-=O=-***-=O=-
When they got back to Central, Eve sent Peabody off to write the initial report from the record and notes on-scene. And Eve made the miserable call to the next of kin.
It took longer than she had to spare, did little more than depress her. Bayliss's wife had no answers for her, and if there were any buried in the shock, it would take too long to dig them out.
The widow declined the option of making a video identification of the deceased, became increasingly hysterical, until her sister took over the 'link.
Eve could hear the woman sobbing in the background as a pretty, pale-cheeked brunette came on-screen. "There's no mistake?"
"No, there's no mistake. I can arrange for a counselor from the local police department to come by your hotel."
"No, no, she'll do better with me. She'll do better with family. Strangers only make it worse. She bought him cuff links this afternoon. God."
The brunette shut her eyes, took a breath. She seemed to steady, which did a great deal for Eve's peace of mind. "We'll arrange to come back immediately. I'll take care of it. I'll take care of my sister."
"Contact me as soon as possible. I'll need to speak with Ms. Bayliss again. I'm sorry for your loss."
Eve sat back, stared at the blank screen.
Kohli, Mills, Bayliss. She took a mental step away from the evidence and tried to see the people. Cops. Though they'd all carried badges, each one had carried his differently. All, she was certain, had known their killer. The first two had known him well enough to trust him.
Especially Kohli. A late-night chat over drinks in an empty club. That was something you did with a friend. Still, he'd talked of a meeting with his wife. If he meant that literally, perhaps it had been more an associate than a friend. One he'd respected. Someone he'd felt he could ask advice. Informally. Over a beer.
Someone, she thought, from his own house. Someone, she suspected, who had some link to Ricker.
"Computer, compile roster from Precinct One two-eight, this city, including any retirees within the last two, no correction, within the last three years. Run a search and scan for any cases or investigations connected to any police officer of said precinct regarding Max Ricker. Secondary search and scan, same parameters regarding ... what was his name, the son. Alex. Alex Ricker. Final search and scan, include any investigation wherein Canarde acted as representative during interview or court appearance."
Working. . . multitask request of this nature will require minimum of four hours-twenty minutes to complete . ..
"Then you'd better get your ass in gear."
Command unknown. Please rephrase command . ..
"Christ. Begin task."
She fueled up on coffee and let the computer hum while she ducked out and into the conference room. On that unit, she brought up all the current data on Vernon. She should've been able to run the data on her machine while the search and scan was in progress. It was a new one, a gem compared to the whining, stuttering heap she'd been stuck with before.
But she didn't trust her luck.
She spent an hour going over Vernon's data. She'd be pulling him into interview shortly. She intended to hit him and hit him hard.
The coffee was wearing off and the words beginning to blur when her communicator beeped.
"Dallas?"
"I'm going to get me a big sloppy tongue kiss."
"I never said anything about tongues," Eve said, and made a mental note to warn Mavis to keep her mouth locked tight when Dickhead was backstage. "What have you got, Dickie?"
"Something that should make even your cold, cold heart pitty-patter. I got a little swab of Seal-It off the edge of the tub."
"Jesus, tell me you got a print, I'll kiss you myself."
"Cops always want a miracle." He hissed out a breath, deflated. "What I got is Seal-It. My guess is he used it to protect his hands and feet, but he got a little carried away with it. You know what happens if you hit it too thick?"
"Yeah it glops some. You can knock or scrape it on something and end up leaving some behind. Damn it, Dickie, what the hell does a swab of Seal-It give me?"
"You want to hear this, or you want to mouth off? He knocked some of the seal off, probably when he was getting your guy thrust up for the last spin in the bubble tub. That's why it's pretty damn likely this little piece of fingernail I got, which my diligence and sharp skills located, is your killer's."
She held herself level. "Have you checked the DNA against Bayliss's?"
"What do I look like? A moron?"
She opened her mouth, reminded herself she needed him, and virtuously shut it again. "Sorry, Dickie, it's been a long night."
"Tell me. It doesn't match Bayliss. I got it -- and I mean it's barely a sliver, the little darling -- off the underside of the tape. Got Bayliss's hair with it. You figure that came off his arm, as that's the location label on the evidence bag, but you don't figure to get a piece of the dead guy's nail on the under side of the tape, do you?"
"No, no, you don't. Goddamn, Dickie, that's good. That's beautiful. I think I'm falling in love with you."
"They all do, in the end. Got the prelim data coming through now." He shot across the room on his favored rolling chair. "Male. Caucasian male. Can't give you much more than that right now. You want me to try to pin down approximate age and heritage and all that happy stuff, it's going to take time. And I ain't got a lot of this sucker to work with. Could be I'll find more. He broke the seal one place, might be he broke it another. So far, the only hair is from Bayliss."
"Keep on it. Good work, Dickie."
"Yeah. You know what, Dallas? You bring this guy in, we'll nail him in court. Get it? Nail him."
"Yeah, I get it. That's a real knee-slapper."
She cut transmission, sat back.
A sliver of a fingernail, she thought. Sometimes a man could hang for nothing more than that.
A sliver of a fingernail. Carelessness. The first small chink of it.
Thirty pieces of silver. Symbolism. Religious symbolism. If the victims were Judas, who was the Christ figure? Not the murderer, she decided as her mind drifted. Christ was the sacrifice, he was the pure. The Son. What was the phrase?
The only begotten Son.
A personal message to the primary. Conscience. The killer had a conscience, and his mistake with Kohli troubled him enough that he needed to soothe it by explaining, by justifying. And by setting up an ultimatum.
Bring down Ricker. It circled back to Ricker.
Ricker. The Son. Purgatory.
Roarke.
Business, she thought. Old business.