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But here, she thought, the face was the least of it, as if the killer had wanted to keep it fairly unharmed.
So they could see the victim? So he remained recognizable?
“Pissed off doesn’t torture like this for a couple days,” she added. “Pissed off and crazy, maybe. But again, I’d expect to see more physical contact – more from fists or saps. Some damage to the genitals, but ag
ain, not as much as I’d expect if it was a pissed-off friend or lover.
“But we’ll look at that.”
Shifting, Eve looked down the alley toward Madison, turned, looked north toward Henry.
“The killer had to have transpo, and likely pulled up on Madison. The dump site’s close to Madison. The vic’s – what was it – five-ten, and one-fifty-five. We’ll have the sweepers determine if the plastic with the body was dragged down the alley, but it doesn’t look like it. Hard to be certain in this light, but dragged or carried, the killer had some muscle. Or help. We’ll see if the canvass turns up anything.”
She looked up, scanned dark windows. “Middle of the night, middle of the winter. Cold as a bitch’s tit.”
“It’s ‘witch’s.’???”
“Why? Doesn’t matter,” Eve said quickly. “Neither way makes sense. If somebody’s a witch, why do they put up with cold tits? I’m a bitch, and twenty-four hours ago, my tits were plenty warm.”
“Was it wonderful? Your vacation?”
“It didn’t suck.”
Blue skies, blue water, white sand and Roarke. No, it hadn’t sucked.
And now it was done.
“Let’s call in the sweepers, the morgue, and get a couple of uniforms back here on the body.” She checked her wrist unit. “We’ll go by the vic’s residence first. There’s no point waking his mother up at this hour to tell her he’s dead.”
Eve tugged the silly cap farther over her frozen ears, bobbled her light. As she leaned over to retrieve it, her gaze flicked toward the body where the end of the beam arrowed.
“Wait. Is that… Peabody, microgoggles.”
“You see something?”
“I’ll see if I see something better with the microgoggles.”
She was kneeling beside the body now, drawing the left arm farther out.
“Fuck me, I almost missed this.”
“Missed what?” After she pulled the microgoggles from Eve’s field kit, Peabody pushed them at her, tried to angle to see what Eve’s light beamed on.
“It’s a heart. So much blood and bruising, I might’ve missed it. Morris would have caught it once the vic was on his table, but in this light, I didn’t see it.”
“I don’t see it now.”
“Just under the armpit.” Leaning closer, goggles in place, Eve bookended it with her fingers, top to bottom, then side to side. “About an inch high and wide. Precise as a high-dollar tattoo. Initials inside. E over D.”
“D for Dorian.”
“Could be.” And it sure as hell shifted some angles. “Maybe a pissed-off lover or wannabe or used-to-be lover after all. Ante- or postmortem?” she wondered. “A signature or a statement? This part’s precise. The killer took some time and care carving this in.”
“McQueen carved numbers in his vics,” Peabody remembered, “so the cops would know how many he’d done. Maybe this is E’s signature, and E picks the vic and develops some sick, delusional relationship. And since sick, delusional relationships never end well, the killer bashes, ties up, gags, tortures, kills, then carves in the heart – killer over vic inside it.”
Eve nodded – a good theory. Solid and logical. “It could play.”
“Maybe this isn’t E’s first sick, delusional relationship.”
