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“What can I do for you?” she asked him.
Dressed in uniform, his sleeves rolled up, his body straight as a board, not so much as breaking a sweat, Blackwater did three more slow, perfect push-ups, holding his body rigidly off the floor.
“You look busy,” she said, looking longingly toward her office door.
“Nope. Finished. For now.” In one swift, athletic motion he hopped to his feet and straightened, his face only slightly flushed. “Have a seat,” he said, and she thought better of arguing, even though she was still wearing her jacket and hadn’t even spent a second at her desk. “I’d like your take on the Cantnor and Pope homicides. Bring me up to speed.”
“I thought Alvarez talked to you.” Pescoli was pretty sure Blackwater had all the information they did.
“She did. As did Gage. But I’d like to hear what you think.” He was staring at her intently, almost as if he were trying to read her mind.
So, he wants a recitation. Fine. “Well, I think we’ve got ourselves another nutcase.” She perched stiffly on the chair she’d occupied so often when Grayson was alive.
Some kind of classical music was playing softly, Blackwater’s computer was at the ready, the monitor glowing with the logo for the department on display, and every book, file, pen, or note pad was placed neatly on the desk or the surrounding cases, his awards mounted precisely on the walls. The whole “neat as a pin” feel gave Pescoli a bad feeling—kind of like Alvarez’s office on steroids. It was all part and parcel of Blackwater’s consistent military style.
“I think the murders are linked. That’s the obvious conclusion, and I think it’s the right one. We’ve got one sick jerk-off who gets his jollies by slicing off the victim’s ring finger. I’ve got no real idea who’s behind the deeds yet.” She almost lost her train of thought, he was staring at her so intently, but she went through all the facts again as they knew them, finally returning to, “The big connection so far is the missing fingers and rings, and that fingerprint. We only hope we’ll come up with a hit and be able to ID whoever picked up Sheree Cantnor’s shoe and Calypso Pope’s bag.”
His eyebrows pinched together. “Not one suspect so far?”
He knew that, too, but apparently wanted her to reiterate. “No. At least not until we identify the print found on Cantnor’s shoe and Pope’s bag. Or, if our killer is dumb enough to try and pawn the rings and give himself away.”
Blackwater picked a pencil out of the holder and leaning back in his chair, fiddled with it. “Odd case.”
“We get our share around here.”
“And then some,” he agreed.
“Must be the water, or the hard winters. Makes people crazy.”
He didn’t so much as crack a smile. So much for a little levity.
“You got anything else?” he asked.
“We’re still looking for a connection between the two women, old schools or boyfriends or friends, even friends of friends, but as near as we can tell at this point, the two victims didn’t know each other.”
“Random?”
“Or possibly each woman knew the killer, but not each other. If this were a TV show, it would turn out that the female victims happened to share the same bad-boy lover who maybe went to prison and hired some lunatic to off them or something like that. So far, we haven’t been lucky enough to find any connection between the victims and Montana’s version of a modern day Jerry Brudos.”
When Blackwater didn’t immediately respond, she elucidated. “The guy in Oregon who had a fetish for shoes and cut off body parts and kept ’em in the freezer. Back in the sixties, I think. My folks told me about it. Our guy has a thing for fingers and rings.”
Listening, Blackwater asked, “You think the killer will strike again? Here?” He pointed to the office floor, but she knew he meant in the general area of Grizzly Falls.
“I would have said ‘probably not’ after the first victim. I mean, who knew what was going on? I thought the Cantnor woman’s killer might just be a pissed off ex-boyfriend. But after Pope that doesn’t make as much sense now. Maybe he’s setting up for another kill, or maybe he was just passing through, did his business here, twice that we know of, then moved on. For all we know, there could be more bodies of earlier victims that have been killed and dumped somewhere else, and not yet discovered.”
“He could have had other victims. Cases before ours.”
“We’re double-checking that, as well as the names of all of the women who’ve gone missing in the past month.”
“Do you think he’s moved on?” Blackwater asked.
Pescoli slowly shook her head. “Just a gut feeling, but no. Our doer seems to know the area pretty well. Either that, or he’s been extremely fortunate, as we can’t find a link between the women, and we have no video footage or pictures of anyone near the victims in their last moments. Somehow, he avoided any cameras on that stretch of the waterfront when he attacked Calypso Pope. The same goes for Sheree Cantnor, yet these days everyone has a camera phone in their purse or pocket. People are always taking pictures and posting them on social media sites. And most businesses keep security cameras running twenty-four seven. So, how’s our guy been so lucky unless he’s really aware of the area?”
As if realizing he was fiddling with the pencil, Blackwater replaced it. “Why the rings? The fingers?”
“Trophies? You know, to relive the moment. Again, like our friend Brudos. Or maybe some kind of personal statement about the rings, or marriage? Maybe both?” She shook her head. “Hard to know what kind of psychosis the doer’s dealing with.”
“You think he’s insane?”
