Detective Heat brought her crew in for another early roll call the next
morning. This time, they were joined by Detectives Malcolm and Reynolds, on loan
from the major case squad. They were quick studies, so Nikki only needed to use the
first ten minutes to recap the two murders and get them up to speed. As she wrapped
it up, Sharon Hinesburg slid into the back of the bull pen, the only detective to be
tardy.
Traces on the physical evidence from each homicide scene had brought no results
after a day and a half of calling and canvassing. The red and yellow string was so
common and widely available that screening recent purchases could take weeks, plus
it could have been bought months or years ago. Same, too, with the skate wheel.
Malcolm raised a hand. “Let me tell you something.” He slouched back in his usual
pose and planted one of his work boots on the back of a chair. “Coming in cold?…
Whenever I come across props like this in a case, it’s one of two things. Either
there’s some sort of personal crap the guy’s working out…”
“You mean like fetishes?” asked Heat.
“Yeah, or some fucked-up, brain-fried, thumb-sucking obsession like his mommy
wouldn’t let him have pets or ride a skateboard.”
“… While carrying scissors,” added his partner, Reynolds.
“Or second, he’s just seeding chaff to mess with our heads.” Malcolm brought his
cup up to sip. “Who knows?”
“Only the killer,” said Heat. “Let’s keep on tracing those items, especially the
string, which is common to both, but keep digging on the victims. People in their
lives, how they spent their last day, and especially—are they somehow connected to
each other beyond their job types?”
Detective Raley reported that only one neighborhood camera was pointed at the Maxine
Berkowitz crime scene. “It’s outside a neighborhood Islamic center on Riverside
Drive,” he said. “And it’s out of order.”
Heat logged that in marker on the Berkowitz whiteboard, then tapped the identical
notation for the pizza joint cam in the other murder. “Coincidence?” she said. “I
would say strange enough to be considered…”
“Wait for it,” called Feller.
“… an odd sock,” said Nikki, and the room erupted in a chorus of “Yessss!” at
the first invocation of Heat’s pet investigative phrase on this case. But the
rowdiness was quelled when one of the administrative aides brought in the morning
papers and held one of the tabloids up to the room. The bold headline screamed: DEAD
TIE! Underneath, against a white background, blared a giant photo of two coils of
string: one red, one yellow.
Heat dismissed the meeting, and the rest of the squad did exactly what she did: They
dove into the New York Ledger. “Exclusive,” read the subhead, and the byline was
Tam Svejda, Senior Metro Reporter for the Ledger—whom Heat knew, among other
things, to be a lazy journalist prone to easy handouts from “insiders.” Detective
Hinesburg had whispered confidential material to her before, acting as Captain Irons
’s mouthpiece—an apt term, considering her sexual relationship with the skipper.
To Nikki the article felt warmed over, derivative of old reports already made
public. But then there was the leak of the big hold-back: that the two homicides
were literally bound together by string, which pointed to a serial killer operating
in Manhattan.
“Now, calm down, Detective,” said Wally Irons. Heat appeared in his office before
he could set down his briefcase. “We were going to release that today anyway.”
“But we didn’t. Someone leaked it. And whoever it was put our MO hold-back on page
one,” she said, brandishing the picture of the string.
“First things first,” he said, seeming to enjoy this. “Tam Svejda called me for
comment, and you can see for yourself, I downplayed the serial killer angle. Here it
is.” He ran a finger down the column and quoted, “Precinct Commander Captain
Wallace Irons cautioned against leaping to conclusions. ‘We cannot rule out the
possibility that these killings could be the work of separate individuals.’ ”
“Nobody’s going to buy that,” said Heat.
“Ah, but it’s on the record. I did my part.”