free the blade from the skull.
He walked back to the bag and squatted. He tore the rest of the scarlet marabou feathers out of the bag, scattering them in the street, then looked through the bagged peacock feathers with care. Some of the feathers had been bloodied, and in others the vanes were clumped together from damp and grime, but the deeper feathers were pristine. He selected two packages, each with a dozen perfect plumes of iridescent emerald green and royal blue, then walked on down toward the East River.
Jenner woke to his name, the blanket tangled around his chest, his legs bare and chilly. She was standing next to the couch, wearing a T-shirt.
“Jenner,” she said again.
“Are you okay?”
“Please come and sleep in the bed with me.”
His head sank back into the pillow.
“Please, Jenner. For me. I can’t sleep.”
He stood, and followed her to the bed. She slid over, all the way over to the far edge of the bed, and held the sheets open.
When he hesitated, she patted the empty space next to her.
He climbed in; as he reached for the lamp, he saw an almost empty highball glass of whisky on the bedside table.
He turned off the light, then turned back to her. He looked at her, lying there looking at him; in the dark, her hair was edged with silver. He turned away, and she pressed up against him, a slender arm over his chest. She fell asleep before him, and as she did, he realized he was stroking her wrist and the back of her hand.
wednesday,
december 4
When Jenner woke, the sun was glaring through intermittent drizzle, glinting off the wet streets toward the East River.
He needed to see the crime scene photographs from the Pittsburgh crew. The autopsy photos were sloppy Polaroids shot in some local hospital morgue or funeral parlor, the wider shots showing too little, the close-ups hopelessly out of focus. He waited until 9:00 a.m. to call, which was a mistake—Dowling had already been summoned to a four-car pileup on I-81.
The morning passed quickly. Ana seemed quite cheerful, almost smug. She went through his CDs and pronounced Jenner’s taste Not Bad (she means for my age , he thought).
She settled on Radiohead, and hummed along as she made the bed, badly, and tidied the kitchen, putting the plates and dishes back in the wrong cupboards.
Jun stopped by, clearly wanting to meet Ana. Jenner was in the middle of introducing them when Rad Garcia called: Jenner took the phone into the TV room, leaving the two to get acquainted. The ID section had matched fingerprints from the Romen scene to the partials from East Seventh Street. Andie Delore’s preliminary tox screen was negative, the rape kit negative for semen.
Jenner thought for a second, then said, “One thing: there was no sign of forced entry in Romen—it looks like she let him in. I’m thinking that that cop trick may be part of his MO.”
Garcia said that he’d get the word out through Public Affairs, and tossed in a couple of “Detective Jenner” cracks before he hung up.
Jenner called Mr. Delore in Boston, already back at the office. The attorney was his blustery self again, brisk and matter-of-fact. He muttered, “Of course!” when told about 88
j o n at h a n h ay e s
the negative tox, and “Thank God,” to the results of the sexual assault workup; he didn’t ask after Ana.
Now that there were known victims in two states, he wanted to know if the feds would get involved in the investigation. Jenner said the local investigators would make the call after reviewing the issue—the cases had only just been linked.
He asked if Jenner thought involving the Bureau was a good idea; Jenner said he wasn’t sure that the FBI could add anything to the New York City investigation, and the state police were doing the right things in Pennsylvania—Dowling was good, and the criminalists seemed on top of things.
Besides, any involvement by the feds would come at the cost of putting local noses out of joint.
Delore said that
He walked back to the bag and squatted. He tore the rest of the scarlet marabou feathers out of the bag, scattering them in the street, then looked through the bagged peacock feathers with care. Some of the feathers had been bloodied, and in others the vanes were clumped together from damp and grime, but the deeper feathers were pristine. He selected two packages, each with a dozen perfect plumes of iridescent emerald green and royal blue, then walked on down toward the East River.
Jenner woke to his name, the blanket tangled around his chest, his legs bare and chilly. She was standing next to the couch, wearing a T-shirt.
“Jenner,” she said again.
“Are you okay?”
“Please come and sleep in the bed with me.”
His head sank back into the pillow.
“Please, Jenner. For me. I can’t sleep.”
He stood, and followed her to the bed. She slid over, all the way over to the far edge of the bed, and held the sheets open.
When he hesitated, she patted the empty space next to her.
He climbed in; as he reached for the lamp, he saw an almost empty highball glass of whisky on the bedside table.
He turned off the light, then turned back to her. He looked at her, lying there looking at him; in the dark, her hair was edged with silver. He turned away, and she pressed up against him, a slender arm over his chest. She fell asleep before him, and as she did, he realized he was stroking her wrist and the back of her hand.
wednesday,
december 4
When Jenner woke, the sun was glaring through intermittent drizzle, glinting off the wet streets toward the East River.
He needed to see the crime scene photographs from the Pittsburgh crew. The autopsy photos were sloppy Polaroids shot in some local hospital morgue or funeral parlor, the wider shots showing too little, the close-ups hopelessly out of focus. He waited until 9:00 a.m. to call, which was a mistake—Dowling had already been summoned to a four-car pileup on I-81.
The morning passed quickly. Ana seemed quite cheerful, almost smug. She went through his CDs and pronounced Jenner’s taste Not Bad (she means for my age , he thought).
She settled on Radiohead, and hummed along as she made the bed, badly, and tidied the kitchen, putting the plates and dishes back in the wrong cupboards.
Jun stopped by, clearly wanting to meet Ana. Jenner was in the middle of introducing them when Rad Garcia called: Jenner took the phone into the TV room, leaving the two to get acquainted. The ID section had matched fingerprints from the Romen scene to the partials from East Seventh Street. Andie Delore’s preliminary tox screen was negative, the rape kit negative for semen.
Jenner thought for a second, then said, “One thing: there was no sign of forced entry in Romen—it looks like she let him in. I’m thinking that that cop trick may be part of his MO.”
Garcia said that he’d get the word out through Public Affairs, and tossed in a couple of “Detective Jenner” cracks before he hung up.
Jenner called Mr. Delore in Boston, already back at the office. The attorney was his blustery self again, brisk and matter-of-fact. He muttered, “Of course!” when told about 88
j o n at h a n h ay e s
the negative tox, and “Thank God,” to the results of the sexual assault workup; he didn’t ask after Ana.
Now that there were known victims in two states, he wanted to know if the feds would get involved in the investigation. Jenner said the local investigators would make the call after reviewing the issue—the cases had only just been linked.
He asked if Jenner thought involving the Bureau was a good idea; Jenner said he wasn’t sure that the FBI could add anything to the New York City investigation, and the state police were doing the right things in Pennsylvania—Dowling was good, and the criminalists seemed on top of things.
Besides, any involvement by the feds would come at the cost of putting local noses out of joint.
Delore said that
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