John Lutz - Pulse

“Should we see the victim before or after we eat breakfast?” Quinn asked.

“Before, I would say. Though on the other hand, she isn’t going anywhere real soon. And when you learn more about the situation, you’ll see why this one will interest Pearl, too.”

“I’ll check with Pearl,” Quinn said. “But she might wanna sleep in.”

“It would behoove her to be here.”

“What exactly does that mean, behoove?” Quinn asked. “It sounds like something a blacksmith might do to a horse.”

“You wanna discuss blacksmithing and word roots,” Renz asked, “or do you wanna be introduced to the late Miss Macy Collins?”

“You make it sound like social networking,” Quinn said.

“In a way it is. You’ll definitely wanna know people who knew the victim. One person in particular.”

“Now you’re making it sound like a quiz show.”

“Yeah. Well, it isn’t that. I guarantee you Pearl won’t think so, either.”

“Okay,” Quinn said. “I’ll wake her up.”

“I’m awake,” she said, from somewhere beneath Quinn’s unshaven jaw.

“Renz wants-”

“I heard him,” Pearl interrupted. “Tell him to go fu-”

Quinn moved the receiver away as far as he could, then turned his head so he could speak to Renz. “She says she’s on her way.”

“I thought I heard her talking. She got a message for me?”

“That was it,” Quinn said. “More or less.”

Quinn and Pearl found the Beymore Arms with no trouble. Renz was waiting for them beneath the green canopy. He was wearing a well-tailored blue suit, a white shirt, and a red and black striped tie. He looked ready to broadcast the evening news, but the clothes didn’t disguise the fact that he’d put on even more weight since becoming police commissioner.

The three of them waited for a break in traffic that was already starting to build on Park Avenue West, and then fast-walked across the street. Fat as he was, Renz moved quickly and gracefully. They climbed over the low, age-darkened stone wall that bordered the park. Quinn was curious to see if Renz would go over the wall that way, which involved not much more than boosting up the body, then sitting, and swiveling. Renz clambered over the low wall with impressive nimbleness. Didn’t do his tailored suit much good.

They walked across dew-damp grass toward a cluster of trees that emitted a faint white glow. Then Quinn saw the crime scene tape, and that the glow was coming from a white tent that was eight or ten feet square. Shadow movement on the taut white material indicated a lot of activity inside.

A tall, poker-faced uniform posted outside the flap entrance to the tent seemed not to pay them any attention. Renz stood to the side of the flap and motioned with an arm for them to enter, but he stayed outside in the interest of giving people in the tent more room to move.

What was going on inside the tent was nothing like social networking, even with the Napoleonic and twisted little medical examiner, Dr. Julius Nift, smiling from where he stood over the body and saying, “Miss Macy Collins, may I present Frank Quinn and Pearl Kasner.” He made a motion with his hand, palm up. “Pearl, Quinn, this is-”

“Just shut up,” Pearl said.

The tent had no floor and was illuminated by brilliant lights on flimsy-looking metal stands. Quinn had to duck his head slightly, but Pearl could stand up straight. Where there was room to move, two CSU guys were using it, carefully tweezering up possible evidence and placing it in plastic evidence bags. They were dressed in white and wearing white gloves and looked as if they’d arrived in a box with the tent.

What was left of the victim lay on bent and bloodstained grass. A rectangular flag of gray duct tape clung by a corner to her lower lip. Her bulging brown eyes bespoke horror.

She was on her back with her arms taped to her sides, her legs together, toes turned down as if frozen that way by painful spasms. Her body was arranged with a symmetry and neatness suggesting she’d been posed after death. She was wearing only blue panties. Both of her breasts had been removed.

“Her breasts-” Quinn began.

“Haven’t found them,” Nift said. “Judging by the removal circumference, she must have had quite a rack.”

Quinn was aware of Pearl stiffening beside him. “Sick necrophiliac,” she said under her breath.

Nift heard her and smiled. He enjoyed getting under people’s skin, and Pearl was a favorite target.

“There’s a mathematical formula for everything,” Nift said.

“Like for how much longer you’ll live with that mouth of yours,” Pearl said.

Nift seemed not to have heard her.

The CSU techs said they’d done all they could until the body was removed, and left the tent.

Quinn nodded toward the victim. “Notice anything about the panties? The way they’re rolled up at the waistband in back?”

“She didn’t put them on,” Pearl said. “Somebody else did, after she was dead, and while she was lying on her back the way she is now. The panties dragged and rolled in back and didn’t go all the way up.”

“I was wondering when one of you would notice that,” Nift said. “Very good, Quinn. Now, another question: do you recognize the M.O.?”

Any cop who’d been involved in a serial killer case, anyone at all interested in serial killers, would recognize the M.O.

So like the Daniel Danielle murders.

Quinn nodded. Beside him, Pearl said, “Daniel Wentworth, aka Daniel Danielle.”

“Or Danielle Daniel,” Nift said. “Depending on which sex he wanted to be at the moment.”

“There’s not a lot of blood on the scene, either,” Pearl said, “considering what was done to her. Daniel Danielle was good at managing blood flow. Got a guess as to the actual cause of death?”

Nift grinned at her. “I’d estimate that she was alive when all or most of the butchering was done. He wanted to share that with her. If she was lucky, she died of shock at some point before the abdominal wound.” Nift’s grin widened. “You look down where you’re used to seeing what musta been a huge rack of tits and see your insides instead, it’s probably quite a shock.”

A cop near the door flap was giving Nift a fish-eyed look. Not much expression. Probably he knew Nift. Almost everyone who dealt with the city’s lower forms of life knew Nift, at least by reputation.

Pearl moved over to see the newspaper page lying on the floor near Nift’s black leather medical case. There were bloodstains on it, but it was readable. The E VERYTHING S LASHED Macy’s sale with its play on the victim’s name.

“I saw it,” Quinn said, before she pointed it out. “Sick sense of humor.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Nift said.

“That’s for damn sure,” Pearl told him. “You don’t have the slightest idea.”

Nift merely continued grinning at her. “I love getting under your skin,” he said. “No pun intended.”

Quinn gave him a look, letting him know he’d gone far enough. Knowing dangerous ground when it started to shift on him, Nift stopped grinning.

“Any sexual interference?” Quinn asked.

“I’ll have to do the postmortem to know for sure.” Nift was all business now, tired of verbally poking at Pearl. “I can call you later with the details.”

“Got an estimate as to how long she’s been dead?”

“Not more than a few hours. But that’s an approximation. We can be more precise later.”

Quinn looked over at the cop with the scarred eye. “You catch the squeal?”

“Yeah, but not alone. They directed two radio cars over here. No nine-eleven call. An anonymous call direct to the precinct house. They took it serious.”