Washington looked at him a long moment, nodded slightly, then said: “About Lauren Childs. One of the things I wanted to tell you was I just got off the telephone with Dr. Mitchell. We were discussing another case, and he brought up her name.”
Howard Mitchell, M.D., a balding, rumpled fifty-year-old, usually found in a well-worn two-piece suit, had served nearly a decade as the Philadelphia medical examiner.
“Yeah? We’ve already got autopsy results? I hadn’t heard.”
“Unofficial and incomplete results. He has not finished the autopsy on her. But she and the Sanchez boy came in at almost the same time. Dr. Mitchell, no surprise, stated that the cause of the boy’s death was obvious. But he said he was curious about hers, and made time for a preliminary look. He went in and examined the damage and said it was clear why she bled out so quickly.”
“Hit an artery?”
“That and worse. The knife was thrust in just beneath the rib cage”-he poked his finger upward at the bottom edge of the pocket on his shirt-“the sharp blade nicking the left lung before piercing the apex of the heart and then cutting the aorta. Dr. Mitchell said the doer twisted the blade so violently that it went through the walls of the heart, practically slicing it in two.”
Payne grunted. “Thus explaining why she just instantly collapsed. And the great deal of blood. Jesus.”
“It happened quickly. Similar to when you get a deep cut and don’t immediately feel pain, which explains why she did not scream. He said that it had to have been a thin, long-bladed, almost surgically sharp instrument, one at least six inches in length.”
“Like one used for cleaning fish?”
Washington nodded. “A fillet knife was the example he gave.”
Payne took a sip of coffee.
After a moment he said, “And a fillet knife”-he drew his left pointer finger across his throat-“would do a damn effective job.”
“Or similar tool.”
Payne looked at him and thought, Translation of which is: a gentle reminder not to lock on one possibility.
He said, “Understood.”
“But it is an angle to work until a better one presents itself. Keep turning over the stone under the stone.”
Payne nodded, then looked out the windows.
“Certainly not at a loss for fish markets where he could work. Off the top of my head there’s Golden and John Yi’s in Reading Terminal Market, Darigo’s in the Italian Market, there’s an Asian one”-he pointed across the expressway-“right there on Spring Garden, which is in line with the direction the kidnapper was taking the little girl. And of course there’s Fishtown, but that’s more or less a misnomer these days. I’m not sure you could find a single shad for sale there, let alone a fully stocked fish market.”
“There is also the distinct possibility that the doer simply could be an avid angler.”
“Yeah, and/or just one sick sonofabitch,” Payne said, then looked at Washington and added, “I wonder how he carried a long blade like that without anyone seeing it?”
“Perhaps in a sheath of some design up his sleeve?” Washington said, then demonstrated by putting his right fist to the cuff of his left sleeve and pulling out an imaginary blade. “Or in the upper of a boot.”
Payne slowly nodded in thought.
“Possible, I suppose,” he said, “if more than a little impractical. Could’ve just held it with the blade hidden by his arm close to his body.”
“Would be more easily used that way,” Washington said, paused, then added: “Anything more-anything at all-on identifying the doer in the Childs case?”
Payne shook his head.
“Only what little we had before. That the boyfriend, Tony Gambacorta-who Nasuti just interviewed at length-never saw him, only felt the strong hit as they passed in the crowd, and decided he had to be a big guy, and that the guy called him an asshole when they hit. It all happened so fast, though, no one really knew that she’d been stabbed-as you said, she didn’t scream-only that she’d collapsed and began bleeding heavily. Everyone was looking at her. By the time they figured out that she’d probably been stabbed, the doer was gone, and any solid witnesses-if there in fact were any at all who’d seen him and/or had a clue what just happened-had dispersed.”
“And still no video from park surveillance cameras?”
“None capturing images near that exact spot. And the ones farther out aren’t giving us anything useful.”
Washington, nodding, looked at him in deep thought.
“There is imagery from Franklin Park,” Payne went on, “and Melanie Baker, the mother of the little girl who was grabbed, gave a solid description of the doer, including the tattoo on his neck.” He paused, tapped on the screen of his phone, then held it up to show Washington. “Here’s the clearest shot we have of him. This and another were just minutes ago sent out in a Wanted flyer. Because both victims were killed with sharp blades and so close together in time and location, it has to be the same doer. Doc Mitchell should be able to find evidence that links the wounds to the same weapon.”
“A weapon that, for all we know, could well be in the muck at the bottom of the Delaware River by now,” Washington said, turning to the phone.
He studied the image. It showed the large man walking alone among the holiday crowd. He was heavyset, with a puffy round light brown face framed by a ragged mop of dreadlocks that drooped down to his shoulders.
“His eyes are empty, just dark holes staring out,” Washington said. “Vacuous and cold, devoid of life. Even as he’s about to commit a heinous act.”
“These thugs have no respect for life. No way it’s his first murder.”
Payne then flipped to the other image, a barely in focus close-up of the suspect’s face and neck framed by the sweatshirt hood.
“Check out those tats,” Payne said. “The picture’s not sharp but you can see that he inked an inverted heart on his cheek under his left eye, and an inverted peace symbol under his right eye, and ‘Family’ written in gothic lettering across the front of his neck, which Melanie Baker didn’t miss seeing.”
“An upside-down heart?”
Payne nodded. “A bright red one, about the size of a cherry, outlined in black.”
Washington thought about that, then said, “The peace symbol is meant to be a dove’s claw within a circle, so when inverted it stands for death. And the inverted heart stands for hate or for no love.”
“And that ‘Family’ inked across his throat. A gangbanger embracing his fellow thugs as family. Touching, huh?” He tapped his chest. “Warms the ol’ heart. . or cuts it like a knife.”
“Someone will recognize this miscreant, especially those body markings.”
Payne raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, but as we know, the trick will be getting that someone to admit recognizing him.”
He then turned to the window and pointed to Franklin Park.
“We were able to follow his tracks back to where he entered the park there at Race, and using images from our surveillance cameras outside the Roundhouse, we know he came this way down Race. Now we’ve got guys going store to store looking for more camera footage and possible witnesses that could help us backtrack his path. Maybe-hell, forget maybe, my gut says doubtless-all the way back to LOVE Park.”
Washington nodded, then held up his index finger in a Hold one gesture. He reached inside his suit jacket and produced a vibrating cell phone with its screen glowing. He checked the caller ID and then answered the phone: “Jason Washington. .” then, glancing at Payne, said, “Yes, sir, he’s aware of the death threats,” and after a moment added, “Will do. Okay, on my way.”
Washington looked at Payne as he broke off the call.
“That was our boss, as I anticipated, so I’ll have to pass on seeing the casino images for now. And I’m to tell you: ‘Captain Quaire says not to let down your guard-take the death threats seriously.’ That comes from me, too.”