Erica Spindler - Killer Takes All

Her hands, hovering helplessly below the water’s surface, looked clean.

“This is a strange one,” Tony said. “Where’s that calling card?”

“Good question. Let’s check-”

“Smile, boys, you’re on Candid Camera. ”

They turned. The camera’s flash popped, and the tech-squad photographer grinned at them. Employed by the NOPD but not sworn officers, some of the tech guys were downright bizarre, Ernie Delaroux among them. Spencer had heard rumors that the man kept a personal album of photos from every scene he’d shot-his own little book of horrors.

“Screw off, Ernie.”

The man only laughed and splashed noisily into the room, like a five-year-old through a puddle.

Chasing away the whispers, Spencer thought. Before he’d had the chance to make them out.

“Loopy bastard,” Tony muttered, making room for the man to get his shots.

“I heard that,” he called, sounding almost gleeful.

“Hello, boys.”

The greeting came from Ray Hollister. “Hello, Ray. Welcome to the party.”

“A dubious honor.” He squinted at the floor. “This is going to ruin my shoes. I liked these shoes.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Tony said.

The Orleans Parish coroner employed six pathologists. Those six, also called coroner’s investigators, visited the scene of every death in the parish. At the scene with them was a driver, also employed by the Coroner’s Office, whose duty it was to secure and load the body-and to photograph the scene. Not only did the Coroner’s Office want their own photographic record, but the dual records often proved invaluable in court.

It was imperative that the photos be taken before the body was disturbed.

Ray waited while the two men snapped their shots. “What happened here?” he asked.

“We were hoping you’d tell us.”

“Sometimes there’s a rabbit in my hat, sometimes there’s not.”

Spencer nodded. Any cop worth his salt knew that’s the way it worked. Some cases closed so easily and quickly, it was as if by magic. Others presented one brick wall after another-no matter how skilled or conscientious the crime-scene team.

The nature of the beast.

“Victim appears to have drowned,” Spencer said. “Position of legs and feet indicate a homicide, but there’s no sign of a struggle. Weird.”

“I’ve seen weirder, Detective Malone.” Both photographers finished and went on to capture the rest of the scene on film. Ray fitted on gloves and crossed to the tub. “Evidence is going to be a bitch, because of the water.”

“Tell us something we don’t know.”

“I’ll try, Detectives. Give me a few minutes.”

Spencer and Tony made their way to the front room. The fingerprint techs were already at work. Spencer and Tony circled around them and into the bedroom. Bed neatly turned back. Dirty clothes in a hamper. Untouched glass of water on the bedside table; a small white pill waiting beside it.

Nothing out of order. Not a single sign of anything amiss.

Like a stage set, Spencer thought. A moment frozen in time. It gave him the creeps.

They thumbed through the closets and drawers, then headed for the small kitchen. It was in good order like the rest of the apartment. A tin of butter cookies sat on the counter. A box of tea beside it. Sleepytime, Spencer saw.

“Love those cookies,” Tony said. “Wife refuses to buy ’ em anymore. Too much fat, she says.”

Spencer looked at his partner. “She’s a smart lady, Pasta Man. You should listen to her.”

“Kiss mine, Slick.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass. Big hairy butts aren’t my thing.”

Tony chuckled. “So what do you think? What happened to Rosie?”

“She was ready for bed. Robe, slippers, bed turned back.”

Tony nodded and took over. “She’s sitting on the couch, having a cup of tea and a cookie, reading a few pages before turning in.”

“The doorbell rings. She answers and bam! Goodbye, Rosie.”

“Knew the guy, I’m thinking. That’s why she opens the door in her robe, lets the guy in. That’s why there’s no struggle.”

“But wouldn’t she have resisted when she realized the situation was going south? It still doesn’t work for me.”

“He incapacitates her, my friend.”

“How?”

“Maybe Ray can tell us that.”

When they reached the bathroom, they saw Ray already had the victim’s hands bagged.

“Hands look clean,” the man said, not looking at them. “No blood, no bruising. Nothing appears broken. I suspect we’ll find water in her lungs.”

“No sign of a blow to the head, anything like that?”

“Nope.”

“Can you give me anything, Ray?”

He looked over his shoulder at them. “Got yourself a real mystery, boys. Take a look at this.”

He pushed the shower curtain away from the back wall. Spencer sucked in a sharp breath. Tony whistled.

The calling card. A message scrawled on the tile wall behind the curtain, in what appeared to be lipstick. A god-awful shade of orange.

Poor Little Mouse. Drowned in a pool of tears.

Wednesday, March 9, 2005

2:00 a.m.

The ringing phone dragged Stacy from sleep. She opened her eyes, disoriented. Dispatch. She blinked, fighting to shake off the fog. Somebody’s dead. Got to-

The device screamed again and she snatched up the receiver, answering as she had on the job.

“Killian here.”

“Got a question.”

Malone, she realized, fog clearing. Not dispatch. New Orleans, not Dallas. She shifted her gaze to the bedside clock.

2:05.

A.M.

“It’d better be a good one.”

“In Alice in Wonderland, does a mouse drown? In a pool of tears?”

Stacy sat up, instantly, fully awake. She recalled the pen-and-ink drawing Leo had received, of the creature in a pool of what had looked like blood.

She pushed the hair out of her face. “Why?”

“I’ve got a homicide. Killer left us a message. Poor little mouse, drowned in-”

“A pool of tears,” she finished for him.

“Is it in the story?”

“Not exactly,” she said, glancing at the clock once more, calculating how long it would take her to dress and get to Leo’s. “But yes.”

“Not exactly,” he repeated. “What does that mean?”

“That it’s close enough for there to be a connection. Read the Cliff’s Notes, you’ll understand.”

“You know something about this, Killian. What is it?”

Great, now he gets perceptive. “It’s the middle of the night, Malone. Mind if I get back to my beauty sleep?”

“I’m going to want to talk to your boss.”

“Free country. Talk to you when the sun’s up.” She hung up before he could argue, then punched in Leo’s office number. The man claimed he never slept; she would put that claim to the test.

He answered on the second ring.

“Something’s happened,” she said. “I’m on my way over.”

“You’re headed over? Now?”

“No time to explain. I want to beat Malone and his partner.”

“ Detective Malone?”

“Trust me, okay?” She scrambled out of bed and started toward the bathroom. “And get some coffee on.”

Wednesday, March 9, 2005

2:55 a.m.

Fifteen minutes later, Stacy braked in front of Leo’s. She’d thrown on a pair of jeans and a light sweatshirt, taking the time for nothing else but pulling her hair back into a ponytail.

She climbed out of the car and hurried up the walk. The house was dark, save for the gas porch lights. Leo sat on the top step waiting for her.