sweat-stained T-shirt. As with the first girl, her face was peaceful in death, and there was no sign of sexual molestation or violence of any kind.
By far the oddest thing was the location of the body. She was stretched out on the grave of Herman Melville.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“What the hell?” Butts asked Lee as they stared at the tombstone. It was a simpler design than the grand monuments around it, but that made it even more touching. A single headstone with a blank scroll entwined with vines had been carved into the granite, underneath it the writer’s name with the dates of his birth and death.
HERMAN MELVILLE
AUGUST 1, 1819 – SEPTEMBER 28, 1891
Lee shook his head. “I don’t know what it means exactly, but it was obviously purposeful.” He was beginning to think this killer did nothing randomly—which made him easier to analyze, but more dangerous. Organized criminals were always more dangerous.
He and Butts knelt next to the victim’s body. She didn’t especially resemble the first victim, Candy Nugent, who was a petite brunette. This girl was on the tall side, with a muscular athletic build and a sandy ponytail. There was no bruising—except for a small puncture wound in the crook of her right arm.
“Looks like this is where he inserted the needle,” Butts remarked.
“Yeah,” Lee agreed. “He definitely knows what he’s doing. Give me a minute, will you?” he said to Butts, who stood up, brushing the leaves and twigs from his trousers.
Quinlan walked up to them and started to ask a question, but Butts signaled him to be quiet. “Doc likes to have a moment to himself,” he whispered. “To try and get into the head of the killer like, y’know?”
The burly sergeant nodded. Extracting a cigarette from a crumpled pack of Marlboros, he lit it and took a deep drag.
“That shit will kill you,” Butts remarked.
“Everything kills you sooner or later,” Quinlan replied, taking another pull from the cigarette. The smoke curled and twisted in the air above his head before floating, ghostlike, over the row of tombstones.
“Okay,” Lee murmured. “So you leave her here, in front of Melville’s grave ... but why? Is it because you struggle with the concepts of good and evil in Moby-Dick ? Or maybe it was because Melville was deeply bitter at the end of his life ... is that it? Are you bitter?” he asked softly.
Lee stood up and beckoned to Sergeant Quinlan, who stubbed the cigarette out on the sole of his shoe and placed it carefully back in the pack to avoid contaminating the crime scene. Or maybe he was saving it for later. With the heavy taxes the feds had recently imposed on cigarettes, a pack in New York City could go for as much as seven dollars.
“You seen everything you need to see?” said Quinlan. “Ready for the techs to do their thing?”
“Yeah,” said Butts. “We got what we need for now.”
Quinlan motioned to the crime scene crew and stepped aside so they could go to work. “What do you figure—guy’s a weirdo, right?”
“Yes,” Lee said, “to put it mildly.”
Quinlan shivered. “Creepy. The whole thing gives me the willies. What kind of pervert drains the blood from his vic?”
One of the techs, a slim young Asian man, called to them.
“We found something you might want to have a look at.”
In his hand was a single piece of paper. Butts slipped on a pair of rubber gloves and carefully held it up for the others to read. It was regular white paper, the kind you could get in any office supply store, and on it was printed a single stanza of what looked to be a poem.
The youth that time destroyed can live in me again
But I require blood—the time is coming when
I’ll come to you at night, as the owl hoots at the moon
I’ll be by your side to watch you as you swoon
“What do you make of it?” asked Quinlan.
“Looks like some kind of gothic poem,” said Lee.
“Or maybe it’s lyrics from a song,” Butts suggested. “My kid listens
By far the oddest thing was the location of the body. She was stretched out on the grave of Herman Melville.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“What the hell?” Butts asked Lee as they stared at the tombstone. It was a simpler design than the grand monuments around it, but that made it even more touching. A single headstone with a blank scroll entwined with vines had been carved into the granite, underneath it the writer’s name with the dates of his birth and death.
HERMAN MELVILLE
AUGUST 1, 1819 – SEPTEMBER 28, 1891
Lee shook his head. “I don’t know what it means exactly, but it was obviously purposeful.” He was beginning to think this killer did nothing randomly—which made him easier to analyze, but more dangerous. Organized criminals were always more dangerous.
He and Butts knelt next to the victim’s body. She didn’t especially resemble the first victim, Candy Nugent, who was a petite brunette. This girl was on the tall side, with a muscular athletic build and a sandy ponytail. There was no bruising—except for a small puncture wound in the crook of her right arm.
“Looks like this is where he inserted the needle,” Butts remarked.
“Yeah,” Lee agreed. “He definitely knows what he’s doing. Give me a minute, will you?” he said to Butts, who stood up, brushing the leaves and twigs from his trousers.
Quinlan walked up to them and started to ask a question, but Butts signaled him to be quiet. “Doc likes to have a moment to himself,” he whispered. “To try and get into the head of the killer like, y’know?”
The burly sergeant nodded. Extracting a cigarette from a crumpled pack of Marlboros, he lit it and took a deep drag.
“That shit will kill you,” Butts remarked.
“Everything kills you sooner or later,” Quinlan replied, taking another pull from the cigarette. The smoke curled and twisted in the air above his head before floating, ghostlike, over the row of tombstones.
“Okay,” Lee murmured. “So you leave her here, in front of Melville’s grave ... but why? Is it because you struggle with the concepts of good and evil in Moby-Dick ? Or maybe it was because Melville was deeply bitter at the end of his life ... is that it? Are you bitter?” he asked softly.
Lee stood up and beckoned to Sergeant Quinlan, who stubbed the cigarette out on the sole of his shoe and placed it carefully back in the pack to avoid contaminating the crime scene. Or maybe he was saving it for later. With the heavy taxes the feds had recently imposed on cigarettes, a pack in New York City could go for as much as seven dollars.
“You seen everything you need to see?” said Quinlan. “Ready for the techs to do their thing?”
“Yeah,” said Butts. “We got what we need for now.”
Quinlan motioned to the crime scene crew and stepped aside so they could go to work. “What do you figure—guy’s a weirdo, right?”
“Yes,” Lee said, “to put it mildly.”
Quinlan shivered. “Creepy. The whole thing gives me the willies. What kind of pervert drains the blood from his vic?”
One of the techs, a slim young Asian man, called to them.
“We found something you might want to have a look at.”
In his hand was a single piece of paper. Butts slipped on a pair of rubber gloves and carefully held it up for the others to read. It was regular white paper, the kind you could get in any office supply store, and on it was printed a single stanza of what looked to be a poem.
The youth that time destroyed can live in me again
But I require blood—the time is coming when
I’ll come to you at night, as the owl hoots at the moon
I’ll be by your side to watch you as you swoon
“What do you make of it?” asked Quinlan.
“Looks like some kind of gothic poem,” said Lee.
“Or maybe it’s lyrics from a song,” Butts suggested. “My kid listens
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