John Lutz - Night Victims

“Nothing that isn’t already in the files,” Paula said. “And so far we haven’t found any connection at all between any of the three victims.”

“Show me this footprint,” Horn said.

Paula led the way into the bedroom. The air was stale and smelled more strongly of blood. Bickerstaff stayed in the living room.

There was the footprint by the bed. It was faint but it was there, and Horn could understand how the techs could bring it out so it showed as the enhanced image in the file. The heel and ball of a bare foot, probably a man’s, medium size. A few distinctive lines, maybe enough to make a match that would mean something in court.

Sally Bridge’s bed hadn’t been touched since the murder. It was stripped down to the bare mattress. The pile of bloodied sheets Horn had seen in the crime scene photos had been taken to the lab for testing and evidence entry.

“They ever get a make on the blood type?” Horn asked, staring at the stained mattress.

“O-negative,” Paula said. “Same as the victim’s; when the DNA match comes in, it figures that all the blood in the apartment will be hers.”

Horn wandered over and examined the window where the killer had entered. The glass and handle had been dusted for prints, revealing only that the killer had worn gloves, but Horn was still careful when he slid the window open. It moved easily in its wooden frame.

“The lab said the killer used candle wax on the window frame,” Paula said. “Just ran it over the tracks so the window would raise real easy and wouldn’t make noise.”

“Uh-huh. So we look for a guy who carries a candle in his pocket.”

“Narrows it down,” Paula said, smiling to let Horn know she was joking.

Horn leaned out of the window and looked down.

“Heck of a climb,” Paula said.

“I don’t think so.”

He didn’t elaborate, and Paula figured she should hold her silence. She still wasn’t completely comfortable around Horn. The stories about his NYPD exploits sometimes contained touches of brutality. That didn’t seem evident in the man, despite his size. He acted more like a kindly uncle than a legendary tough homicide cop and political infighter.

She watched as he stared pensively at the window for a while longer before closing it.

“No marks on the marble sill,” he said. “Maybe a slight scuff mark from the killer’s shoe. But we can’t be sure.”

Paula said nothing. She wasn’t sure of anything yet in this case.

“Nothing for sure on the windowsills at the other two crime scenes, either,” Horn said.

He walked back into the living room, and Paula followed.

“You reinterview the neighbors here?” he asked Bicker-staff.

“We just finished up before you got here. There were a few slight discrepancies, but their stories are pretty much consistent with their first interviews. Basically, nobody saw or heard anything unusual.”

“We were about to leave when you arrived,” Paula said.

“I’ll leave with you,” Horn said. “After we get done on the roof, we’ll find someplace to eat supper and compare notes.”

“Roof?” Paula said.

Horn nodded. “Yeah. You know-the windowsills.”

“But they were left mostly unmarked when the killer climbed in.”

“And out,” Bickerstaff added. “The techs found nothing even microscopic that was of use on the windowsills.”

“Like a microscopic dog that didn’t bark in the night,” Horn said.

Paula grinned. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“I’d have guessed Lassie,” Bickerstaff said.

“Got a handkerchief in your purse?” Horn asked Paula.

She searched but couldn’t find one. “Only tissues.” Among other items she pulled from her purse while rummaging through it was a white latex glove of the sort used to examine crime scenes.

“That glove’ll do,” Horn said.

Paula and Bickerstaff glanced at each other.

They followed Horn into the bedroom, where he got a wire hanger from the closet, straightened it, and tied the white glove on one end. He then went to the window and opened and closed it, wedging the hanger between frame and sill so the end with the glove stuck outside about eighteen inches.

“Oughta do,” he said.

Understanding now, Paula led the way out of the apartment. She was starting to like this, Horn thinking a little outside the box. Sometimes a little was all it took. Outside was outside.

She could hardly wait to get to the roof.

As soon as they were on the roof, Bickerstaff wedged a piece of tile in the service door so it wouldn’t close and trap them up there. Then they went to the low brick parapet at the roof ‘s edge, approximately above the window to Sally Bridge’s bedroom. About ten feet from the parapet, Horn held out a hand and stopped them. “Look at the tar and gravel near the edge,” he said. “It seems it might have been disturbed.”

Paula looked. The gravel adhered to the blacktop roof seemed to have been rearranged recently, some of it even kicked or scraped loose.

Horn went to the parapet and examined it, then leaned over it, staring straight down.

“I see the glove sticking out right under the disturbed gravel,” he said, turning away and standing up straight. And there’s a spot on the parapet where the tile’s been rubbed clean. And look at this.”

Paula and Bickerstaff moved closer to see where he was pointing. There was what appeared to be a fresh hole low in the brickwork of the parapet, as if something sharp had been driven into the brick and mortar at an angle.

“A whatchamacallit, maybe,” Bickerstaff said. “One of those steel spikes mountain climbers use to fasten ropes to cliff faces.”

“A piton,” Horn said. He glanced around, then walked over to where a grouping of vent pipes protruded from the roof.

He stooped down next to one. “Look at the way the grime has been rubbed away from the base of this pipe. My guess is our killer drove in his piton near the roof ‘s edge, then ran the roof end of the rope back to this vent pipe. He then wrapped it around the pipe as a safety precaution in case the piton broke free when he draped the other end of the rope down the building wall and began his descent.”

Paula stared at the base of the old lead vent pipe. Horn was right. Something had definitely been tied around it, then perhaps tugged at and rotated to test for tightness and strength. “How did you know one of the pipes would be marked up?” she asked.

“Mountain climbers are nothing if not cautious. They believe in backup, just like cops.”

Paula was liking this more and more. “So our killer doesn’t necessarily climb buildings; he goes to the roof and lowers himself to the bedroom window he wants to enter.”

“Probably easier when you stop to think about it,” Bicker-staff said. “But how did he get to this roof? If he used the front entrance, he’d risk being seen coming or going. And if you look around, there’s no way he coulda got up here other than stairs or elevator.”

Horn put his fists on his hips and turned in a slow circle. The adjacent buildings were too far away to leap across.

“Maybe if we look on one of those other building roofs we’ll find a board or something that enabled him to cross over to this roof.”

“Or maybe he tossed or shot a line over here,” Paula said.

“Yeah. Like Spiderman,” Bickerstaff said dryly.

“Not exactly,” Horn told him, nodding and smiling at Paula. “He might have tossed a grappling hook over here and snagged it on something, maybe one of those vent pipes. Then he attached his end of the line on the other roof and hand-walked to this one, or used a sling or pulley of some sort.”

They went to the parapet and vent pipes and searched for fresh scratches, and found a pipe that might have suffered a little recent damage from a grappling hook catching hold.