Marsalis.’
Jordan made a small gesture with his head and gave a slight smile. ‘Must be a family gift.’
There was a moment’s silence. Jordan decided that, if a truce was necessary, this could be the right moment to wave, if not a white flag, at least a white handkerchief. He pointed to the folder sticking out of the paper.
‘What’s that?’
Burroni took it out, opened it and pushed it across the table. ‘Copies of the statements. The post mortem was done in record time, and the first test results. It’s all we have so far. Read it when you have time.’
Jordan decided that a bit of a boost to Burroni’s self-esteem might be a good way of easing him into this forced collaboration. ‘I’d rather you told me.’
Burroni’s voice became slightly less tense. ‘The PM confirms that the victim was strangled. To fix the thumb in place, his mouth was filled with strong glue. The same glue was used to attach the blanket and the hand to the ear. From the tests, it seems it was a very common brand called Ice Glue, which is found all over the country, so that doesn’t give us any kind of lead. Plus, it seems you were right about the MO. There were traces of adhesive tape on the wrists and ankles – again, a very common brand. The killer probably immobilized him first and then killed him when he was unable to react. There are no signs of struggle on the body, apart from the strangulation marks on the neck. As for the testimony of . . .’ he turned the paper towards him to read the name ‘. . . LaFayette Johnson, it hasn’t been much use so far. He seems to have told the truth about what happened. The records show the victim called his cellphone pretty much at the time he said. When he discovered the body, he called the police. For the moment he can’t be ruled out as a suspect, but . . .’
Jordan finished his sentence for him. ‘But you don’t think he would have killed his main source of income.’
‘Precisely. He did tell us one interesting thing, though.’
‘Which is?’
‘As he was coming into the building, he almost collided with a guy in a tracksuit who was on his way out. He didn’t see his face, but he said he ran off in a strange way, limping slightly, as if one leg was weaker than the other. We made enquiries in the building and the neighbourhood. Nobody of that description lives in the vicinity.’
‘Seems worth pursuing. Anything else?’
‘We managed to trace the girl who spent the night with your neph . . . with the victim. In fact,
she
contacted
us
as soon as she heard about the murder. They were questioning her when I left Headquarters.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘Nothing to write home about. Quite plain, in fact. She’s a secretary at a publisher’s whose name I can’t remember, with offices on Broadway.’
‘Could she have strangled him?’
‘Judging by her physique, no way.’
‘And what are the Crime Scene people saying?’
‘They have their work cut out. Thousands of prints, thousands of fibres, hairs, paint residue. It’s going to take months to sort through everything.’
‘So that’s what we have, for now.’
There was no resignation in Jordan’s comment. It was simply an observation. He knew from experience that most investigations started out with very little to go on.
‘Do you think we’re dealing with a serial killer?’ Burroni asked.
‘I don’t know. It’s too early to say. The MO does suggest the work of a psychopath. But it could be an acquaintance of the victim, or a fan, crazy enough to commit an isolated act, without there being any follow-up.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘It may not be pleasant, but we’re going to have to look into the life of Gerald Marsalis. Everything. Friends, girlfriends, buyers, drug dealers . . .’
Jordan read the question in Burroni’s expression.
‘James, I know perfectly well who my nephew was and what kind of life he was mixed up in. I want to know everything. The rest is my problem.’
‘I
Jordan made a small gesture with his head and gave a slight smile. ‘Must be a family gift.’
There was a moment’s silence. Jordan decided that, if a truce was necessary, this could be the right moment to wave, if not a white flag, at least a white handkerchief. He pointed to the folder sticking out of the paper.
‘What’s that?’
Burroni took it out, opened it and pushed it across the table. ‘Copies of the statements. The post mortem was done in record time, and the first test results. It’s all we have so far. Read it when you have time.’
Jordan decided that a bit of a boost to Burroni’s self-esteem might be a good way of easing him into this forced collaboration. ‘I’d rather you told me.’
Burroni’s voice became slightly less tense. ‘The PM confirms that the victim was strangled. To fix the thumb in place, his mouth was filled with strong glue. The same glue was used to attach the blanket and the hand to the ear. From the tests, it seems it was a very common brand called Ice Glue, which is found all over the country, so that doesn’t give us any kind of lead. Plus, it seems you were right about the MO. There were traces of adhesive tape on the wrists and ankles – again, a very common brand. The killer probably immobilized him first and then killed him when he was unable to react. There are no signs of struggle on the body, apart from the strangulation marks on the neck. As for the testimony of . . .’ he turned the paper towards him to read the name ‘. . . LaFayette Johnson, it hasn’t been much use so far. He seems to have told the truth about what happened. The records show the victim called his cellphone pretty much at the time he said. When he discovered the body, he called the police. For the moment he can’t be ruled out as a suspect, but . . .’
Jordan finished his sentence for him. ‘But you don’t think he would have killed his main source of income.’
‘Precisely. He did tell us one interesting thing, though.’
‘Which is?’
‘As he was coming into the building, he almost collided with a guy in a tracksuit who was on his way out. He didn’t see his face, but he said he ran off in a strange way, limping slightly, as if one leg was weaker than the other. We made enquiries in the building and the neighbourhood. Nobody of that description lives in the vicinity.’
‘Seems worth pursuing. Anything else?’
‘We managed to trace the girl who spent the night with your neph . . . with the victim. In fact,
she
contacted
us
as soon as she heard about the murder. They were questioning her when I left Headquarters.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘Nothing to write home about. Quite plain, in fact. She’s a secretary at a publisher’s whose name I can’t remember, with offices on Broadway.’
‘Could she have strangled him?’
‘Judging by her physique, no way.’
‘And what are the Crime Scene people saying?’
‘They have their work cut out. Thousands of prints, thousands of fibres, hairs, paint residue. It’s going to take months to sort through everything.’
‘So that’s what we have, for now.’
There was no resignation in Jordan’s comment. It was simply an observation. He knew from experience that most investigations started out with very little to go on.
‘Do you think we’re dealing with a serial killer?’ Burroni asked.
‘I don’t know. It’s too early to say. The MO does suggest the work of a psychopath. But it could be an acquaintance of the victim, or a fan, crazy enough to commit an isolated act, without there being any follow-up.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘It may not be pleasant, but we’re going to have to look into the life of Gerald Marsalis. Everything. Friends, girlfriends, buyers, drug dealers . . .’
Jordan read the question in Burroni’s expression.
‘James, I know perfectly well who my nephew was and what kind of life he was mixed up in. I want to know everything. The rest is my problem.’
‘I
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