sharp intake of breath from Mrs. O'Donnell, and silence for several moments-and then it started, a low, keening wail that began at the bottom of the scale and slid up to the high notes in one long gliding crescendo.
"No-o-o-o-o! No-o-o-o-o! Not my Annie, not my girl, my baby, not her! No-o-o-o-o!"
Chuck looked at Mr. O'Donnell, who had folded his wife in his arms as if she were a child. He stood there, rocking her, whispering to her, while Chuck watched miserably, hands at his sides. He hated the sheer senselessness of it all and the impotence he felt, but most of all he hated being a witness to these people's grief. It felt like an invasion of their privacy, as if they were being violated all over again. It ran counter to his own deep longing for privacy, his reticence toward any public display of emotion.
He laid a hand gently on the man's shoulder.
"I have to go-stay as long as you like, and someone will see you out. I'm so sorry."
O'Donnell looked at him with glazed eyes, clearly in shock. Morton knew this, but he also knew there was nothing more he could do for them now-except to find their daughter's killer.
Chuck's cell phone rang.
"Excuse me for a moment," he said, grateful for the interruption, and ducked around the corner to answer it. "Morton here."
"Chuck, it's Lee."
"What's up?"
"There's a new twist-"
"What is it?" Chuck said in a lowered voice. The last thing he needed was the victim's parents to overhear his conversation.
"The priest found blood in the communion wine."
"What?"
"The priest at Saint Francis Xavier went in to prepare for the service tomorrow, and when he went to fill the communion wine carafe, he noticed something odd about it. Turns out there was blood in it."
"Oh, Jesus. So CSI never vetted that-"
"Well, they searched the whole church, but that room was way in the back, and it was locked, with no signs of tampering. I mean, they can go back and dust for prints, but if he didn't leave them at the crime scene, I doubt he got sloppy when he tampered with the communion wine."
"Good lord. Send it to the lab for DNA analysis to find out if it's her blood."
"Butts already did that." There was a pause. Then, sounding reluctant, Lee added, "You know what this means."
"What?"
"He's evolving."
Chuck clicked off his cell phone and looked around at the shiny, antiseptic walls of the morgue, his forehead burning with rage. For the first time, he thought of the killer by the name Butts had picked out for him. You sicko, he said under his breath. You goddamn psychopath Slasher…I'm coming for you, ready or not.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The city sat in Sunday morning stillness as Lee and Nelson sat with Detective Florette in Chuck Morton's office studying crime scene photos. The traffic in the street below was reduced to a sluggish crawl, with none of the usual impatient honking or screeching of brakes, just an occasional engine starting up or the sound of an empty truck rattling by.
Chuck and Detective Butts had not yet arrived, and the three men sat in a lopsided circle around Chuck's desk. On the desk were the case files for Marie Kelleher, Annie O'Donnell, and finally, Jane Doe Number Five-or Pamela, as they now knew her. No one had come forward with a full identification of her yet.
After poor Annie was found, the Queens detective in charge of that investigation had grudgingly admitted there might be a connection and forwarded the files over to Chuck.
"Blood in the communion wine? Talk about gothic," Nelson said, draining the last of a day-old cup of coffee. He made a face as he swallowed the last of the bitter brew. Lee had just finished filling them all in on the latest development in the case.
"How long will it take to get the DNA back?" Nelson asked.
"Usually that kind of thing takes weeks," Lee replied, "unless they put a big rush on it."
"Does it really matter whose blood it is?" Florette asked. "I mean, for your profile of this guy?"
Nelson shrugged. "Not really-unless of course it's his blood. But I think we can safely assume it's hers."
"So this is part of his signature?" Florette said.