John Lutz - Pulse

“He must have left here shortly after the murder and made the call,” Quinn said.

“He might’ve wanted there to be a show for us when we got here,” Pearl said. “Might’ve even watched us arrive. A shared experience. That’s how these sickos think. Ask Nift.”

“Set a sicko to catch a sicko,” Nift said, not bothering to glance over at her. “Pearl’s right. The killer might be standing across the street right now, taking it all in. Maybe waiting for the body to be removed.”

Quinn knew that what Nift said was true in some cases, but this killer was different. Always had been.

If it was the same killer.

Nift did a quick visual study of the corpse, head to toe, as if trying to fix everything in his memory. He flashed his nasty little smile. “Just like in the textbook chapter on the Daniel Danielle murders.”

Quinn nodded. “What do you think? The methodology the same all the way through?”

“Close enough. Would I swear this is a Daniel Danielle murder? No. I couldn’t call it that close. I never actually saw one of his-or her-victims.” He shrugged without seeming to have moved any part of his hefty little body. “And of course it couldn’t be a Daniel Danielle murder, Daniel Danielle being dead. Killed in a hurricane. Body never recovered.”

“Tornado,” Quinn said.

“What’s the difference?”

“Smaller.”

“Copycat killer?”

“Well, there’s that same lively sense of humor. Most of that didn’t get into the media. But I couldn’t rule out a copycat. They’re most likely to be inspired by infamous killers.”

“That would give the killer a motive,” Pearl said.

“Which is?” Nift asked.

“He’s nuts. Like you are.”

Nift chewed on his tongue and seemed to consider that. “No, not like I am.” He leered at Pearl. “Well, maybe a little.” He nodded toward the body. “One thing’s for sure-the killer’s got Daniel Danielle’s taste in women. Macy would have had the second best rack in the room.”

Pearl took a step toward Nift. “You asshole.”

Quinn raised a plate-sized hand as a signal for her to stop, which she did. They had more important things to consider than Nift’s bad manners.

“Take a look at the vic,” Quinn told her. “Imagine her with her hair brushed back off her forehead.”

“I don’t have to look,” Pearl said. “The resemblance struck me when I walked in the room.”

In one way or another, the Daniel Danielle victims had all resembled Pearl. Quinn hadn’t liked that ten years ago, during the killer’s rampage of death, even though Daniel had never taken a victim in New York. He didn’t like it now.

Nift stooped, then snapped his rubber gloves and peeled them off. He began arranging his instruments in his bag, preparing to leave. “When you’re done with the beautiful Macy, you can have her removed. She and I have a date for later.”

When Nift straightened up and moved toward the tent flap, Quinn stood in the way with his arms crossed.

“Something more?” Nift asked.

“The missing breasts…”

“I rolled her over and looked under her, looked all over the place. The CSU had uniforms search the surrounding grounds. They will again tomorrow. But we both know the killer must have taken them with him. Like Daniel Danielle.”

“Souvenirs,” Pearl said.

“Or maybe more souvenirs,” Nift said, and strode around Quinn and out of the room.

That was when Renz entered.

His suit had taken the night’s strenuous activity pretty well and still looked as if he’d just put it on. The brilliant lights in the tent glittered off his gold accoutrements. Renz looked like what he was-a corrupt politician. Quinn wondered if, when people got older, they began to look more and more like what they were. Renz’s overstuffed features were beginning to resemble a rodent’s.

“So Nift introduced you to Macy Maria Collins,” he said.

Pearl made a note of the victim’s full name.

Renz waited with feigned politeness until she’d finished writing. “College girl living in the Big City, maybe looking for a summer job.”

“Where’d she go to school?” Quinn asked.

“Someplace upstate. Wycliffe… Waycliffe. Kinda place where you have to be either rich or smart to get in.”

“Or both,” Pearl said.

“Jealous?”

“Not of Macy Collins. If you look close enough you might notice she’s dead.”

Renz grinned and looked at Quinn. “She’s still got the mouth, huh?”

Quinn shrugged.

Renz flashed a gold cuff link and glanced at his watch. It looked like a gold Rolex. “Gotta run. Late for a meeting.”

“At this time of night-morning?”

“Uh-huh. We all sit around with cards and chips. I interrupted the game to come over here. Thought you should see the crime scene. I knew you’d understand why.”

Quinn did.

“I’ll call you later,” Renz said.

“No doubt.”

Ignoring Pearl altogether, Renz nodded to Quinn as he turned, ducked his head into the folds of fat beneath his chin, and left the tent.

Quinn and Pearl followed Renz and breathed in fresh morning air.

The CSU guy in charge was still standing outside the tent, smoking a cigarette. Quinn almost said something to him about fouling a crime scene and then saw that it was one of those battery-operated cigarettes that look like the real thing.

He was a short man, built like a miniature bull, with a thick neck and sloping shoulders. Quinn had worked with him before. His name was Bronsky. He waited with patient brown eyes for what Quinn had to say.

“What’ve we got so far?” Quinn asked, thinking that after Renz it would be a pleasure talking with somebody like Bronsky. Crime Scene Unit types were almost always all business and no bullshit.

“Looks like the killer wore rubber gloves, so we might as well forget about fingerprints,” Bronsky said. “So far, he didn’t leave much if anything behind. We might pick up more on him from the victim herself, try for some of his DNA.” He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and held it up for Quinn to see. “I just got off this,” he said. “We got her address from her purse, and we’re going through her apartment.”

“Great,” Quinn said, wondering again why Renz wanted this one in the worst way.

“There are signs of the killer washing up some in the bathroom, but still with the gloves on. Plenty of smudgy prints here and there throughout the apartment, some bloody. He musta gone there after the murder.”

“He was letting us know that,” Quinn said.

“We did lift other prints from the apartment, but they’re probably what you’d expect-the victim’s, neighbors’, former tenants’, the super’s…”

Quinn waited until Bronsky finished with the list. All the prints would have to be matched with the people who’d made them. The prints that couldn’t be matched would be placed in a separate file, in the faint hope that someday they’d help to convict the killer. Tedious work, but necessary.

“The bloody prints. Could you say if they were a man’s or a woman’s?”

“No way to tell. Because of the gloves.”

Quinn sighed. “So maybe the lab will come up with something.”

“Maybe. We’ll get the usual hair samples from the carpet. A few nail clippings from the bedroom. But my guess is they probably won’t amount to anything useful.” He rotated his head on his thick neck. “Not as much blood here, or in her apartment, as you’d think.”

“M.E. said she probably went into deep shock when she saw what he’d done to her. Her heart must have stopped shortly after that.”

Bronsky pulled a face that made him resemble Edward G. Robinson in an old tough-guy movie. “Jesus! Not a nice man.”