Back in her office, Melanie began her workday as she always did, by checking her e-mail. The subject line read I’m watching you. In the quiet of the office, with the memory of the man in the hooded sweatshirt fresh in her mind, the caption got her attention. The message had been sent last night at 1:19 A.M. from an address she didn’t recognize, partysover2007@yahoo.com. She clicked on it. It read:
To Melanie Vargas—I saw you on TV and I could tell you have a sexy body under those boring clothes. You can’t hide it from me, I always know. I want to see you with the clothes off. How tall are you and how much do you weigh? I don’t like women too big. Write back soon. Your secret admirer. P.S. Don’t waste your time on that nosy bitch Suzanne Shepard. This Central Park Butcher guy did the world a favor.
Melanie’s first reaction was to feel repulsed, as any woman would upon receiving an obscene message. But then the prosecutor in her kicked in, and she started thinking about whether the e-mail could possibly be connected to the Shepard case.
“‘Nosy bitch,’” she whispered. “He calls her a bitch.”
They had carefully kept all information about the gruesome message carved into the victim’s stomach away from the press. As far as Melanie knew, only law enforcement personnel were aware of the mutilation. Holding back signature details of a crime allowed them to truth-test anybody who contacted them claiming to be the killer. She’d been taught that investigative principle, but she’d never seen it in action. Could she be seeing it now?
Melanie did her best to remain calm and think through the events of the past hour or so. This message read I’m watching you, and she’d had the distinct impression that the man in the hooded sweatshirt on the subway had been following her. The e-mailer had called Suzanne a bitch. Put those facts together, and suddenly she was leaping to the conclusion that the Central Park Butcher himself had followed her from her apartment onto the subway. But when she thought about it objectively, Melanie didn’t believe any of those things. Use of the word “bitch” didn’t make this creep the Butcher. The e-mail didn’t actually mention the mutilation, which the real killer surely would have. And the e-mailer couldn’t possibly have figured out where she lived. Melanie was scrupulously careful about keeping her home address and telephone number unlisted, as much to protect Maya as to protect herself. No stranger who’d seen her on TV should be able to track her down. Besides, the guy in the sweatshirt hadn’t even been following her. If he had, when she’d turned around before in the plaza, he would have been behind her. Instead, the place was deserted.
Just as she’d talked herself out of feeling nervous, a loud rap on her office door made Melanie jump. A young woman with a pleasant, doughy face stood in her doorway. She was short and wore a shapeless gray suit.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” the woman said. “I’m Janice Marsh from the D.A.’s office.”
“Oh, right. My boss told me you were coming.”
Janice walked in and plopped down in Melanie’s guest chair. “Are you okay? You look white as a ghost.”
“Were you at the crime scene last night?” Melanie asked.
Janice blushed. “I’m sorry I ran out. It was my first murder scene and it was worse than I expected. If you give me second chance, I’ll work like a dog on this case, promise.”
“No need to apologize. That’s not why I was asking. You know the killer carved the word ‘bitch’ on Suzanne Shepard’s stomach, right?”
“Are you kidding, I’ll remember that for the rest of my life. Why do you think I hurled?”
“Could you do me a favor and read this obscene e-mail I received?” Melanie asked.
“Sure.” Throwing her a curious glance, Janice stepped behind Melanie’s desk and leaned over to see the computer. She read the e-mail, then she read it a second time.
“What do you think?” Melanie asked.
Janice straightened up. “You’re wondering about the fact that this clown calls her a bitch? Does that mean he’s the Butcher?”
“Exactly.”
“No way. Every asshole who hates women loves the B-word, right? All this means is that some jerk saw you on TV and decided to harass you. The same thing happened to a woman I work with in the D.A.’s office. She was doing a high-profile case and her picture was in the paper. She started getting obscene phone calls. One of the cops she worked with paid the guy a visit and it stopped.”
“That’s what I thought, too. I just wanted a second opinion,” Melanie said.
“You may have a Web stalker, but I don’t think he’s the Butcher.”
“Too bad, huh? It would make solving the case a lot easier.”
As Janice laughed, Melanie’s telephone started ringing.
“We got the 911 caller,” Dan said when Melanie picked up. She heard static, and a loud siren in the background that was shrieking simultaneously outside her office window.
“You sound close,” she said.
“We’re right in front of your building. Julian’s getting the guy out of the car now, and we’re gonna bring him up the secure elevator. You want us to meet you in your office?”
“Why are you bringing him in the secure elevator? Did you arrest him?” she asked.
“The guy’s got two nasty-ass scratches on his cheek. You remember the victim had skin under her nails? This could be the Butcher, and he wants to talk.”
“I’ve got a war room,” she said, pulling out the key Bernadette had given her and checking the tag. “Six-fourteen-B. Meet me there in five minutes.”