J. Robb: Chaos in Death

“I’ll have them sent to you this afternoon. I’ll show you the way out.”

“We’ve got it, thanks.”

As they walked away, Eve glanced back. Eton had her hands again, his head bent toward hers as he talked rapidly.

“Asshole,” was Peabody’s opinion.

“Big, flaming asshole with a big, flaming temper. Looks like he keeps in good shape. Bet he puts in plenty of gym time. And he wants Arianna Whitwood for his own.”

“Oh yeah, and she doesn’t want him for hers.”

“That’s a pisser for him. I bet she gave the vics a lot more of her time, attention, and affection than she gives Billingsly, which is another pisser for him.”

“Killing the hell out of them doesn’t change that. Would be a pretty murky motive.”

“Maybe, but I really hate him already. Plus, hypnotherapy. Who knows what he’s up to with that?”

“Why didn’t you ask for his transcripts?”

“Because he wouldn’t give them up, not without a warrant, which you’re going to put in the works while we head over to Get Straight.”

“Oooh, that’s going to be another pisser for Billingsly.”

“I can only hope it’s not the last.”

They got little more from Get Straight but confirmation of everything they’d heard before, and more grief. Even as they stepped out into the air holding the first faint hint of fall, Eve’s com signaled. She recognized the first on scene on her screen.

“Officer Slovic.”

“Sir, we dug up a wit claims she saw someone near the rear of the crime scene, and observed him stuffing something in the recycler where we found the bloody protective gear.”

“That’s a break. How good a look?”

“She claims a good, solid one. There’s a streetlight, and she states she saw him clearly, and he was dancing.”

“Sorry?”

“That’s her statement, Lieutenant.” Eve heard the shrug in his voice. “Her description’s pretty strange, but she’s sticking to it, and doesn’t strike me as a whack job. Her apartment’s got a good view of the area, and she was up walking her kid—kid’s teething. She’s a short-order cook on parental leave. We got her on the canvass.”

“What did she see?”

He cleared his throat. “A monster. Possibly a demon.”

“Officer Slovic, are you actually wasting my time on this?”

“Sir, I wouldn’t, but she gave details, she had the time down, and she admits it sounds crazy.”

“Give me the details.”

“Male, medium build—she thinks—dark hair, wild and stringy.” He made the throat-clearing sound again. “Greenish skin, red, bulging eyes, contorted features, and prominent teeth, wearing a black cape and carrying a black satchel.”

“And this green, red-eyed monster was dancing in the streetlight.”

“And laughing, sir, in what the wit describes as a wild, guttural laugh. I believe her, Lieutenant, I mean about what she saw. It could be the subject was wearing a mask or a disguise.”

“Yeah.” Eve heaved out a sigh. “Will she work with an artist?”

“She’s anxious to.”

“Contact Detective Yancy at Central, and get her to him.”

“Yes, sir.”

She shoved the com into her pocket. “A green, red-eyed, cape-wearing monster.”

“Or possibly demon,” Peabody put in and earned a sneer. “I’m not saying I believe in monsters and demons, but somebody hyped up on Zeus, say, convinced he is one, gets in the gear to top it off. Since the wit only saw one man, and the evidence leans toward one man—he’d have to be hyped on something. Zeus not only makes you crazy, but it deadens you to pain, pumps the adrenaline.”

“Maybe. We’ll see it through.” She checked the time. “I want you to go by Slice, talk to the boss, the coworkers, and do the same at the twenty-four/seven. You can round it off with the diner they used as a hang spot. Maybe they had some trouble last night, or somebody followed them home. I’m going to swing by the morgue, see what Morris can give us. We’ll hook up back at Central.”

“I’d sure as hell rather go to a pizza joint than the morgue. Want me to bring you a slice?”

“No . . . maybe. Yeah.”

Eve slid behind the wheel and headed for the morgue.

Zeus was a good fit, she thought, but not a perfect one. It fit the violence, the frenzy of it. But not the calculation. Still, a blend . . . and some enterprising soul was always coming up with a new and improved in the illegals game.

Flying on Zeus, a man could hack, beat, choke—and laugh his ass off while doing it. But he couldn’t plan—costume, satchel with weapons and protective gear, gloved or sealed hands. She didn’t expect the sweepers to gift wrap the killer’s prints for her.

He’d broken in through the back window, Eve thought, bringing the scene back into her head. Need a tool for that, in the satchel. Climb in, nice and quiet—something else that didn’t fit the Zeus, not pure Zeus. Bathroom, back room all neat and tidy, so the killer had moved straight into the front of the shop and the vics.

Target specific, premeditated, planned. She was sure of it.

Motive was a murky area.

She considered, rejected, fiddled with various theories through downtown traffic, then let them simmer as she walked into the white tunnel of the morgue.

Morris wore a gray suit and a strong red tie. The choice cheered her a little. His wardrobe rarely varied from black since the murder of his lover. The band twined through his braid of dark hair matched the tie.

His long, clever eyes met hers over the open body of Jennifer Darnell. Through the speakers, a sax wailed out a jazzy riff.

“I see you got me a triple-header.”

“The monster did it.”

“Not difficult to believe, given the condition of these young people. There’s internal abuse, self-inflicted from years of illegals ingestion, poor diet. They lived hard for their short time. I found signs of recovery and reversal. If they’d lived and kept clean, they should have done well enough.”

“Were they keeping clean?”

“Knowing you’d ask, I ran and rushed the tox screen first, and they were. Their last meal, which I assume they shared about midnight, was pizza, a diet cola for the girl, straight cola for the boys.”

“Sexual activity, consensual or forced?”

“No. Victim one—in order of TOD—suffered multiple broken bones and ribs, some of them postmortem. COD would be a fractured skull. He’d literally had his brains bashed in. By a bat or pipe, some three inches in diameter, and extreme force. I found some paint flakes in the wounds. I’ve sent them to the lab.”

“Head blow first?” Eve speculated.

“From my reconstruction, which is still preliminary, yes. A blow here.” Morris tapped the side of his hand diagonally over his right temple. “It would have knocked him out cold. It’s unlikely he felt the rest.”

“Small favor.”

“Victim two, multiple stab wounds inflicted with a jagged-edged blade, some four inches in length. Not a hunting or carving knife. More likely an inexpensive meat knife. The tip broke on bone, and that’s at the lab as well. He was stabbed first center of the chest, two strikes, and once in the abdomen. Again, from my prelim, the rest of the wounds came several minutes later.”

“Incapacitate both males.”

“And her. As in your notes, she was struck with the same bat as killed her friend, across the knees, shattering her kneecaps. The ear, eye, and tongue were removed postmortem, and with a smooth, sharp blade—a scalpel would be my opinion. And it was done with precision. Do you know how many are responsible for this?”

“One.”

Morris’s eyebrows shot up. “One? You never fail to intrigue.” He looked over the bodies again. “The damage here, the strength, the sheer energy it took to beat the first vic was considerable. On the second, the stab wounds are very deep, very forceful, and there are eighty-five holes in that unfortunate boy. That also takes strength and energy. Considerable endurance.”