A list of her clients was found by investigating officers, and several of them were subsequently questioned. None of the interviews proved fruitful to the investigation.
Her calendar for the day of her death had been completely blank. No outgoing calls had been made from her studio or cell phone, and the only incoming call for that night, at 9:00 P.M., had come from her husband, informing her of his impending arrival in Los Angeles.
The lock on the front door to her gallery was jimmied with what crime scene techs believed to be a screwdriver or a pocketknife. The assailant had surprised the victim right there in her darkroom and offered no mercy. The medical examiner determined that she was dead within seconds of the attack.
The dismembering, however, had taken considerably more time. The weapons of choice had been a steak knife and a hacksaw, both consistent with the previous killings. Neither had been recovered after a thorough search of the premises.
Blackburn looked again at the estimated time of death. Between 6:00 and 11:00 P.M. Tolan had checked into the Beverly Wilshire at around 10:00 P.M. Which gave him plenty of time to have done the deed.
Flipping back to the autopsy report, Blackburn read through it and found a detailed description and photographs of the emoticon burned into Abby Tolan’s lower lip. If the medical reports for the other victims were equally as detailed, then anyone with access to them — authorized or not — would know the secret the Van Gogh task force had tried to keep.
Todd Hastert had worked for the medical examiner’s office for three years. Could he have discovered that secret and passed it along to Janovic? Could Janovic have somehow turned around and told Tolan? Or what about Jane Doe? She was at Janovic’s apartment. Could she be the connection?
Out of the corner of his eye, Blackburn saw movement on the apartment building’s second-floor walkway. Two lowlifes, a man and a woman in scruffy street clothes, were walking along the railing that overlooked the pool, headed straight for apartment 2F.
When they reached Hastert’s door, the man knocked. Pounded, actually. Blackburn could hear it echoing across the parking lot.
“Hey, Todd! Open up!”
When Hastert didn’t answer, the man pounded the door again while the woman jiggled the knob.
Still no response.
The man and woman said something to each other, then the man looked around to make sure no one was watching. Reaching into his pocket, he brought out a wad of keys, selected one, then gestured to the woman.
She reached into the handbag slung over her shoulder and pulled out what looked like a small ratchet wrench as the man inserted the key into the lock. Taking the wrench from her, he used it like a hammer, tapping it against the back edge of the key.
A bump job. Blackburn was witnessing a B & E.
As the man and woman opened the door and headed inside, Blackburn climbed out of his car and crossed the lot, moving past the pool to the stairway alcove.
He was halfway to the second floor when he heard a scream.
A woman’s scream.
Blackburn bolted, taking the steps two at a time. When he reached the second-floor walkway, the door to 2F burst open and the woman tore out of it, heading in Blackburn’s direction, her expression a mixture of revulsion and terror.
Blackburn pulled his weapon. “Police! Stop right there.”
Surprise filled her eyes as she came to a sudden stop. He moved quickly to her and shoved her against the wall, face first, keeping an eye on the open doorway. “Where’s your boyfriend?”
The woman started crying now. “… still inside.”
“What happened in there? Why’d you scream?”
“… He… there’s a…”
Before she could finish, the man came through the doorway, a shell-shocked look on his face.
Blackburn immediately leveled his Glock at him. “Down! Down on the ground! Now! Hands behind your head!”
The man halted in his tracks and threw his hands up, lowering to his knees.
“Don’t stop,” Blackburn told him. “Get all the way dow—”
In a single, fluid motion, the woman brought her arm up, sweeping a hand back toward Blackburn’s face. He jerked back, but felt a sudden stinging sensation across his forehead. And just as he realized she was carrying a box cutter, blood began to fill his eyes and he stumbled back, hitting the railing.
He brought his Glock around toward her, but his vision was blurred and she was moving too fast. Rushing forward, she slammed her palms against his chest and—
— Blackburn lost his balance, falling backward over the railing. He tried to grab hold, but his fingers merely brushed the painted metal and he was suddenly hurtling downward, blinded now by the blood in his eyes, legs and arms flailing.
Time seemed suspended as he waited for the impact, certain that the moment his head hit the cement he’d be — as his old man used to say — deader than a squashed frog.
Then something amazing happened.
The impact came, and it hurt, but it wasn’t cement he hit. It was water. Glorious, piss-contaminated, unchlorinated, hasn’t-been-cleaned-in-a-month pool water. And before he knew it he was instinctively sucking in a breath—
— as the water surrounded him and he plunged deep into the ice-cold swamp.
By the time he managed to get back to the surface, the two lowlifes were long gone. Blood started to fill his eyes again and he realized she had cut him pretty good. An inch and a half lower and he’d probably be a blind man.
He stuck his head back in the water, clearing away the blood, knowing he had to be inviting a serious infection. He then brought his arm up against his forehead, trying to stop the flow with his coat sleeve.
Feeling foolish nonetheless, he waded toward the pool steps and climbed out, spotting his Glock on the cement a couple yards away. Surprisingly, despite the commotion, there didn’t seem to be any neighbors gawking at him.
Snatching it up, he returned it to its holster, then, keeping his arm to his forehead, moved across the lot to his car. Popping the trunk, he took off his tie, peeled off his coat and shirt, then wrung out the shirt, dribbling rancid pool water into the gutter.
His forehead was still bleeding like crazy.
He found the standard first-aid kit tucked in a corner of the trunk, opened it, unrolled a wad of gauze, and pressed it to his wound. The gauze immediately turned crimson.
Head wounds were always a pain in the ass.
Dumping the pad, he unrolled more gauze, pressed it to his forehead and did his best to tape it in place. Quickly slipping his damp shirt back on, he closed the trunk and crossed back toward the apartment building’s stairway alcove.
He was feeling a little woozy.
Working his way up to the second floor again, he took the walkway toward apartment 2F. As he went, he looked down past the railing to see how far he’d fallen, fairly certain that if he’d hit cement instead of water, he’d be dead.
Cursing himself for allowing the woman to get the upper hand on him, he pushed through the door to 2F and immediately understood why the two had been so anxious to leave.
The apartment itself was nothing special. A few sticks of cheap furniture, a stereo and TV, and a small kitchenette. The place looked lived-in but undisturbed.
The smell, however, was unmistakable.
Following his nose, Blackburn navigated a narrow hallway until he reached the source:
A small bathroom. Just enough room for a sink, a toilet, a tub, and not much more.
Except, of course, for the bloody body parts stacked inside the tub.