showed her exhaustion. “Same question we had at Jack Holley’s. No signs of forced entry at his place either. Doors, windows, nothing. A street-smart ex–security guard who lived at Turk and Taylor, and he just opens his door to a large male stranger?”
“Maybe he isn’t a stranger,” Daniel said, and one of Dooley’s thin eyebrows lifted slightly to indicate that the consideration wasn’t a fresh one.
The words lingered until another inspector ducked into the office. Fifties, bloodshot eyes, with white hair and a red fringe of mustache. “Christ, Dooley, have you slept since the Holley murder? I can get this. You need some rest.”
“Black don’t crack, O’Malley.”
“So they tell me.” He nodded at Daniel. “Brave thing you did tonight. Stupid, but brave.” Back to Theresa. “All right, then, Pam Grier. What do you need?”
“Besides a newer reference? Pam Grier ? Do I call you Burt Reynolds?”
“I wish you did. Now, come on, lady, what do you need me to jump on?”
Dooley asked, “What have we heard back from Lyle Kane’s house?”
It took Daniel a beat to place the name: Kane was the intended recipient of the third letter.
“Nothing yet,” O’Malley said.
“I dispatched a unit there hours ago,” Dooley said. “Why can’t we get a simple confirmation of his safety?”
“I’m on it.”
“Also, pull a warrant and have surveillance get a hidden camera up in the mail room at Metro South in case our boy Daniel here gets any more accidental fan mail.”
O’Malley gave a curt nod before withdrawing. “Anything you need.”
As far as Daniel could tell, the statement was in earnest. It struck him that Dooley was not only the youngest homicide inspector he’d seen tonight but also the sole female and the only non-Caucasian. Photos of the academy classes lined the corridor from the elevator, progressing from the early 1920s; in his stunned, trancelike state walking in, Daniel had focused on all those tiny frozen faces, changing through the years. More color. More women. Except, it seemed, here in Homicide.
“The camera Marisol’s killer had,” Dooley was saying. “Digital, right?”
“Looked it.”
“It used to be the department could put the word out to the Fotomats. Now any sicko with a laptop can print out whatever souvenir he wants in the privacy of his own lair.”
“That’s why you think he took the picture?” Daniel asked. “For a souvenir?”
“Whether the victims’ transgressions are real or imagined, those letters make one thing clear: These are revenge-based killings. So yeah, I think our guy wants to revel in them afterward.”
Daniel’s mouth was dry. “He got my picture, too.”
Dooley nodded solemnly. “I know.”
She didn’t dismiss the grim fact with any false reassurances.
She didn’t linger on it either. Bouncing off the desk’s edge, she circled to her computer. “So that mask,” she said. “It look something like this?”
She swiveled the monitor, and a Google image of a faceless mask stared out at him, eerily disembodied. He pictured that cocked head, the expert twirl of the knife and felt his forearm muscle give another twitch.
It took a bit of effort to swallow. “Yeah,” he said. “Very close to that.”
“And the gloves. You said shiny leather with backing straps, maybe Velcro?” Her fingers purred across the keyboard. “Like so?”
He came forward in his chair, pointing at the screen, as if the image were new to her as well. “How did you…?”
“Sounded like a motorcycle mask,” she said. “So I figured motorcycle gloves, too. This helps, Brasher.”
They stared at each other across the desk.
“Now you can…?”
“Start slogging,” she said. “Check motorcycle-supply stores. Ask around the crime scenes if anyone noticed a bike. It’s not a lock that the guy’s a biker, but it’s a pretty good bet he’s familiar with them. There are more obvious masks to get, you know?”
“And you can check who in
“Maybe he isn’t a stranger,” Daniel said, and one of Dooley’s thin eyebrows lifted slightly to indicate that the consideration wasn’t a fresh one.
The words lingered until another inspector ducked into the office. Fifties, bloodshot eyes, with white hair and a red fringe of mustache. “Christ, Dooley, have you slept since the Holley murder? I can get this. You need some rest.”
“Black don’t crack, O’Malley.”
“So they tell me.” He nodded at Daniel. “Brave thing you did tonight. Stupid, but brave.” Back to Theresa. “All right, then, Pam Grier. What do you need?”
“Besides a newer reference? Pam Grier ? Do I call you Burt Reynolds?”
“I wish you did. Now, come on, lady, what do you need me to jump on?”
Dooley asked, “What have we heard back from Lyle Kane’s house?”
It took Daniel a beat to place the name: Kane was the intended recipient of the third letter.
“Nothing yet,” O’Malley said.
“I dispatched a unit there hours ago,” Dooley said. “Why can’t we get a simple confirmation of his safety?”
“I’m on it.”
“Also, pull a warrant and have surveillance get a hidden camera up in the mail room at Metro South in case our boy Daniel here gets any more accidental fan mail.”
O’Malley gave a curt nod before withdrawing. “Anything you need.”
As far as Daniel could tell, the statement was in earnest. It struck him that Dooley was not only the youngest homicide inspector he’d seen tonight but also the sole female and the only non-Caucasian. Photos of the academy classes lined the corridor from the elevator, progressing from the early 1920s; in his stunned, trancelike state walking in, Daniel had focused on all those tiny frozen faces, changing through the years. More color. More women. Except, it seemed, here in Homicide.
“The camera Marisol’s killer had,” Dooley was saying. “Digital, right?”
“Looked it.”
“It used to be the department could put the word out to the Fotomats. Now any sicko with a laptop can print out whatever souvenir he wants in the privacy of his own lair.”
“That’s why you think he took the picture?” Daniel asked. “For a souvenir?”
“Whether the victims’ transgressions are real or imagined, those letters make one thing clear: These are revenge-based killings. So yeah, I think our guy wants to revel in them afterward.”
Daniel’s mouth was dry. “He got my picture, too.”
Dooley nodded solemnly. “I know.”
She didn’t dismiss the grim fact with any false reassurances.
She didn’t linger on it either. Bouncing off the desk’s edge, she circled to her computer. “So that mask,” she said. “It look something like this?”
She swiveled the monitor, and a Google image of a faceless mask stared out at him, eerily disembodied. He pictured that cocked head, the expert twirl of the knife and felt his forearm muscle give another twitch.
It took a bit of effort to swallow. “Yeah,” he said. “Very close to that.”
“And the gloves. You said shiny leather with backing straps, maybe Velcro?” Her fingers purred across the keyboard. “Like so?”
He came forward in his chair, pointing at the screen, as if the image were new to her as well. “How did you…?”
“Sounded like a motorcycle mask,” she said. “So I figured motorcycle gloves, too. This helps, Brasher.”
They stared at each other across the desk.
“Now you can…?”
“Start slogging,” she said. “Check motorcycle-supply stores. Ask around the crime scenes if anyone noticed a bike. It’s not a lock that the guy’s a biker, but it’s a pretty good bet he’s familiar with them. There are more obvious masks to get, you know?”
“And you can check who in
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