Hands, feet, arms, legs, torso.
And the head, which was facing the doorway, lifeless eyes frozen open and staring directly at Blackburn.
The lifeless eyes of Todd Hastert.
39
The paramedic tossed the bloody gauze aside and put a butterfly bandage on Blackburn’s forehead.
“Cut’s pretty deep,” he said. “You might want to come to the hospital, get some stitches.”
“Maybe later.”
Blackburn thought about what that would look like, imagining the cops at the station house calling him Frankenstein. Not that he cared what they thought, but it would just be another in a long list of annoyances he’d have to endure.
He thanked the paramedic and headed back upstairs to where Rossbach, Worsley, and a couple other task force members — along with a crime scene unit — were crowded into Todd Hastert’s tiny apartment.
Worsley scowled at him when he walked in the door. “Thanks for dripping pool water all over the crime scene, genius.”
Blackburn ignored him and approached Rossbach, whose gaze immediately went to Blackburn’s forehead.
“Jesus. Half an inch lower and you woulda lost your—”
“I know, I know. You call Carmody? She’ll want to be part of this.”
“There’s already enough cooks in this kitchen.”
“So what’re we cooking?”
Rossbach sighed. “Assistant M.E. says it’s there. The mark. We’re definitely looking at another Vincent hit.”
Blackburn shook his head. “I’m not buying it. Do we have a time of death?”
“Sometime last night, between ten and midnight.”
“So this guy was done first. Before Janovic.”
“It’s looking that way.”
“Makes me think it’s even less likely that Vincent did this. Two in one night? Not really his style.”
“What the fuck is his style, Frank? I’ve been thinking about this sonofabitch for over a year now and I still can’t figure him out.”
“Don’t forget the two victims knew each other. You take a look at Hastert’s bank records, I’ll lay odds you’ll find some recent deposits. Somebody paying him off.”
“For what?”
“Same as Janovic. To keep his mouth shut. They were partners.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s Tolan,” Blackburn said. “Hastert used to work at the medical examiner’s office. Which means he could’ve known Vincent’s M.O. Either he or Janovic leaked crime scene details to Tolan, and when they figured out what he used them for, they put the finger on him.”
“And you think Tolan got tired of paying, so he did this?”
“That’s the long and the short of it.”
“Where’s the connection? How does Tolan even know these guys?”
“Good question.”
“Well, until you work it out, hot shot, I’m running on the assumption that Vincent’s our man.”
“Big mistake, Jerry. Vincent’s in the wind and has been for a year.”
Rossbach snorted. “I think it’s safe to say you’re in the minority with that opinion. But I won’t hold it against you.”
Fuck you, Blackburn thought, but said nothing. Instead, he just shrugged and pushed past him, moving deeper into the apartment.
Navigating the narrow hallway, he passed the bathroom, where crime scene techs were carefully cataloging and bagging the body parts.
Hastert’s bedroom had about as much personality as the rest of the place. A queen-sized bed, dresser and nightstand. The bed unmade. Dirty clothes scattered on the floor.
If Hastert was collecting money, he wasn’t spending it here.
Taking out a pair of latex gloves he’d gotten from the crime scene kit in the trunk of his car, Blackburn snapped them on and started working the room, opening and closing drawers in the dresser, finding a sparse assortment of socks and underwear, blue jeans, T-shirts. Nothing even remotely interesting.
In a corner near the bed were three stacks of paperback books. Blackburn crouched next to them and studied the spines. Crime novels, medical thrillers, legal thrillers, horror stories. He recognized a few of the writers. His second wife had been a book nut and some of it had rubbed off on him.
He knew this was a long shot, but taking them one by one, he leafed through the pages, looking for makeshift bookmarks: bank stubs, credit card receipts, anything that might possibly connect the guy to Tolan.
Nothing.
Moving to the nightstand, he pulled the drawer open and found another paperback — something called The Cleaner—along with a pair of reading glasses and two prescription bottles.
Picking up one of the bottles, he glanced at the label. Twenty capsules of Vicodin. County General Pharmacy. Prescribed by a Dr. Wilson.
Returning it to the drawer, he picked up the second bottle. The date on the label was a year old. County General Pharmacy again, this one for Paxil — which Blackburn knew to be a depression killer, like Prozac. The name of the doctor was Soren.
Soren, Blackburn thought. That name sounded familiar. Where had he heard it before?
Then it hit him.
Hadn’t Tolan once been partnered with a guy named Soren? Back when he was in private practice?
Blackburn was almost sure of it. But if anybody would know, it would be Carmody.
Unclipping his cell phone from his belt, he started to dial before he realized his dunk in the pool had killed it.
Shit.
Crossing back to the hallway, he flagged a crime scene tech. A guy named Abernathy. “You got a phone I can use?”
“Sure, Frank.” Abernathy dug his phone out of his pocket, handed it over, and Blackburn quickly punched in Carmody’s number.
Her line rang several times, then switched over to voice mail.
What the hell? Why wasn’t she answering?
After the message came on and the line beeped, Blackburn said, “Hey, Sue, call dispatch and have them contact me as soon as you get this. My cell phone’s kaput and I’m thinking I may have found something here.”
He clicked off, knowing his next step was to pick up a new phone, change his clothes, then visit Dr. Soren. He dialed again, and when De Mello picked up, he said, “I need an address.”
“Glad you called,” De Mello said. “Got a curious little morsel here for you.”
“Oh? What’s up?”
“I finally heard back from the company who supplied that photo clip of Bikini Girl. They gave me the name of the photographer who sold it to them.”
“And? Do we know who the model was?”
“No,” De Mello said, “and I doubt we ever will.”
“Why?”
“Because the photographer is dead.”
“Wonderful. Is there any way we can get hold of his records?”
“You might want to ask Tolan about that. The photographer was his wife.”
40
Lisa had left four more messages for Michael and still no word from him. In the time since he’d left, the police had gone as well, without explanation. Then Clayton Simm showed up, fresh from a shower.
She spotted him, coming in through one of the private entrances. She knew Michael thought highly of him, but she’d never really understood it. Thought he was a bit too arrogant for his own good.
“What brings you here in the middle of the afternoon?”
“You’re lucky I’m here at all,” he said, tucking his card key into his breast pocket. “Cops called me. They got a witness they want me to look at. I checked her in this morning.”
“SR-three? The Jane Doe?”
“That’s the one.”
“I thought Michael was covering that.”
“So did I. But that asshole cop — whatshisname — told me there was some kind of conflict of interest. Says Michael wants me to take over.”