Standing at the service elevator, Dean Mikus watched as the Clark County Medical Examiner rolled the body inside.
“You got everything, sir?” asked one of the young techs.
He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, if that. He still had remnants of acne dotting his cheeks. That, along with his slight build, made him seem even younger.
Youth is wasted on the young.
He was starting to get exactly what that meant.
Not that thirty-six was ancient, but nights like this affected him far less when he was younger. Dean wondered briefly what the south side of thirty felt like again, especially tonight. He was exhausted, hungry, and he didn’t mind admitting, a little rattled. Younger nerves were exactly that.
“Yeah, I’m good. I need to meet with my folks, so I put her in your capable hands.”
The young man nodded. “I’ll take good care of her, sir. It’s the least I can do.”
The sudden pang of emotion caught Dean by surprise. He was barely able to respond, but found the words. “Thanks. She deserves it.”
He’d seen hundreds of bodies over the years. Many found in terribly unpleasant circumstances. Hell, not even the scene in the San Juan morgue where Caleb Corner had done his own personal interpretation of a Picasso sculpture was as troubling as this. Those folks had already left this world for what was next, but Grace had been killed to send some stupid-ass message that Argyle had wanted to convey.
What made this murderous display more disturbing was that Dean had no idea what the hell that significance could be. He was no dummy, but adding another Canopic jar to the mix and tossing inside an innocent woman’s brain added up to five plus four making twelve. He was sure Manny, and Sophie, were dealing with that equation right now. Good thing.
Profiling was for those who could. By the same token, science was for those who drew comfort from facts, like Alex and him.
Just the facts, ma’am, just the facts.
Rolling his eyes, he walked around the corner and headed for the public elevators. He’d watched far too much TV while growing up in LA and had added to that habit in college. Still, nothing wrong with those old Dragnet reruns. He supposed he liked them because Officer Friday dealt with truths. Not to mention the lack of blood and gore in those old shows.
He could use a little less of that from time to time.
Pressing the button for the casino level, he reached into the side pocket of his case and pulled out the summary of the crime scene he’d written in longhand. He studied it, straining to read his handwriting in some parts. It was the kind of penmanship his mother had called chicken scratch. Sophie had once said the same thing when she was trying to read one of his penned memos.
Dean smiled at that. The thought of her still caused his heart to jump. He supposed it always would. God knew he needed something to lighten up his mood and mask the gradations of this job. She fit the bill from the second he laid eyes on her. It would be good to see her face and stand next to her when he got downstairs. Real good.
Glancing back at the page in his hand, his smile evaporated as fast as it had appeared. In the bottom third of his summary, he listed his postmortem and antimortem findings. His stomach clinched when he reflected on what this woman had gone through. He’d have an earful for Sophie and Manny, and the folks in the meeting. What he had to tell them could cause a few stomach churns. The fact she was probably alive for the drilling on her skull, for instance.
The elevator pinged, and the door opened. Two men and two women, far more inebriated than sober, rushed past him, laughing.
One of the women fell against the wall and bounced back upright, saluting the others. Her actions set off a round of laughter from the group that proved his first impression of them. Drunk and having fun. Right now, that sounded just fine, especially if there was a juicy steak and a huge, buttered baked potato involved.
The elevator pinged again, and Dean stepped in. The ride was short, yet he could feel some of his tension fade. Safety in numbers wasn’t just a saying and included the mental, not just the physical.
Reaching the main floor, he stepped out and began walking across the checkered floor, heading for the night manager’s office to get a key card to where Sophie and Manny should be waiting for him, when his phone vibrated. Reaching into his pocket, he realized he hadn’t heard or felt it ring or vibrate for a few hours. Maybe it was the room location. Maybe it was his head’s location.
“Or maybe you’re just not that cool to talk with,” he said under his breath, smiling as he looked at the screen.
Alex had called an hour ago. He hit the voicemail button. A moment later, Alex’s voice began to speak to him. He was surprised at how good his friend’s voice sounded and he welcomed it.
“Hey, Beard Boy, call me. Yes, I’m fine. But I need to ask you something. I had an idea about how the bodies were laid out in the casket in Lansing.”
There wasn’t really a sense of urgency, but on the other hand, why would Alex call if it weren’t important?
Dean hit the redial button just as his phone signaled it was shutting down. The red meter indicated that he had one percent power.
“Damn it.”
He’d broken a golden rule and not charged his phone when he had the chance.
Sophie’s new phrase of the week echoed in his brain.
Dumbass.
Stuffing the phone back in his jean’s pocket, he hurried toward the desk. Just as he reached the red granite top, he heard Sophie call his name. Turning to the sound, he saw her. She was dressed in tight slacks and a red blouse, draped in a black vest, walking like she owned the place. No way to control the smile. She strolled to his side and stood close.
“Talk about a sight for sore eyes,” he said.
“Don’t forget it either,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. She tilted her head. “You look like hell. But then you’ve been working, while Manny and I grabbed a couple of hours of shuteye. We thought it might be the only chance we get before the meeting.”
“Good plan.”
“Maybe. I couldn’t sleep, and he probably couldn’t either.”
“You’re right, I couldn’t.”
Manny stood a few feet away, phone in hand, that familiar look on his face. The one that said he was working through things and he needed answers.
That made three of them.
“Let’s head for the conference room. We’ve got to talk about a couple of things and I want to hear what Dean has to say. We’ve got four hours, so maybe Dean can grab some Zs once we’re through.”
“I think the boy needs some. He’s looking like one of those zombies from the Walking Dead,” said Sophie, a sparkle in her eye.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Now let’s move.”
“Sounds good to me. I’m ordering a steak first. I’m freaking starved,” said Dean.
“I’ll take care of it. Alex left a message on my phone when he couldn’t reach you.”
Manny handed him his phone. “I’m assuming yours is dead?”
“Yes. I’ll charge it in the conference room.”
They began the walk to the south side of the eerily lit lobby, accompanied by the sounds of the casino. Even at two in the morning, this place was rocking.
The phone rang once.
Twice.
A third time. Nothing.
At the fourth ring, Alex answered. “Manny?”
“No. It’s me, Alex. My phone went dead.”
“I see. Dumbass,” said Alex.
“I know. I know. Busy night.”
“How busy?”
“I’ll tell you later. You need to rest. Now, what’s up? You said something about the casket?”
There was a pause. Then Alex cleared his throat. “One question first. Did you get the hair DNA analysis back from the lab in Lansing? The one on the hairs we found in the casket.”
“Yes. It came back belonging to a wig. Why?”
“How many samples were tested?”
“Just one, like always. Again, why?”
“I wish I was out there, but this will have to do.”
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” said Dean, his interest growing.
He heard Alex take a drink.
“So, I’m laying here thinking that there should have been more material in certain spots. Like more dirt near the feet and more fibers near the head, more bio material, etcetera. Then I remembered those other three hairs on the man’s lapel. They looked like a loose N, remember?”
“Yeah, we thought it weird. But stranger things have happened. Alex, what are you saying?”
“It wasn’t supposed to be an N. I could be crazy, but I think the fourth hair was jostled out of place.”
“I still don’t get it,” said Dean.
“I think the killer may have camouflaged his identity. I think the hairs were supposed to be in four lines, like a suspect lineup. He knew we typically only test one hair when we do an analysis so it would have been pure luck to get his hair.”
Dean frowned. “Alex. I think that’s way out−”
“Don’t argue. You need to run a DNA test on all of the hairs. Even though they look the same, I think one of those hairs could belong to our killer.”