While one forensics team examined the van, Maclean led another to the address that Jason Griffin had given her for Cody North’s new apartment. It was in a dumpy low-rise building in Yessler, not far from the original Skid Row that had lent its name to Skid Rows all over the world. They were let in by the superintendent, a thin man with grayish skin and a ragged smoker’s cough.
The white paper masks and coveralls that Maclean and the other members of her team wore prevented them from accidentally contaminating the site. But those measures wouldn’t stop the site from contaminating them.
Maclean recoiled slightly as she took her first breath of the apartment. The air was pungent and close. It smelled of stale tobacco, stale beer, and stale takeout food. Maclean caught a faint whiff of mold too. Dirty laundry spilled out of a vinyl hamper onto the floor, adding to the gamy cocktail they were forced to inhale.
Darnell Rivers, a young civilian forensic tech with a high fade and an expression of perpetual surprise, was next in after Maclean. He whistled in amazement at the claustrophobically small bachelor apartment.
“Holy crap, I didn’t know they made ’em this tiny. Place is like the Munchkin Manor.”
“He spent the last four years at San Quentin,” said Maclean. “The occupancy rate there is one hundred and thirty-seven percent. I guess this looks like the Trump Tower by comparison.”
The parquet floor was bare. The varnish was worn down to the wood by the entranceway and the bathroom, where the ill-fitting door brushed against it enough to have scraped a track. Three empty beer cans and the remains of a recently consumed pepperoni pizza in a greasy box sat on the coffee table. Beside the unmade bed, there were copies of Maxim and Hustler, as well as a magazine that Maclean had never seen before, something called Duty Bound. On the cover was a girl in a suggestive version of a policewoman’s uniform, breasts exposed, short skirt torn and riding up her thighs. She was gagged and handcuffed, an alarmed expression on her face as she gazed wide-eyed at something out of frame.
“Okay, listen up,” said Maclean. “The individual who lived here is dead. His body turned up in Issaquah this morning. We believe it was suicide. He is a suspected serial killer who liked to torture his victims first, and he liked taking souvenirs. If this is our man, he saved the justice system a lot of time and money by offing himself. But that doesn’t mean our work is done, because the victims’ families and significant others need closure. We have no idea how many people our perp may have killed. So it’s very important that we find every possible clue that could identify a victim. Is that clear?”
The team members nodded. Even Rivers looked serious.
“All right then. Let’s close this case right here and now.”
Maclean’s team eagerly set to work. Rivers pulled back the clammy bed sheets and raised an eyebrow with an exaggerated expression of distaste that was only partly mugging. He waved a hand in front of his face as though waving away a bad smell.
“Baby, you need a hazmat suit to go down to this funky town.”
“I’ll be sure to write you up for a bravery commendation,” said Maclean. “Keep looking.”
Maclean began taking notes on her iPad, taking her own photos and listing every object that caught her eye, any detail that could be a clue. Rivers felt around in the sheets, working his way down to the foot of the bed where the top sheet was tucked in tightly.
“Something wedged down here,” he said.
He gave a gentle tug. Then grinning, he pulled back the sheets and triumphantly held up his prize, a pair of women’s black lace panties.
“Unless this guy was a Frederick’s of Hollywood model, I’d say we’ve got some evidence here, boss.”
“Bag it up, Rivers,” said Maclean. “And get it UV tested to see if there are traces of semen on it.”
“I don’t need a UV light to give you the answer to that one.” He furrowed his brow into another look of distaste. “I’d say these were somebody’s playmate of the month. Only question is whose.”
“Let me get a shot of them,” said Vasquez, a slim young woman who was the team photographer.
Vasquez snapped photos from every angle before moving on to the hall closet. She reached into the closet with a small flashlight and probed the recesses.
“There’s something here that you should see, Detective.”
Vasquez pointed to a long two-pronged object, partly hidden behind a mop and broom.
“You know what that is?” she asked.
“Yeah,” replied Maclean. “It’s a cattle prod. That’s evidence. Get some photos.”
Rivers looked over.
“Judging by this place, that cattle prod got a lot more use than that mop or broom.”
“Keep digging, people” said Maclean. “I want everything.”