FOR THE NEXT hour, I sit with Upton’s second-in-command, Inspector Jos Hart. She takes my statement like a dentist drilling teeth. In her hands, the process is meticulous and painful. By the time she punts me over to a CSU to create a composite, I’m dizzy.
At full-light, Upton is scheduled to address the media hoard assembled beyond the boundary of the park. Before that, he’ll need to contact the Office of the Deputy Commissioner, Public Information (DCPI).
It’s not uncommon for local investigations, arrests, operations, et cetera, to overlap into other agencies, bureaus, or jurisdictions. When they do, it’s a policy that all media communication be channeled through DCPI. The Office is operational twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week for consultation and response to incidents involving the media.
Undoubtedly, a formal statement to the press will be crafted to position the killing in the park as part of a broader criminal investigation. Upton won’t admit it, but the media and the public will infer Serial Killer. The Police Hot-line and Crime Stoppers phone-lines will light-up. Investigators will be overwhelmed by false leads, misinformation and, likely, dozens of bogus confessions.
Free from Upton, I ask Jimmy what he wants me to do. Unsure, himself, he has me text Gabby to join us.
As she arrives, my mobile telephone rings. It’s just past seven in the morning. I fear it’s The Chatterbox calling to gloat.
I answer. Not The Chatterbox, but a pleasant female voice. “Detective Fortune?”
“Speaking.” I gesture to assure Gabby and O’Neill the call is not from our perp.
“This is Cassandra Agarwal from the Medical Examiner’s office. I know you’re up to your ass—everyone knows it by now, don’t we? It’s all over the internet and TV—but thought I should ring you right away.”
Cassandra is the pathologist who autopsied Miranda Livingstone.
“It’s okay, doctor. What’s up?”
“I’m scheduled to perform the Plett postmortem at nine this morning. In the meantime, I’m having my assistant prepare the body of Miranda Livingstone for release to the funeral home, once it’s been authorized by the department. As you know, it’s customary after collecting evidence to wash-down the remains. While doing so, my assistant noticed something unusual.”
“Something unusual?” Like spectators at a tennis match, Gabby and O’Neill try to follow the one-sided conversation.
“The heart-shape tattoos on Miranda’s left breast? Well, they’re not actually tattoos at all. Not real tattoos, I mean. They’ve been put there by someone using a marking pen. It’s faded while washing the body. The hearts are now hardly visible.”
“They’re not tattoos?”
“No. So before beginning the Plett postmortem, I thought I’d better check to determine if her ink was authentic or not.”
“And?”
“Same as Livingstone. The hearts aren’t tattoos at all, simply drawn on with a marker.”
“Put there by the perp?”
“It might be obvious to you, but the evidence doesn’t allow for me to draw conclusions. Speculate, but not draw conclusions.”
“Indulge me. What do you speculate?”
“Not like they were part of some odd-ball sorority prank, is it? Which leads me to speculate your perp is responsible. And before you ask me to speculate why, I can’t imagine.”
Not having performed the original postmortem, Agarwal can’t say if the two previous victims, Manischewitz and Mancinelli, were also marked in similar way. Having reviewed the original file, I don’t recall any mention of fake tattoos.
“Any further thoughts or interpretations?”
“None. That I leave to you. Best way for me to help is to get you the results of the Plett postmortem ASAP. Will you be attending the PM?”
“No. I’ll arrange for a designate.”
“Can’t say I blame you. At the rate bodies are falling, we’d be spending a lot of time together.”
“Is that such an unpleasant prospect?”
Silence. For a moment, I think I’ve overstepped the bounds of professional propriety.
“You have my card, Detective. You know where to find me.” With that, she severs the connection.
For the next twenty minutes Gabby, Jimmy, and I debate the implications.
O’Neill says, “Speak with Lattimer and Danilenko today, Dex. I want a full report on my desk before the end of the day. We need to get ahead of this before Upton issues too many statements to the press. If he goes on record with Serial Killer, it could blow up in his face.”
“Better his face than ours,” Gabby says.
As a wise man, I know better. “Shit rolls downhill, Gabby.”
“Amen,” says Jimmy.
“I’d like to speed the process of tracking Livingstone and Plett’s online footprint, Jimmy,” I say. “It could tell us how they’re connected to the perp. I’m convinced it wasn’t a chance pick-up in a bar. Gabby?”
“Agreed.”
“I can do it, but have you ruled out coincidence conclusively?”
“Not one hundred percent, but almost.”
“Anything else?”
“For now, I think we’re good.”
“We’re anything but good, Dex. I give it thirty-six-hours before Upton reorganizes you off this investigation. If you want to stay relevant, you better deliver.”