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“Got some prints in the dust here, probably from the scavengers. These? The smears? The killer sealed up, wore crime-scene booties from the look of it. Things had gone another way, few days, a week passes, more dust. You don’t see the smears. Heart shot, dead-on. One blow, thin blade. Up close and personal. Verify ID and TOD, Peabody.”
Eve sealed up, took out a pair of microgoggles and approached the body. “Probably a stiletto,” Eve said as she examined the wound. “Don’t want any spatter, any mess. Want it quick and done. Toss rags and useless tarps over him. You might walk right by this pile in the dark. Window’s boarded. Somebody finds him, junkie, sidewalk sleeper, scavenger, most of them aren’t going to report it.”
“Prints verify. Rod Sandy,” Peabody said. “TOD one-fifteen this morning.”
“Smart. Smart. Give him time to panic, to sweat, run him around some. Then lure him here when he’s so knotted up he’s not thinking straight. You need to take him somewhere inside, covered, off the track. You’d get here first, lure him up. He’s got to be sweating. He doesn’t want to stay in a place like this. He needs to get out, you have to help me get out. I can’t stay in this rathole. And it’s like, take it easy, it’s all worked out. You might even put your hand on his shoulder. Holds him steady, gives you a target while you look in his eyes and stick him.”
She pulled off the goggles. “Strip him down so it looks like he was killed for his clothes, what’s in his pockets. But it’s not so smart to cover him up. That’s too much. Just like the single heart shot’s too much. That’s not mugging MO. Overthought it, that’s what you did. Some showing off here, too.”
“The killer should’ve messed him up some,” Peabody put in. “Then left him on top of the rags instead of under them.”
“That’s right. The kill shot indicates skill. There’s pride there. No postmortem wounds, like you’d see if he’d been flopped around while someone was yanking his clothes off. But he had to be careful, avoid leaving trace. All a waste of time anyway, because we’re not idiots.”
She straightened. “Let’s get the sweepers in, and the morgue. I’ll take the scavengers.”
They looked typical, Eve mused. Two humanlike lumps so layered in clothing and grime it was next to impossible to judge gender or age. They sat on the floor, a wheeled basket between them. It held more clothes, shoes, what might have been broken toys and any number of damaged electronics.
They identified themselves as Kip and Bop.
“Legal names would be appreciated.”
“We didn’t keep them,” Kip said. “We only keep what we want.”
Bop clutched an enormous bag. “We keep it and we use it and we sell it. It doesn’t hurt anybody.”
“Okay. You came in here to look for things you could keep or use or sell?”
“Nobody else wants them.” Kip shrugged. “Nobody lives here. Nobody cares.”
“Did you see anyone else in here?”
“The man who’s dead.”
“Maybe you came in here last night, too.”
“No. Last night we were on Bleecker. Lady there leaves stuff out every Friday night, and it’s good pickings if you get there quick.”
“Okay. What time did you get in here tonight?”
Kip lifted his arm, tapped the broken face of his wrist unit. “It’s always the same time. Here’s what. We come in, go up to the top floor so’s we can work it down. Not much up there, so we come on down, and work it. Maybe we’ll find a good blanket or some socks in the pile. But we found the man who’s dead.”
“Did you take anything from him, or from the pile?”
“We found him pretty quick. Don’t take from the dead.”
“You go to hell other,” Bop said with a wise nod.
“What did you do then?”
“We call the nine the one and the one. It’s the right.”
“Yeah, it’s the right. You’ve got a ’link?” At Eve’s question Bop clutched the bag tighter.
“It’s mine!”
“That’s right. It’s yours. Thanks for using it. We can get you to a shelter if you want.”
“Don’t like shelters. Somebody’ll take your stuff for sure.”
