Kitabı oku: «Cause to Kill», sayfa 6
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
On Wednesday morning, bright and early, Avery entered the office to check her messages and see if any new leads had come in. The disturbing interview with George had only confirmed one thing: he was crazy. Could he be the killer? Sure, Avery had begun to suspect, but there were still other avenues she needed to pursue.
One last suspect remained: Cindy Jenkins’ boyfriend, Winston Graves. Graves was a Harvard fencing champion from an elite family. His father owned a number of supermarket chains and his mother was a regular on QVC. By all accounts, he was a dedicated student and athlete who would never have to work a day in his life, but he still received top grades and had aspirations of representing his country in the Olympics.
Slim, she thought, but worth checking out.
“Hey, Black,” the captain called, “come on in here.”
Finley Stalls sat before the captain’s desk, like a thief about to be caught red-handed. Despite their brief moment of camaraderie the day before, Avery wanted nothing to do with him. A beat cop usually assigned to whatever homicide squad division was in need, he was, she believed, lazy, mean, untrustworthy, and he had an accent so thick and fast it was nearly impossible to understand what he was saying half the time.
“What’s up, Cap?”
O’Malley wore a navy blue long sleeve shirt and tan slacks. Stubble lined his face and he appeared to have gotten little sleep.
“Looks like Thompson kicked down the right doors,” he said. “We received a call this morning from Shelly Fine, mother of our assumed perp. Looks like she lent him some money to rent out a cabin on Quincy Bay for the entire month. Here’s the address,” he said and handed her a slip of paper. “That might be our spot. Get down there now. If this is it, I’ll meet with the chief this afternoon to schedule the news conference.”
Avery checked the address.
Southwest, she thought, on the water. Far from the abduction site or car routes. Intel from Jones had the killer driving in the opposite direction after the alleyway in Cambridge. And Thompson had the car going north.
“Sure,” she said, “I’ll head there this afternoon.”
“What are you? Drunk?” he snapped back. “I just handed you the potential address of our killer, and you tell me you’ll wait until this afternoon?”
“Thompson and Jones spent most of the day yesterday going over car routes. They had the minivan heading north from the park and west from the alley. Not once did it veer south. I’m not saying Fine isn’t our killer. I just think.”
“Listen, Black. You can think all you want. You want to follow-up on other leads? You go right ahead. After you search this cabin. You hear me? As far as I’m concerned, this case is over. I want it tied up with a pretty ribbon on top. You better make me look good for the chief.”
“Sure,” she said, “no problem.”
“That ‘sure’ sounds a lot like ‘I’ll do what I want,’” O’Malley said. “Look, Avery,” he said and settled down, “I know you’re smart. That’s why you were promoted, yeah? And I know you’ve got great instincts. But what I need now is closure. If I’m wrong? Great. Rub it in my face all you want. But for now? We’ve got the best lead so far and I expect you to follow it.”
“Understood,” she said.
“Good,” he replied, “now take your new partner and get out of here.”
“Finley?”
“Yeah,” he said. “You got a problem with that?”
“Seriously?”
“What?” the captain challenged. “You think I’m giving you a good cop? Your first partner was killed. Your second one is in the hospital. Finley is perfect. Solves all my problems. If he does good? Great. If he gets killed? Not a problem. I can at least tell the chief I finally got rid of some dead weight around here.”
“I’m right here!” Finley yelled.
O’Malley pointed at him.
“Don’t you disappoint me,” he snapped. “I’m tired of it, you hear me, Fin? You prove yourself on this case and maybe I’ll rethink my opinion about your dedication as an officer. For now, you’re just a racist cop that gets moved around from department to department because no one wants to fire you. Is that what you want? You like that title? Good. No more jerking around. You do what she says and clean up your act. Understand?”
* * *
“What crawled up his ass?” Finley snapped when they’d left. The words were spoken extremely fast, and with such a heavy accent that Avery thought it sounded like “Whacawlup-is-ass” and she had to take a minute to figure it out.
She was at least a head taller than Finley and seemed like a supermodel compared to him with his frog-like lips, chubby cheeks, large eyes, and short, stout frame.
Barely a word was spoken until the reached the car.
The white BMW seemed to offend Finley.
“Whoa!” he shouted. “I’m not getting in that thing.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a girly car.”
Avery hopped inside.
“Suit yourself.”
Finley – completely out of his element in his blue patrol uniform standing next to a white convertible BMW – appeared as dejected as a kitten in a rainstorm.
“Hey, Fin,” a distant cop shouted. “Nice ride.”
“Ah, man,” Finley moaned.
“It’s called karma,” Avery said when Finley begrudgingly hopped in and closed the door. “What comes around goes around.”
She headed out of the lot and turned west.
“Hey,” he said, “where you going? Quincy Bay is in the other direction.”
“We’ll get there,” she said.
“Now wait a minute,” Finley complained. “I was in that office too. Cap said we go to Quincy Bay. No exceptions.”
“He also said you need to listen to me.”
“No way. No way,” Finley shouted. “You can’t screw this up for me, Black. Turn the car around. This is my last shot. Captain hates me. We gotta do what he says.”
His dropped consonants and verbal speed made Avery shake.
“Do you ever listen to yourself?” she asked. “I mean, do you ever record yourself and then go back and try to understand what you said?”
Finley looked lost.
“Forget it,” she motioned.
“Black, I’m serious,” he pushed.
“Have you ever encountered a serial killer?” she asked.
“No. Yes. Well, maybe.” Finley thought.
“There’s something about them,” Avery said, “something different from other people. I didn’t know that until I represented one as a lawyer and thought he was innocent. After it turned out that I was wrong, I started to see things differently. His house, what he collected. On the outside, they looked like normal things, but in hindsight, they were clues. A shadow veiled everything,” she remembered, “a shadow that longed to be lifted.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Finley whined.
Avery breathed out a heavy sigh.
“George Fine might be our killer,” she said. “He stalked girls and he attacked a cop. But what I saw around him, it doesn’t add up. Points to something different, like a crazy kid who’s stuck in his own head. There’s no solid proof of anything else, which makes me think the house is a getaway, some place he goes to try and get out of his own head. I don’t know, maybe I’m wrong. We’ll get to the house. I promise. Just give me an hour.”
Finley shook his head.
“Shit, man, I’m fucked.”
“Not yet,” she said. “Just a brief detour to Harvard to interview one final suspect and then it’s on to Quincy Bay.”
Dead silence lasted the rest of the way into Cambridge. At one point, slightly curious about Finley and their difficult past together, Avery cocked a brow and asked a question.
“Why are you always such an asshole?”
“To you?”
“Yeah, to me.”
Finley shrugged as if the answer was obvious.
“You’re a chick,” he said. “Everyone knows chicks don’t make good cops. Heard you were a lesbian too. You like to bang serial killers, right? Crazy shit. You’re a crazy chick, Black. Besides, you always look like you belong somewhere else. So I say to myself: why doesn’t she go work somewhere else if she don’t like it here? That’s all. Busting your balls. Gotta fight back if you want respect,” he said and punched the air. “Pop, pop, pop.”
Avery began to wonder if he was slightly special.
* * *
“Can I help you with something?”
Winston Graves looked just like he’d been portrayed by the sorority girls: cocky, aloof, tall, dark, and athletic. He had dreamy green eyes and a toned, tan body. Although not a perfect match to the man Avery had seen in the surveillance videos, she tried to imagine him in disguise and slumped over to make him seem shorter.
On the porch of his first-floor apartment house, he wore white and red basketball shorts, flip-flops, and a tank-top. Books were in his hand. He glanced over at Finley, who stood further away on the sidewalk and glared at Winston like a pit bull ready to strike.
‘My name is Avery Black,” she said and flashed her badge. “I’m with Homicide. I’d just like to ask you a few questions about Cindy Jenkins.”
“It’s about time,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I called the cops on Sunday. This is the first time anyone thought it might be important enough to talk to me? Huh,” he fake laughed, “I’m touched.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Avery said. “Did you have anything to add to the case? Is that why you wanted the police to call you back?”
“No,” he said, “I’m just forever amazed at the stupidity of our public servants.”
Avery winced.
“Ouch,” Finley said. “You better mind your smart-ass tongue, Harvard boy, or I’ll bring in your clean ass for Obstruction.”
Winston looked over at Finley, haughty at first; but then when he caught a good look at his raging eyes, he seemed to show the slightest bit of self-doubt and humility.
“What do you want?” Winston demanded.
“You can start by telling me where you were Saturday night,” Avery said.
Winston laughed.
“Are you serious?” he said. “I’m a suspect now? This just gets better and better.”
A powerful, protected air surrounded Winston, like he was untouchable, above them all, and blessed by money and birthright. He reminded Avery of all the multimillionaires she’d worked with as an attorney. During that time in her life, she probably acted just like him.
“Just going through the motions,” she said.
“I was playing poker with my friends. Everyone was at my house until about midnight. You want to check? Go right ahead. Here are some names,” and rattled off a few of his Harvard classmates.
Avery took notes.
“Thanks for that,” she said. “And, how are you?”
He frowned.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know, just trying to be empathetic. How are you feeling? I assume this must have been very difficult for you. The way I understand it, you and Cindy were in a long-term relationship. Two years, isn’t that right?”
“Great detective work,” he said sarcastically. “Cindy and I were over. Not officially, but in the past few months, it became painfully obvious that we were not meant to be together. We were moving in different directions. I was going to break up with her. So no, I wasn’t that broken up. It’s a terrible tragedy. I was upset when I heard what happened, but if you’re looking for tears, you came to the wrong place.”
“Wow,” Avery said. “It’s only been three days.”
“I’m sorry,” Winston snapped, “is there something I’m missing here? You come to my house, make me feel like I’m a suspect, question my relationship, and then try to make me feel guilty about my emotions? You might want to be careful with your words, Detective, or I’ll call my lawyer and make sure you’re put on a tighter leash.”
“Shut your fuckin’ mouth!” Finley yelled with a pointed finger.
Avery flashed him a look that said “you are not helping.”
Her phone rang.
“Black,” she said.
O’Malley was on the line.
“Stop whatever you’re doing,” he said in an urgent, soft-spoken tone. “Turn the car around and head over to Violet Path in the Mount Auburn Cemetery over in Watertown. Plug it into your phone and get there now. Ask for a detective named Ray Henley. He’s in charge. The cabin can wait.”
“What is it?” she asked.
There came a three-second pause.
“They just found another body.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Mount Auburn Cemetery was a luxurious property of winding roads, lakes, and lush forests with gravestones strewn throughout.
A number of Watertown police cruisers, along with unmarked cars, an ambulance, and a forensics van, made it impossible to drive very far into Violet Path. Trees obscured most of the overhead sunlight. Multiple groups of onlookers and bikers craned their necks to see something just outside of Avery’s view. She parked at the bottom of a grassy knoll, just at the intersection of Walnut Avenue and Violet.
“Hey you,” a plainclothes cop shouted when she exited her car, “you can’t park there. Move that car. This is a crime scene.”
Avery flashed her badge.
“Avery Black,” she said, “Homicide. Boston PD.”
“You’re out of your jurisdiction, Boston. We don’t need you here. Go home.”
Avery smiled: reasonable and pleasant.
“I was told to contact Ray Henley?”
“Lieutenant Henley?” Suspicious, the officer grumbled, “Wait here.”
“What’s up his ass?” Finley interjected.
He stood right behind Avery, practically against her shoulder.
“Am I being punished?” she asked. “Is that why you’re here?”
“This is my big break, Black. You’re going to help me reach detective.”
“God have mercy on my soul.”
A lean, attractive man in slacks and a red plaid shirt came over the hill. He looked more like an outdoorsman than a detective; only the badge around his neck and the gun on his hip gave it away. He had a sunburned face and wavy brown hair. An aura of wellness and patience exuded from his being, and he smiled at Avery as if they knew each other.
“Detective Black.” He waved. “Thanks for coming.”
A strong hand gripped hers, and when he peered into her eyes, a calm feeling came over Avery, like she could sink into his arms and instantly be forgiven for all her sins.
An awkward pause followed.
“I’m Ray Henley?” he said.
“Right,” Avery replied, flustered, “sorry. I was told you found another body, similar to the one we discovered over in Lederman Park?”
Her immediate discussion of the case turned him off slightly, and he breathed a wistful sigh and rubbed his cheeks.
“Yeah,” he said, “come up and see for yourself.”
He updated her on the way.
“A runner found her this morning around six. For a second, she thought the girl was some kind of Satan worshiper from the way she was positioned. We believe her name is Tabitha Mitchell, an MIT junior that never showed up at her dorm last night. Her roommate called the police around two, and then again eight. Cambridge police would have normally waited forty-eight hours to post a picture but since she’s a connected college student, we caught a break.”
“What’s she doing out here?”
“I thought you could help us with that.”
The body was at the top of the knoll. Small gray tombstones marked the area. She was draped over a larger stone that resembled a chess piece pawn. He had once again done incredibly lifelike work. She was squatted and hugging the monument. Her cheek rested on the top. Eyes were open and there was a lasciviousness about her appearance. Red blush painted her cheeks. Some kind of glue had been sprayed on her forehead and hair tips to imitate sweat, and her mouth was puckered in a sense of breathlessness.
“She’s not wearing any undergarments,” Ray said.
Cindy Jenkins wore undergarments: panties and a bra. What does that mean? Avery wondered. Is the killer becoming bolder? Did she just leave the house that way?
Tabitha’s eyes were open and focused on something in the distance.
Avery tracked the line of sight to a bunch of white, short tombstones on an opposite, grassy decline.
“Finley,” she said, and inwardly bristled at his name, “write down whatever you see on those graves over there. Mark them down so I know which one’s first, second, third, got it? Then take a walk around the area. Serial killers usually return to the scene of the crime to get a cheap thrill. Maybe ours is still here.”
“A serial killer?” He beamed. “Oh wow. You got it, Black,” and he flashed her a can-do attitude and pointed a finger in her face to express seriousness.
“Is that your partner?” Ray asked.
“No,” she insisted.
Once again, he tried to start a conversation.
“Saw you in the paper a couple of days ago.” He smiled. “And,” he emphasized, slightly embarrassed, “I saw you in a lot of papers a few years ago.”
His implication wasn’t clear until Avery glanced at him and realized: He’s flirting.
It was hard for her to do anything in front of a dead body except analyze what happened and try to piece together the puzzle. She wondered if that was some kind of mechanical flaw born from her past guilt and torment, but then she remembered she’d always been that way, even as an attorney: focused, relentless, and eager to find the connections that would lead to success. Now, the only difference was that those connections weren’t just ways to get her clients off – they were ways to stop murderers.
Ray sensed her discomfort and changed the subject.
“You think this is your guy?”
Avery cleared her throat.
“Absolutely,” she said. “This is his work.”
“Well then,” he sighed, “I’ll share whatever we have. We don’t get many crime scenes like this in Watertown. And, if you like, we can even have the body sent to your lab and you can take things over from there. You OK with that?”
“Of course,” she said, genuinely appreciative. “That would be great.”
“Don’t get the wrong idea,” he added with a smile, “I’m not just a nice guy. Truth be told? I’m a little OCD when it comes to sharing. It makes my skin crawl trying to imagine two sets of paperwork on something this important, and timely.”
“Still,” she offered, “thank you.”
He held her look for as long as possible; Avery blushed and turned away, excited by the attention but eager to get back to work. Thankfully, another officer flagged him down.
“Lieutenant, we have a situation over here.”
“Be right back,” Ray said.
The cemetery was peaceful, calming, just like the area where Cindy Jenkins was placed in Lederman Park. Why? Avery wondered. What’s the significance of parks? Mentally, she checked off avenues to pursue: Was Tabitha a sorority girl like Cindy? She’s a junior, and half Asian. So the killer can’t be hunting down seniors, or specifically white girls. Cindy came from an established family. What about Tabitha? They were both abducted from Cambridge. Why? Is that where the killer lives? Where was Tabitha last seen? Who saw her alive? Can we get surveillance? The list seemed endless.
What do we know? she pushed.
Nothing, she mentally replied. We know absolutely nothing.
No, she rallied, we know something: the relative size and shape of the killer, his ethnicity, MO, and the specific drugs he used. Ramirez was compiling a list of hallucinogenic plant suppliers, as well as car dealerships and Internet sites that sold Chrysler blue minivans. We can pursue those leads. We can also share the killer’s sketch with Cambridge police. See if there’s a match. We can also try to track that minivan from Lederman.
I just need more people, she thought. And not Finley.
Police sirens blared.
Cops spun into action.
“We got a runner! We got a runner!”
Farther off, on another path visible from her position, a black car, maybe a Mustang, revved up and burned smoke out of the cemetery. Ray was below shouting orders. Two police officers and a photographer around the body perked up and started to head toward the action.
“No, no,” Avery called and pointed. “You stay here. Someone has to guard the body.”
Finley, she thought. Where is Finley?
Her walkie-talkie buzzed to life.
“Hey, Black,” came Finley’s voice, “we got him! I got him!”
“Where are you?” she demanded.
“I’m in a Watertown police cruiser with – hey, what’s your name,” he said to someone. “Shut up, man!” came a different voice. “I’m trying to drive!” “I don’t know,” Finley added, “some cop. We’re the first ones out. Following a black Mustang. Heading northwest out of the cemetery. Hop in that pretty white pony of yours and back us up. We got him!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Avery jumped in her car and stuck a siren on the roof. The red light whirled. Her walkie-talkie, a new model as sleek and small as a cell phone, was thrown aside. Instead, she turned on the car transreceiver and clicked the frequency she’d been assigned to Finley.
The car started. A backup curve and she hit the pedal and peeled forward out onto Walnut Avenue. The paths in the cemetery were a maze-like jumble. Through distant trees, she caught the tail end of a police cruiser. She abandoned the road and jumped onto the grass. Shit, she thought, I’m going to get into trouble for this. Headstones were avoided. The car turned onto another paved road and she was behind a pack of police vehicles.
Avery followed the chase out of the cemetery and onto Mt. Auburn Street. She narrowly avoided two cars. A crash resounded behind her. The line of red and blue police lights shifted onto Belmont Street.
Avery picked up her transreceiver mouthpiece.
“Finley,” she called, “where are you?”
“Oh man,” Finley replied, “you guys are way behind. We’re ahead of everybody. This is great. We’re going to catch this son of a bitch.”
“Where are you?” she demanded.
“On Belmont, just past Oxford. No wait. He’s turning onto Marlboro Street.”
Avery checked her speedometer. Sixty-five…seventy. Belmont went in two directions. Her side was a one-lane street with enough room to slip by any slow cars on the right. Thankfully, all the police cruisers had already diverted traffic. She caught up to the last car.
“Made a left on Unity Avenue now,” Finley called.
The line of police turned right on Marlboro and then made a quick left.
“We stopped. We stopped,” Finley cried. “I’m out of the car. Mustang on the lawn of a small brown house, left side. Heading into the house.”
“Don’t go into the house!” Avery shouted. “Do you hear me? Do not go in!”
The line went silent.
“Shit,” she said aloud.
All the police cars had converged on a single brown two-story house with a short lawn and no trees. The Mustang had nearly smashed into the front staircase. The police cruiser beside it, Avery assumed, had been the one with Finley inside.
Avery hopped out and pulled the Glock out from her shoulder strap. Other officers had their weapons drawn. No one seemed to know what was happening.
“Is this our guy?” Henley called out.
“We don’t know,” another cop answered.
Yelling came inside.
Shots were fired.
“You two!” Henley roared to his men. “Go around back. Make sure no one leaves. Sullivan, Temple, keep your eyes on me.”
He squat-ran up the stairs and into the house.
Avery made a move to go after him.
“Hold up. Hold up,” a cop shouted.
Finley exited the house with his arms wide in pleasant victory, gun in hand.
“That’s right,” he said. “Game over for the serial killer.”
“Finley, what happened?” Avery shouted.
“I got him,” he declared, no sense of remorse or social etiquette. “Shot that mother-fucker. He pulled a weapon and I shot him. Saved some cop’s life and shot his white ass. That’s how we do it on the south side,” he declared and threw up a gang symbol Avery immediately recognized as the South Boston D-Street Boys.
“Slow down,” she said. “How do you know he’s our guy?”
Finley cocked his neck and opened his eyes wide.
“Oh yeah,” he declared, “That’s our guy all right. Caught him in the basement. Lot of sick shit down there. You gotta see it to believe it.”
Henley came out of the house.
“Sullivan,” he called, “get an ambulance out here, now, and get down in that basement. Dickers was shot. He needs support. Travers,” he said, “I want this place sealed off. No one in. No one out. You hear me? We don’t need anyone else contaminating the scene. Marley! Spade” he yelled to the back. “Get out here.”
“I need to see what’s in there,” Avery said.
“Go,” Henley waved, “she’s OK, Travers. Both of them,” he indicated Finley. “No one else.” And to Finley he added: “I’m going to need a statement from you, young man.”
“No problem,” Finley said. “Heroes tell tales.”
“Tell me everything, slowly,” Avery snapped.
Finley – still on an adrenaline rush – was hyped and bouncy.
“I did what you asked,” he said in his speedy, accented tone, “wrote down those tombstone names. A bunch of girls, maybe eighteen or twenty years old. I don’t know. I’m no good at math. Died in WWII. Then I saw this old guy watching everything from afar. Looked shady, you know? I alerted one of the other cops, because I’m a team player and all, and we went over to have a little chat. We get about halfway toward this guy and he bolts: hard run to the car. Who knew old people could run so fast? Jumps in and peels out. Wait until you see what we found. Solved the case single-handedly,” he said and slapped his chest. “Don’t worry. I’ll give you some props,” he added. “Who’s lazy now?!” he yelled to the sky.
All Avery heard was “tombstones…girls…died in WWII…” and she made a mental note to find out everything about those markers and the women they served.
Gun drawn, Avery moved through the front door.
The house had an old, musty scent to it, like someone hadn’t lived there in a long time. Carpets were dusty white. A staircase led to the second floor. Through the ceiling, Avery heard footsteps and someone yell, “Clear.”
“Down this way,” Finley said.
He led her around the stairs. A kitchen was on the left. To the right was a door that led to the basement. The scent was strong around the door: rotting corpses and scented oils. Oils, Avery thought; maybe this is our guy.
Creaky steps led to an expansive, dark basement with a stone floor. The smell was so strong Avery nearly retched: dead bodies and decomposition mixed with sweet-smelling fragrances to hide the scent. Air fresheners hung everywhere between the beams and exposed padding of the ceiling. Boxes lined nearly every wall, hundreds and hundreds of boxes. The only empty space held a long table marred with dried blood and cutting implements
Towards the back was a soiled bed.
A dead body lay on the bed, practically blue and decomposed from time, legs splayed open and tied to posts, along with the hands. It was a girl, someone young that Avery guessed had died years earlier.
Strange, sexual devices surrounded the area: bondage chairs; chains from the ceiling, and a swing. One of the boxes in the back was opened. Avery peeked inside and caught a glimpse of a woman’s body parts.
She held her nose from the stench.
“Jesus.”
“What did I tell you?” Finley beamed. “Crazy shit, right?”
A man lay dead at the foot of the wooden-post bed, 6’2” or 6’3”. He was old and lean, with long gray hair. Maybe sixty, Avery thought. A shotgun was by his hand.
The downed cop sat against a side wall being aided by his friend. Luckily, he’d worn a vest, but some of the shotgun shells had gone through his neck and face.
“My wife’s going to fucking kill me,” the cop said.
“Nah,” the other cop replied, “you’re a hero.”
The basement was dirty. Dust balls were everywhere. The tools on the desk, the desk itself, even the sex equipment had obviously never received a thorough cleaning. Boxes along the back were soiled and nearly falling over.
“I need to make a sweep,” Avery said. “Finley. Check the garage. See if you can find our blue minivan, and disguises, plants, needles: anything related to our case.”
“On it,” he said and bounded up the stairs.
The rest of the house appeared old and unlived in, with no pets and no plants. It was neat, tidier than the basement, but still caked in dust. No indication of any other perversions could be found on the higher floors. Pictures that lined the walls were quaint copies of artists like Bruegel and Monet. The suspect, it seemed, spent most of his time on the second floor, where Avery found his personal effects and clothing.
She headed outside.
The neighborhood had come alive. Police lights still turned. Crowds had gathered around the areas sectioned-off area.
Finley came panting back.
“Just an empty garage with a lot of junk lying around,” he said.
A picture of the killer had already taken shape in Avery’s mind, based off what she’d seen on the surveillance tapes and what she believed from previous experience. She imagined a strong, dainty young man – educated and anti-social, a man that liked art and had a mind for medicinal concoctions. The way he placed his women were like Parish paintings, or works by Alphonse Mucha. Similarly, the drugs he administered were artlike in their own way, drawn from a number of rare, illegal plants and flowers. He was also fastidious about details, and clean, just like the placed bodies with their washed clothing and clean skin.
This house?
The man dead in the basement?
George Fine?
They were all pieces of the puzzle, but they felt like different puzzles, with their own pieces, and all the pieces were strewn together.
