at the moment was the face of the FBI agent he’d seen in a photograph transmitted from one of the field teams. A black man, a serious, hard looking man, with careful eyes and determination cut into the jaw line.
A smart man.
An uncompromising man.
“He’ll have to be removed,” Kudrow said to the distant treeline.
“As in gotten rid of, done away with, eliminated,” Folger observed. “You suggest it like it’s no harder than lighting a cigar. Do you really think it’s that easy?”
“Removal through less than lethal means,” Kudrow explained. “It is possible. Quite possible.”
“And how is that?”
Kudrow had been considering how it might be done before Folger’s interruption, and there was one, and only one, course to follow to that end.
“I’m going to run it by Rothchild,” Kudrow said. He looked to his assistant to measure his response. Folger had one hand over his quivering right eye, the other cast toward the ground. Without a word he showed Kudrow his back and walked away.
* * *
Conrad Cabral, in thirty years on the Seattle Police Department, sixteen of those working homicide, could not remember seeing an arm bent at the angle it had been on the body of this male. At least they were reasonably sure it was a male. No genitalia had been found as yet, and the face was no help, chopped and even bitten as it was. There were no breasts, but then the chest had been opened with a rough X cut from each armpit to the opposite hip bone, making certain determination doubtful until the medical examiner got a look.
But the damn arm. As the police photographer’s strobe pulsed, Cabral stared at the limb from his vantage point aside the queen bed in room 1312 of the downtown Seattle Hilton. It was the only one of the four limbs not bound, and it was twisted around at least once, wrinkling the skin and underlying tissue near the shoulder. The distorted hand at its end was shoved into the bloody cavity opened across the sternum, as if reaching in for something.
“Three stooges,” Cabral said aloud, drawing the attention of his partner, Zack Norris, scratching notes a few feet behind.
“Huh?”
Cabral turned back to Norris. “The arm. Moe used to grab Curly’s arm and twist in around and around until it would look like that, you figured.”
“I thought he twisted Shemp’s arm,” the photographer interjected.
Cabral thought. “Coulda been Shemp, I guess.”
Norris put his notebook away. “You ever see one like this?”
“Nope.”
An evidence technician exited the bathroom, stepping over a pronounced blood trail. Norris looked his way and asked, “You find the dick?”
The evidence technician shook his head and held up a clear bag that contained bloody towels. “Just these. Someone cleaned up. Showered and all. Even dried their hair. Long and black.”
“Have the toilet pulled and the plumbing checked,” Cabral directed. “It could be stuck in the pipes.”
Norris came around the bed, his eyes sweeping the walls spattered with red, marveling at the amount of blood both there and on the bedding. “The mattress acted like a sponge.”
Cabral nodded and thought quietly to himself as the photographer burned through two more rolls. “Zack, does this look like some fun gone bad?”
“It looks like something bad gone bad.”
Rage, mutilation, revelry in the corpse, positioning of the body after death ( God, please, after death , Cabral hoped). It was a textbook serial murder, the most important word being ‘serial’ in this case. “This wasn’t their first time.”
“Nope,” Norris agreed, pulling his notebook again, ready for his partner’s direction.
“Run the method through NCIC,” Cabral instructed as he bent forward to examine the feet. The toenails were gone. “Be real specific.”
Norris made a few notations. He would take care of the paperwork and fax the request to the National Crime Information Center as soon as they got back to the office. And considering
A smart man.
An uncompromising man.
“He’ll have to be removed,” Kudrow said to the distant treeline.
“As in gotten rid of, done away with, eliminated,” Folger observed. “You suggest it like it’s no harder than lighting a cigar. Do you really think it’s that easy?”
“Removal through less than lethal means,” Kudrow explained. “It is possible. Quite possible.”
“And how is that?”
Kudrow had been considering how it might be done before Folger’s interruption, and there was one, and only one, course to follow to that end.
“I’m going to run it by Rothchild,” Kudrow said. He looked to his assistant to measure his response. Folger had one hand over his quivering right eye, the other cast toward the ground. Without a word he showed Kudrow his back and walked away.
* * *
Conrad Cabral, in thirty years on the Seattle Police Department, sixteen of those working homicide, could not remember seeing an arm bent at the angle it had been on the body of this male. At least they were reasonably sure it was a male. No genitalia had been found as yet, and the face was no help, chopped and even bitten as it was. There were no breasts, but then the chest had been opened with a rough X cut from each armpit to the opposite hip bone, making certain determination doubtful until the medical examiner got a look.
But the damn arm. As the police photographer’s strobe pulsed, Cabral stared at the limb from his vantage point aside the queen bed in room 1312 of the downtown Seattle Hilton. It was the only one of the four limbs not bound, and it was twisted around at least once, wrinkling the skin and underlying tissue near the shoulder. The distorted hand at its end was shoved into the bloody cavity opened across the sternum, as if reaching in for something.
“Three stooges,” Cabral said aloud, drawing the attention of his partner, Zack Norris, scratching notes a few feet behind.
“Huh?”
Cabral turned back to Norris. “The arm. Moe used to grab Curly’s arm and twist in around and around until it would look like that, you figured.”
“I thought he twisted Shemp’s arm,” the photographer interjected.
Cabral thought. “Coulda been Shemp, I guess.”
Norris put his notebook away. “You ever see one like this?”
“Nope.”
An evidence technician exited the bathroom, stepping over a pronounced blood trail. Norris looked his way and asked, “You find the dick?”
The evidence technician shook his head and held up a clear bag that contained bloody towels. “Just these. Someone cleaned up. Showered and all. Even dried their hair. Long and black.”
“Have the toilet pulled and the plumbing checked,” Cabral directed. “It could be stuck in the pipes.”
Norris came around the bed, his eyes sweeping the walls spattered with red, marveling at the amount of blood both there and on the bedding. “The mattress acted like a sponge.”
Cabral nodded and thought quietly to himself as the photographer burned through two more rolls. “Zack, does this look like some fun gone bad?”
“It looks like something bad gone bad.”
Rage, mutilation, revelry in the corpse, positioning of the body after death ( God, please, after death , Cabral hoped). It was a textbook serial murder, the most important word being ‘serial’ in this case. “This wasn’t their first time.”
“Nope,” Norris agreed, pulling his notebook again, ready for his partner’s direction.
“Run the method through NCIC,” Cabral instructed as he bent forward to examine the feet. The toenails were gone. “Be real specific.”
Norris made a few notations. He would take care of the paperwork and fax the request to the National Crime Information Center as soon as they got back to the office. And considering
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