Michael Prescott: Shiver

“What else are you pursuing?”

Wildman shrugged. “What aren’t we? Her medical records, family history, recent vacations. The works.”

“Okay. Tommy?”

Tom Gardner, the task force’s liaison with Forensics, looked up from the Bic pen he was rolling restlessly between his palms.

“We’ve printed all of Osborn’s friends and neighbors,” he said, “anyone who might have been in that house. There was a lot of glass, and SID found plenty of latents. We’re working on eliminating prints now. Donna and Harry got me a list of the people in the Rolodex and the datebook, and we’re printing them too. It’s a hell of a job, and the evidence techs say this bastard wears gloves anyway.”

Delgado ignored his last comment. It was true that smooth glove prints had been found at the crime scenes, but there was always a chance that the killer had removed his gloves before or after one of the murders and left traceable latents. Gardner knew this, of course; he was just blowing off steam.

“I’m looking for more than that from you,” Delgado told him. “I need an analysis of the crime scene-any changes in the pattern, evidence of progression or deviation, anything at all that might spark a better understanding of how this man’s mind works and what he might do next.”

“I hear you,” Gardner said.

“Rob?”

Rob Tallyman shifted his weight, and his chair creaked. “The cranks are really crawling out from under their rocks on this one. Ten seconds after KFWB broke the Osborn story, the hotline phones were ringing off the hook, and they haven’t stopped since. Needless to say, the confessions are all bullshit, and so far none of the leads has panned out.”

“Have you got enough uniforms to fill in the tip sheets?”

“I could use another couple guys.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Ted, Lionel, you’re still working the art angle?”

“Working it to death, Seb,” Ted Blaise said sourly. “We’ve been in so many art galleries and boutiques the last couple months, people are starting to think we’re a little swishy.”

Robertson straightened his huge shoulders in mock annoyance. “Speak for yourself, sucker.”

Mild laughter greeted that remark.

“Me, I like this detail,” Robertson added. “Paintings and statues are a lot prettier to look at than your typical homeboy.”

“They’re the only thing about this case that looks good,” Delgado said grimly.

At noon the meeting adjourned. Delgado talked briefly with a couple of the detectives as the others filed out. Then they too departed, and only Bill Paulson remained, still sipping his tea.

Delgado sat on the corner of his desk and waited, watching the captain. Paulson was a big, thick-necked, large-mustached man, gray and paunchy, but still formidable, like an aged but untamed grizzly. Delgado knew he would speak when he was ready and not before. Deliberation was his style in speech, in movement, in planning an arrest or composing a memo. Everything about him was slow except his mind.

“So let’s hear it, Seb,” Paulson said finally. “How’s it really coming? No pep talks, please.”

“We’re following up every possible lead,” Delgado replied. “My people are running themselves ragged. But a case like this…” He spread his hands. “It’s not normal policework. You know that. Captain.”

Paulson nodded. Normal policework was ninety percent snitches and squeals. Or it involved solving a crime with an obvious motive or a clear-cut personal connection. The Gryphon killed randomly. No apparent motive, no personal acquaintance with his victim, no likelihood of being involved in a criminal network.

“We have minimal physical evidence,” Delgado said, “which we’re exploiting for all it’s worth. We have the BSU profile, the charts and extrapolative materials they sent us, which make interesting reading but have been of limited practical use. We have no eyewitnesses, no IdentiKit sketch, no vehicle description or license number. We’re doing what we can.”

He heard defensiveness in his voice and regretted it. Six weeks of uninterrupted work on the case had worn him down.

“Okay,” the captain said. He walked slowly toward the desk, his footsteps heavy, loose change jingling in his pockets. “I’ll be straight with you, Seb. Our friends at Parker Center are under a lot of pressure. You know the score. Angry letters from concerned citizens. Nasty editorials in some of the smaller papers-not the Times yet, but the Outlook, the Daily News, and that Spanish rag, La Opinion. And the TV creeps are putting a little more bite in their stories. I was hoping this man Garrett might be our guy. Apparently he isn’t. Which means we’re still no closer to catching the bastard-and we’re running out of time.”

He met Delgado’s eyes. “What it comes down to is this. The big boys are looking for a scapegoat. You’re it. They want you eighty-sixed. Want me to put another man in charge.”

Paulson’s words hung in the room, gathering weight. Delgado knew he hadn’t spoken lightly. If he said it was time for a new man to take over the task force, he meant it.

Still, there might be a way to change the captain’s mind. Delgado had to try. Losing the command would be a heavy blow to his career, the career that had cost him his relationship with Karen and, along with it, any hope of a life outside his job. But even that was not his main concern now. His main concern was the work of the task force itself. If someone else were brought in for political reasons, time would be lost, work needlessly duplicated, exhausted avenues of investigation reopened for no good reason. And while that happened, the Gryphon would go on killing, the intervals between murders frighteningly short.

Slowly he stood up, facing Paulson from a yard away. He spoke quietly, choosing each word with care.

“You’re telling me what they want. The brass and the politicians. But how about you. Bill?” It was a risk, using Paulson’s first name, but Delgado felt the need for informality between them. “This is your district. All three murders have been committed in your territory. You’re the one in charge. What do you want?”

Paulson grunted. “I want you to catch the son of a shit.”

“So do I.”

“I know you do. But so far you’ve gotten nowhere. Maybe another man could come up with a new approach, an angle you haven’t thought of.”

“Maybe. Or maybe by the time he’s brought up to speed, the body count will stand at four. Or five. Or higher.”

“It won’t take that long to get caught up.”

“It won’t take that long to get more bodies either.”

Paulson returned his stare steadily, then sighed, conceding the point. “No, I guess it won’t. How long till the next one turns up?”

“You’re asking me to guess?”

“Yes.”

“It could happen anytime. But I think it will be soon. Perhaps even within twenty-four hours.”

“Shit.”

“He’s riding high. He thinks he can’t be stopped.”

“So tell me, Seb: Is he wrong? Can you stop him?”

“Yes.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I know him.”

Delgado waited. There was nothing more he could say.

After a long moment, Paulson nodded. “All right. I’ll hold them off a little longer.” He frowned. “But not forever. You’ll have to show some progress soon. Understood?”

It was a reprieve. Not much of one, but a stay of execution nonetheless. Delgado kept his face expressionless. He could not show how much this meant to him.

“Understood,” he answered evenly.

“Okay, then.” Paulson was all business now. “You’re holding a news conference at two o’clock. That’s early enough to make the afternoon news shows.”