littered with half-full pint glasses, uneaten chicken wings. Some had even left jackets, and in one case, a pair of high-heeled shoes. If it was a set, Dark thought, then it was as if the actors had been fired mid-production, and told to leave everything where it was.
Graysmith’s magic cell-phone credentials had worked. When Dark showed it to Lankford, the lead investigator, he was quickly guided back to the scene of the crime. Two patrolmen were posted as guards, but otherwise they let Dark have his way with the scene.
Which was unreal. How many jurisdictional battles had he fought over the years? How many fights after access to evidence—even with his Special Circs creds in hand?
Dark began to examine the blood-soaked crime scene. First things first—even though the tangle of ropes and bodies in the middle of the room screamed for attention. Dark knew better. He checked every possible entrance (two transoms), hiding place (supply closet, toilet tanks), and crevice (wooden baseboard enclosure) before he turned his attention back to the bodies, ducking under ropes as he searched. There was always the possibility that whoever did this was still here. Waiting. Watching.
He’d learned that the hard way, five years ago.
Finally Dark began to take in the scene, which looked like a marionette show from hell. The bodies of the three young women—Kate Hale, Johnette Rickards, and Donna Moore, according the driver’s licenses left in their purses—were arranged with thin ropes and cords fixed to overhead pipes and the supports of the bathroom stalls. A first set of ropes ran from around their necks and up to the ceiling. A few inches below, each woman’s throat was slit. Quickly, forcefully. Three more ropes ran from their upraised wrists, also up to the ceiling. A final set of ropes bound their waists, securing them horizontally in place. Their hands, still holding their cocktail glasses, were half-filled with blood. The tile floor below them was slick with blood, too.
The killer hadn’t worried about making a mess. He wasn’t a Black Dahlia-style surgeon/slasher, eager to drain his victims of blood then lovingly washing and scrubbing the corpse. No, this killer was more concerned with the scene he was creating.
The cocktail glasses, Dark thought. They’re holding them upright. Would have been far easier to string them up without having to worry about the glasses. Hell, it would have been easier to snap their necks and move on. What did the glasses signify? Why fill them with the victims’ blood? Why target three girls at once? Why not just one?
Killers made choices. Every choice meant something.
Dark pulled out his cell phone, opened the camera app, looked at the screen. Wait. The angle was wrong. Dark took a step back, then over, positioning himself behind the victim in a pink dress. Now the match was perfect, down to the color of ropes. When viewed at the proper angle, they blended into the background. The three victims almost appeared to be alive, lifting their three drinks in a mock celebration of cheer.
Three.
The number wedged itself in Dark’s brain and refused to be shaken loose. The number was the key to this scene. He knew it. Why three?
Dark snapped some quick photos on his phone, but didn’t go overboard. Unless Graysmith was bullshitting him, he’d have complete access to the Philly PD’s forensics reports anyway. Dark had to admit there was a certain exhilaration knowing that he wouldn’t have to catalogue this stuff himself. He was free to stay focused on the big picture—to figure out what these crime scenes were saying.
And who was saying it.
The lead investigator, Lankford, stopped him on the way. “Agent Dark? We have something.”
Lankford brought him around to a tiny office off the main bar. There was a small black-and-white video monitor, cued up and ready. The setup was crude—VHS recorder, black-and-white camera. But it was better than nothing.
“Look at this. We
Graysmith’s magic cell-phone credentials had worked. When Dark showed it to Lankford, the lead investigator, he was quickly guided back to the scene of the crime. Two patrolmen were posted as guards, but otherwise they let Dark have his way with the scene.
Which was unreal. How many jurisdictional battles had he fought over the years? How many fights after access to evidence—even with his Special Circs creds in hand?
Dark began to examine the blood-soaked crime scene. First things first—even though the tangle of ropes and bodies in the middle of the room screamed for attention. Dark knew better. He checked every possible entrance (two transoms), hiding place (supply closet, toilet tanks), and crevice (wooden baseboard enclosure) before he turned his attention back to the bodies, ducking under ropes as he searched. There was always the possibility that whoever did this was still here. Waiting. Watching.
He’d learned that the hard way, five years ago.
Finally Dark began to take in the scene, which looked like a marionette show from hell. The bodies of the three young women—Kate Hale, Johnette Rickards, and Donna Moore, according the driver’s licenses left in their purses—were arranged with thin ropes and cords fixed to overhead pipes and the supports of the bathroom stalls. A first set of ropes ran from around their necks and up to the ceiling. A few inches below, each woman’s throat was slit. Quickly, forcefully. Three more ropes ran from their upraised wrists, also up to the ceiling. A final set of ropes bound their waists, securing them horizontally in place. Their hands, still holding their cocktail glasses, were half-filled with blood. The tile floor below them was slick with blood, too.
The killer hadn’t worried about making a mess. He wasn’t a Black Dahlia-style surgeon/slasher, eager to drain his victims of blood then lovingly washing and scrubbing the corpse. No, this killer was more concerned with the scene he was creating.
The cocktail glasses, Dark thought. They’re holding them upright. Would have been far easier to string them up without having to worry about the glasses. Hell, it would have been easier to snap their necks and move on. What did the glasses signify? Why fill them with the victims’ blood? Why target three girls at once? Why not just one?
Killers made choices. Every choice meant something.
Dark pulled out his cell phone, opened the camera app, looked at the screen. Wait. The angle was wrong. Dark took a step back, then over, positioning himself behind the victim in a pink dress. Now the match was perfect, down to the color of ropes. When viewed at the proper angle, they blended into the background. The three victims almost appeared to be alive, lifting their three drinks in a mock celebration of cheer.
Three.
The number wedged itself in Dark’s brain and refused to be shaken loose. The number was the key to this scene. He knew it. Why three?
Dark snapped some quick photos on his phone, but didn’t go overboard. Unless Graysmith was bullshitting him, he’d have complete access to the Philly PD’s forensics reports anyway. Dark had to admit there was a certain exhilaration knowing that he wouldn’t have to catalogue this stuff himself. He was free to stay focused on the big picture—to figure out what these crime scenes were saying.
And who was saying it.
The lead investigator, Lankford, stopped him on the way. “Agent Dark? We have something.”
Lankford brought him around to a tiny office off the main bar. There was a small black-and-white video monitor, cued up and ready. The setup was crude—VHS recorder, black-and-white camera. But it was better than nothing.
“Look at this. We
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