That wasn’t good.
After the young man had left the crime scene, Lassiter had followed him to his apartment. He’d waited a half hour for someone to exit the building, and when an elderly woman walked down the stairs, Lassiter had approached her with a big smile. He’d described the man and had asked his name, saying he looked like somebody Lassiter had been in the army with. The neighbor had said he was Paul Winslow. Lassiter had shaken his head and said that no, it wasn’t him. He thanked her and headed off.
Once home, he’d researched Paul Winslow at the address he tracked him to. Very little came up. No Facebook page, Instagram, Twitter, Flickr, LinkedIn... no social media. A criminal background check came back negative too. At the least, it was pretty clear the young man wasn’t a professional law enforcer, just a private meddler.
Which didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.
He might even have seen Lassiter step out of the hiding place in the Shakespeare Garden and grab Ms. Rachel Garner around the neck, throttling her to unconsciousness and then carrying her into the park. For the knife work.
Or seen him slip away from the scene around midnight after he was through. That was more likely; after all, Lassiter had seen Paul staring at the very spot where he’d slipped away from the bloody murder site.
Why hadn’t he called the police then? Well, possibly he’d spent the night debating the pros and cons of getting involved.
It was Paul’s apartment that he was surreptitiously checking out at the moment. His intention had been to follow the young man again and find out where he worked, perhaps learning more about him.
But then, lo and behold, who came knocking at the front door, carrying a big fat file folder?
Detective Carrera, in need of a tan and a workout regimen.
What to do, what to do?
Several thoughts came to mind. But, as always, he didn’t leap to any conclusions right away.
Think, plan. And think some more.
Only then could you act safely and your crimes be successful.
“We did find something,” Al Carrera was telling Paul as he spread the contents of the case file out before them on the coffee table. “In the rocks, where you said the UNSUB waited — Shakespeare Garden.”
“What was it?”
“Indentations that match the bootie prints. And a tiny bit of wrapper, food wrapper. Forensics found it was from one of those energy bars that campers and hikers eat. From the paper and ink analysis we found it was a Sports Plus bar — their four-ounce peanut-butter-and-raisin one. Probably the perp’s, because of the dew content analysis. That told us it’d been dropped on the ground about midnight.”
“Your people are good,” Paul said. He was impressed. He recalled that Sherlock Holmes had his own laboratory. Conan Doyle, a man of science himself, had been quite prescient when it came to forensics.
The detective lifted an envelope, eight and a half by eleven. “These’re the pictures of the crime scenes — and the victims. But I have to warn you. They’re a little disturbing.”
“I don’t know that I’ve even seen a picture of a real body. I mean, on the news I have, but not up close.” He stared at the envelope, hesitated. Finally he nodded. “Okay, go ahead.”
Carrera spread them out.
Paul was surprised to find they were in color — vivid color. He supposed he shouldn’t have been. Why would police photographers use black-and-white when nobody else did nowadays?
As he stared at the unfiltered, bloody images, Paul felt squeamish. But he thought back to the Sherlock Holmes stories and reminded himself to be as detached and professional as his hero.
He bent forward and concentrated.
Finally he offered, “Some observations. He’s really strong. You can see the bruises on their necks. He didn’t have to reposition his hands. He just gripped and squeezed and they went unconscious — not dead, mind you. The amount of blood loss tells us they were stabbed while still alive. Let’s see, let’s see... All right, he’s right-handed. A lefty pretending to be right wouldn’t have gotten the cuts so even in the soft tissue.”
“Good.”
“Also he’s cautious, very aware and observant. Look at his footprints in the dirt at all three scenes. He’s constantly standing up and walking to the perimeter and looking for threats. Smart.”
Carrera wrote.
Paul tapped the picture that showed the perp’s bloody handprint on the ground, perhaps as he pushed himself up to a standing position. “Look at the thumb. Interesting.”
“What?
“It’s not spread out very far — which you’d think it would be if he was using the hand for leverage to rise.”
“I see it.”
“That might mean that he spends a lot of time on a computer.”
“Why?”
“People who regularly type tend to keep their thumbs close in, to hit the spacebar.”
Carrera’s eyebrow rose and he jotted this down too.
Paul gave a faint smile. “He’s a fisherman.”
“What?”
“I’m fairly certain. See those marks on the victims’ wrists?”
“Ligature marks.”
Paul squinted as he shuffled through the pictures. “They’re about the thickness of fishing line. And see how he made those incisions before he removed the victims’ fingers. That’s how you skin fish. And, yes, the energy bar — just the sort of food a fisherman would take with him for lunch or a midmorning snack.”
Paul sat back and glanced at Carrera, who was writing feverishly. The young man said, “If he is a fisherman, which I’m pretty sure he is, he probably has a lake house somewhere in the tri-state area. We know he’s got money. He’s not fishing with the locals in the East River. He’ll go out to the country in his BMW. Wait,” Paul said quickly with a smile, noting Carrera had started to write. “The Beemer’s just a guess. But I’m sure his car’s a nice one. We know he’s upper-income. And the arrogance of the crimes suggests that he’d have an ostentatious car. Mercedes, BMW, Porsche.”
After he finished writing, Carrera asked, “Is there any reason he’d take the index finger?”
Paul said, “Oh, I think it’s an insult.”
“Insult. To who?”
“Well, to you. The police. He’s contemptuous of authority. He’s saying someone could point directly to the killer and you’d still miss it. He’s laughing at you.”
Carrera shook his head at this. “Sonofabitch.”
Paul looked over the pictures once more. “The laughing fisherman,” he mused, thinking that would make a good title for a Sherlock Holmes story: “The Adventure of the Laughing Fisherman.”
Carrera snapped, “Laughing at us, the prick.”
Then Paul cocked his head. “Fish...”
“What?” Carrera was looking at Paul’s focused eyes as the young man strode to his computer and began typing. After a moment of browsing he said, “There’s fishing in Central Park — the Lake, the Pond, and Harlem Meer. Yes! I’ll bet that’s where your perp goes fishing... for his victims.” He glanced at Carrera eagerly. “Let’s go take a look, maybe see if we can find another wrapper or some other evidence. We could set up surveillance.”
“It’s not authorized for a civilian to go on field operations.”
“I’ll just tag along. To observe. Offer suggestions.”
Carrera debated. “Okay. But if you see anyone or anything that looks suspicious, I take over.”