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After memorizing the sizes and info on the paper, I shredded it and flushed it down the toilet. I went through my ritual of brushing teeth and washed my hands, before wiping everything in the bathroom down. Setting a mental timer for two hours, I laid atop the covers and closed my eyes.
Two hours should be enough time for him to sleep, then I could get to work.
5
Cash
This was it.
This was going to be the murder that had just a shred of evidence, a tiny mistake that would unravel all of the unsub’s trail, leading me right to the old bastard.
Walking with a little extra pep in my step, I pulled open the glass door and winked at the very young, and very tired looking, lady manning the front desk. Her cheeks immediately pinkened as her gaze fluttered down to her computer screen.
When I spoke she brought her gaze back up. “Cash Morgan. FBI. Here to assist with the alley murder on 68th and Thompson.” I flipped open my wallet to flash my badge, then tucked it in my back pocket.
“Huh?” She blinked, then started shuffling a stack of papers next to the keyboard. “Oh. Oh! The detectives are over there now, combing for any missed evidence. I’ll let them know you’re on your way.” She picked up the phone but paused before dialing. “Do you need directions?”
I grinned goodnaturedly, especially since I had just given her the address. Newbies with this few brain cells, and even less attention to detail, were the reason murderers got away ninety percent of the time. Contaminated evidence, lost logs, misunderstandings. All the reasons Pops had always worked damn hard to take over the crime scenes of his unsubs before any errors could fuck it all up. And still, this killer had never made a mistake.
But that was about to change. I could feel it. Something felt different about this murder.
“I know where to go. Who’s the lead?” I asked as I straightened my suit jacket.
“Detective Sullivan.” She grinned up at me while she dialed a number. “Hi Detective. The FBI has a man here to help on the Ingram murder. I’m not sure.” She bit her lip and glanced back up at me. “Why is the FBI getting involved?”
“We believe this to be connected to a known serial killer. I can brief Detective Sullivan once the scene has been fully processed.” I’d already lost a few days, but hopefully a fresh set of eyes could pick up something they’ve missed.
She relayed my message and hung up. “He’s waiting for you. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Thanks Officer,” I read the name on her tag, “Patel.” I nodded and dipped out of the police station.
The drive over to the crime scene was surprisingly short. This wasn't in the normal MO at all. Our unsub was smart, cautious. Meticulous to a T.
I didn’t get much time to mull it over once I parked. No sooner than I opened my door, than there was a middle-aged man, with an equally middle-aged woman, speed-walking my way.
Oh goodie. They’re unhappy about the FBI stepping on their toes.
Just the way I loved starting a fun filled day in an ongoing investigation.
“Agent Morgan,” the man grouched as he wiped his brow with a dirty handkerchief. “Not sure why you’re here but this is my crime scene.”
"My job," I told him. Neither one of these detectives wanted me here. Most didn't. Local law enforcement never wanted the feds stepping in, and in particular, the FBI. We usually couldn't step in unless we were invited or we had clear evidence the crime crossed state lines. Moreover, they would get downright territorial if the case might lead to a promotion.
I got it.
I just didn't care.
Not bothering with ID, since both of them had their badges clipped to their belts, I circled around the pair and headed under the crime scene tape. The officer should have stopped me to have me sign in, but since the detectives hurried after me, he didn't.
Happened all the time. Walk in like you belong and just take over. Whether they liked you or not, they began to defer to you. Some of the more alpha fuckheads would give you lip, but they'd still do it until they got a captain or a chief down here. This was a battle above their pay grades. So, I didn't wait to fight it, I just went to work.
"Who discovered the body?" I pulled a pair of gloves out of my pocket and tugged them on one at a time as I began the walk up the long alley. There were some dumpsters. Empty and broken pallets. Refuse spilled out of one of the dumpsters. Breathing through my mouth, I concentrated on the scene, because nothing quite compared to the smell of an alleyway behind a bar.
Rotting garbage, vomit, piss, motor oil, and the sweet smell of putrefying flesh. Granted, the body wasn't that old, which was part of why I'd broken a few speed laws getting here. Damn lucky I'd only been fifty miles away checking out an old dump site when the report of the DB came over the police band.
"Delivery driver," the woman said after a solid ninety seconds of them following me and saying nothing. The body was still here. No coroner's van was present. That was good. Gave me time to get a look. "Showed up with the day's beer, couldn't miss it." She jerked a thumb toward the fresh vomit on the ground. "Lost his breakfast at first sight. It ain't pretty."
If she had gum in her mouth, I'd bet she'd pop it with every word. It almost sounded like she did anyway. There were yellow stains on her finger tips and she kept reaching up to her breast pocket then putting her hand down again.
