“Yessir.” Carrera tried to sound like he hadn’t suspected Paul, but in fact even Lestrade in the Sherlock Holmes books would have had him checked out.
Still, at the moment, the detective actually offered what seemed to be a warm handshake. “Thanks for your help, Mr. Winslow. We don’t always find such cooperative citizens. And helpful ones too.”
“My pleasure.”
Carrera pulled on gloves and put the bud in a plastic bag. He then walked toward the garden.
As Paul turned back to examine the scene, a voice behind him asked, “Excuse me?”
He turned to see a balding man, stocky and tall, in tan slacks and a Polo jacket. Topsiders. He looked like a Connecticut businessman on the weekend. He was holding a digital recorder.
“I’m Franklyn Moss. I’m a reporter for the Daily Feed.”
“Is that an agricultural newspaper?” Paul asked.
Moss blinked. “Blog. Feed. Like RSS. Oh, that was a joke.”
Paul gave no response.
Moss asked, “Can I ask your name?”
“I don’t know. What do you want?” He looked at the recorder. Something about the man’s eager eyes, too eager, made him uneasy.
“I saw you talking to the cop, Carrera. He’s not real cooperative. Kind of a prick. Between you and I.”
You and me, Paul silently corrected the journalist. “Well, he was just asking me if I saw anything — about the murder, you know. They call that canvassing, I think.”
“So, did you?”
“No. I just live near here. I came by forty-five minutes ago.”
Moss looked around in frustration. “Not much good stuff, this one. Everything was gone before we heard about it.”
“Good stuff? You mean the body?”
“Yeah. I wanted to get some pix. But no luck this time.” Moss stared at the shadowy ring of bushes where the woman had died. “He rape this one? Cut off anything other than the finger?”
“I don’t know. The detective—”
“Didn’t say.”
“Right.”
“They always play it so close to the damn chest. Prick, I was saying. You mind if I interview you?”
“I don’t really have anything to say.”
“Most people don’t. Who cares? Gotta fill the stories with something. If you want your fifteen minutes of fame, gimme a call. Here’s my card.” He handed one over. Paul glanced at it and then pocketed it. “I’m writing a sidebar on what people think about somebody getting killed like this.”
Paul cocked his head. “I’ll bet the general consensus is they’re against it.”
All the next day, Paul had been in and out of the apartment constantly, visiting the crime scenes of the Upper East Side Slasher, getting as close as he could, observing, taking notes. Then returning and, as he was now, sitting at his computer, continuing his research and thinking hard about how to put into practical use everything he’d learned from his immersion in the Sherlock Holmes books.
His doorbell rang.
“Yes?” he asked into the intercom.
“Yeah, hi. Paul Winslow?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Detective Carrera. We met the other day. In Central Park?”
Hm.
“Sure. Come on up.” He hit the button to unlock the door.
A moment later there came a knock on the door. Paul admitted the detective. Breathing heavily from the two-story walkup — he apparently hadn’t waited for the elevator — the man looked around the apartment. Maybe his cop training precluded him from saying, “Nice digs,” or whatever he would say, but Paul could tell he was impressed by the small but elegant place.
His trust fund was really quite substantial.
“So,” Paul said. “Did you check me out? I’m guessing you did, ’cause you don’t have your handcuffs out.”
Carrera, who was carrying a thick dark-brown folder, started to deny it but then laughed. “Yeah. You weren’t much of a suspect.”
“Perps do come back to the scene of the crime, though.”
“Yeah, but only the stupid ones give the cops advice... and good advice, in your case. The shoe was a Ferragamo, size twelve — you got a good eye. So our perp’s pretty well-off.”
“And you checked the indentation?”
“It was pretty deep. He’s a big man, so the shoe’s probably the right fit.”
“How old was the shoe?”
“They couldn’t tell wear patterns.”
“Too bad.”
“And you were right about the jacket. The street cleaner didn’t really see the logo. He was speculating — because it was black and had the cut of a Yankees jacket his kid owns. Trying to be helpful. Happens with witnesses a lot.”
“Remember the back lighting. It might not have been black at all. It could have been any dark color. Can I get you anything?”
“Water, yeah. Thanks.”
“I’m having milk. I love milk. I drink a glass a day, sometimes two. You want some milk?”
“Water’s fine.”
Paul got a glass of milk for himself and a bottle of Dannon for the detective.
He returned to find the man studying the shelves. “Man, you got a lot of books. And that whole wall there — true crime, forensics.”
“I’m thinking maybe someday I’ll study it. Go to school, I mean. I’ve got degrees in math and science.”
“That’s a good start. All the good crime scene cops I know have science backgrounds. Hey, let me know if you need advice on where to go, what courses to take.”
“Yeah? Thanks.”
Carrera turned away and said, “Mr. Winslow?”
“Paul.”
“Okay, and I’m Al. Paul, have you heard that sometimes police departments use civilians when there’s a tough investigation going? Like psychics.”
“I’ve heard that. I don’t believe in psychics. I’m a rationalist.”
“Is that somebody who doesn’t believe in the supernatural?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, that’s me too. But one thing I have done in the past is use consultants. Specialists. Like in computer work. Or if there’s been an art theft, we’ll bring in somebody from a museum to help us.”
“And you want me to be a consultant?” Paul asked, feeling his heart pounding hard.
“I was impressed, what you told me in the park. I’ve brought some files from the UNSUB two-eight-seven homicides — that’s what we call the perp.”
“Police don’t really use the word slasher much, I’d guess.”
“Not too, you know, professional. So, Paul. I was wondering if you could take a look at them and tell us what you thought.”
“You bet I would.”
George Lassiter was upset.
The forty-year-old Manhattanite, whose nickname in the press was the sensationalist but admittedly accurate “Upper East Side Slasher,” had a problem.
No one was more meticulous than he was when it came to planning out and committing his crimes. In fact, part of the relaxation he experienced from murder derived from the planning. (The actual killing — the execution, he sometimes joked — could be a letdown, compared with the meticulous planning, if, say, the victim didn’t scream or fight as much as he’d hoped.)
Taking scrupulous care to select the right kill zone, to leave minimal or confusing evidence, to learn all he could about the victim so there’d be no surprises when he attacked... this was the way he approached all his crimes.
But apparently he’d screwed up in the latest Central Park murder near Shakespeare Garden and Turtle Pond a few nights ago.
The solidly built man, dressed in slacks and a black sweater, was now outside an apartment on Eighty-Second Street, on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Lassiter had returned to the crime scene the next morning, to see how far the police were getting in the investigation, when he’d noted a skinny young man talking to Albert Carrera, whom Lassiter had identified as the lead detective on the case. The man seemed to be giving advice, which Carrera was obviously impressed with.