“So what Poe story are we in now?” I asked. Darcy was staring at the ground. “I’ve read several that involved decapitations.”
“ ‘The Black Cat,’ ” he said flatly.
“I kind of remember that one. Similar to ‘The Tell-tale Heart,’ right? Guy tries to kill a cat, and when this woman rushes in to saveit, he kills the woman instead. What makes you think that’s the one?”
I could tell this poor gentle soul didn’t want to talk about it. But he did. For me. “He used an axe.”
Eww. “Did you get that from the coroner?”
He shook his head.
“Then how?”
“I looked.”
Double eww. ’Course, I looked, too, but apparently I lacked Darcy’s eye for detail. Or maybe it was that I hadn’t read Carston’s twelve-volume History of Criminology cover to cover and memorized each page. “Did you have a chance to look at the note?”
He nodded, then recited it for me-without looking. “ ‘From the one Particle, as a center, let us suppose to be irradiated spherically-in all directions-to immeasurable but still definite distances in the previously vacant space-a certain inexpressibly great yet limited number of unimaginably yet not infinitely minute atoms.’ ”
“That’s kind of different. Is that Poe? I don’t recognize it.” Not that my brain came equipped with photographic memory. “Do you?”
Darcy shook his head. It bothered him. I could see that.
“Maybe our killer has begun composing original works? In the style of the master?”
Again he didn’t answer and I didn’t blame him. Even as I suggested it, it didn’t sound right. The psycho was still using Poe for his blueprint. There was no indication that he had broken free of that particular part of his psychosis. So where did this bizarre and cryptic message come from? Evidently I needed to know more about Poe than was contained in his complete works. I resolved to stop by the city library on my way home from work and see what I could learn about the man himself.
I saw Tony Crenshaw near the spot where the torso still dangled. His body was stiff, almost rigid. Only his mouth moved. He reminded me of one of those talking statues at Caesar’s Palace.
“Got anything for me, Tony? More of those rug fibers?”
“Not a one.”
“Anything at all?”
“Not much. No prints, that’s for damn sure. Nothing we can get DNA from. A few almost microscopic traces of clothing.”
“Can you tell what it is?”
He shrugged uncomfortably. “I’d like to get it under a microscope before I make any definite pronouncements. But it looks as if it might be lace. Red lace.”
“Lace.” I turned to Darcy. “You remember any references to lace in the Poe stories?” He didn’t. “Well, he couldn’t have carried her here in anything made of lace. Wonder why he didn’t use the rug?”
“He may have destroyed it after the last time,” Tony suggested.
“That one is small,” Darcy said, edging forward. It took me a moment to realize he was talking about the victim.
“Yeah, it’s a shame.”
Lines crossed his forehead. Obviously, I hadn’t taken his meaning. “She’s light. Especially in… two pieces.”
“Are you saying… he didn’t need the rug?” And as soon as I said it, I realized Darcy was right. That Asian girl couldn’t’ve weighed a hundred pounds-even before she was subdivided.
“We found a robe covered with blood,” Tony explained. “We figure he used it like butcher paper-put it under her when he killed her to soak up the blood. But it’s possible…”
I followed his meaning. Wrapped her in her own robe and tossed her into the back of the truck. The robe was already wrapped in plastic for protection, but I gave it a good once-over. It was silken, if not actually silk, and rather exotic. Long, sinuous Chinese dragons were stitched all over it. Victim was very involved with her Asian heritage? No, that wasn’t it…
“Hey, I’ve got something.”
It was Jodie Nida, a tech from the coroner’s office. Given Patterson’s normal reticence to say anything in advance of the official report, this was nothing short of amazing. I hurried to her side. Darcy followed close behind.
Wouldn’t you know it-she was examining the disembodied head. I felt my gorge rising, and this time it wasn’t due to Granger’s belligerence or drinking my dinner last night.
“Let me guess-she died of lack of oxygen to the brain.”
Nida didn’t smile. “Technically, that’s correct. It appears to have taken two blows to sever her head. Not the easiest task, even with a sharp blade. And there are other body wounds, probably slipups. One is about two centimeters long between the fifth and fourth intercostal spaces at the medial border of the right breast. Another wound at the anteromedial right deltoid.”
“Administered before he cut off her head? Or after?”
“I can’t be sure. But that isn’t why I called you over here. You see it?”
I had no idea what she was talking about.
“The teeth,” she said helpfully.
I leaned in closer, even though it was the last thing on earth I wanted to do. She used a dentist’s tool to pull back the edge of the mouth.
“See?” There was a small but discernible red dot on one of the victim’s incisors.
“Blood?”
“Looks that way. We’ll confirm it in the lab.”
“Could this mean… she tried to defend herself?” I hoped for a yes. It would be nice to think she hurt this bastard before he chopped her in two.
“Either that or he treated her to a T-bone steak, rare. But I’m seeing no signs of a recent meal, and I’ve found skin flakes on the lining of her mouth. I think she got him.”
“Good for her.” I wondered what had allowed her to get in even that tiny blow of resistance that none of the others had managed. “Looks like she was in good shape.”
“Agreed,” Nida said. “Excellent muscle tone, even after rigor. I’m guessing she was an athlete.”
“Dancer,” Darcy said quietly, looking away, hands flipping.
We both turned and stared at him.
“How can you possibly-”
“Did you see the calluses on her feet?” he asked.
“Darcy, anything could’ve caused that. She might have a job that required her to stand on her feet for long periods. Waitressing, or-”
“Dancer,” Darcy gently insisted. “Did you know that dancers get special calluses in special places? Look at the calluses on her feet.”
I did. I saw how they formed a semicircular arc at the base of her heel. A firm ridge down the sides and across the center.
Nida and I stared at each other, utterly wordless.
“Maria Tallchief had the same calluses, according to this biography my dad brought home from the library once. Did you know that she was the first truly great prima ballerina in America? She was born in Fairfax, Oklahoma, and-”
“No, I didn’t,” I said, not informing him that I didn’t even know who Maria Tallchief was. My mind had already wandered to another place. Red lace. Exotic wraps. Dancing. I punched my cell phone. “Madeline? Check the missing-persons reports for the last few days. See if anyone is missing an exotic dancer. Showgirl. Anything like that.” If I could figure out where the victim came from-sooner, this time around-I might finally figure out this creep’s pattern and anticipate the next one. “I wish I understood how he chooses his victims,” I said, not really realizing I was speaking aloud. “Or how he chooses where to leave his victims.”
“They are all graveyards,” Darcy said.
“Huh?” I snapped out of my reverie.
“Did you notice that they are all graveyards? The make-believe graveyard at the Transylvania Hotel. The old airplane graveyard at McCarran. The neon sign graveyard.”
I slapped myself for being such a stooge. It was obvious-after Darcy explained it to you. “What could be more natural for a Poe freak? Fake graveyards. He wouldn’t use a real one. That would be too ordinary. Too nonpsychotic. So he put a twist on it. His idea of a joke.”