Scott’s pen hovered over the page but he didn’t write down what she’d just said. ‘You didn’t drive him back to the hotel?’
‘No . . .’ Jayne now remembered how odd it had been at the time, that Gene had disappeared down her residential street into the night. ‘I thought he got a taxi.’
‘Did you see him get into a taxi or did you call a taxi for him?’
‘Neither. In fact, I ran out to get him so I could call a taxi but he was already gone.’
‘You get a lot of taxis on your street?’
Jayne shook her head firmly. ‘No.’
‘OK.’ Scott leafed back to an earlier page in his notes. ‘Steelie. You said Gene was “never your favorite person” and you didn’t meet up with him last week. Why didn’t you like him?’
Steelie assumed a more relaxed position in her chair, legs crossed and one arm slung across the back. ‘Ten years ago, he was arrogant. Smart, but arrogant with it. Self-important. And he had a tendency to act like a white settler in colonial-era Rwanda, which is never a good look thirty years after Independence. I thought he made the UN look bad.’
‘Was there something in particular? How’d you manage to work with him for so long if you felt that way?’
‘One, I’m a master at disguising my feelings – note my witty banter despite the grilling you’ve just given my best friend here. And two, he was good at his job once he got over the fact that he wasn’t in charge of everyone else’s job as well. The straw that broke the camel’s back was when he—’
‘Guys.’ Mark Wilson slammed the door open and crossed to the computer hooked up to the projector. ‘Guys, listen up.’
Tripper pulled up the roller door and surveyed the storage unit in the sunlight slanting in around the corner of the concrete and steel building. He looked up and down the access lane he was in; no one. He’d chosen this particular unit when he’d signed the contract with an alias because it was at the farthest corner of the storage center. Most people didn’t want to drag their belongings any further than they had to once they were in the front gate, so his comings and goings were usually unobserved.
He walked in, turned on the light, and pulled the roller door down behind him, slotting into place a temporary lock. The items he’d left inside looked undisturbed: select pieces of his mother’s faded slip-covered furniture, the pile of old curtains with their hooks still attached, the aquarium whose ferns now resembled miniature ocotillo, and, right at the back, the motorcycle. He went to the motorcycle first.
He prized off a spoke and inserted it into the left exhaust pipe to retrieve a plastic bag. Out of the bag, he brought a knife and went to the sofa. He pulled off its slip-cover and began cutting through the stitching on its back. He worked without concern about any noise he was creating or with hiding the destruction. As soon as he’d opened a foot-long section, he dug within the stuffing and retrieved two more small plastic bags as well as a much larger padded one.
He pulled on the edges of the padded bag until it formed a box. He attached this to the motorcycle’s rear rack, ensuring its label faced out: Joey’s Pizza – We Deliver! He put the smaller bags in the false bottom inside the pizza delivery box.
He moved on to the slip-covers on the two easy chairs and repeated his actions, retrieving scalpels, tweezers, surgical gloves, telephone wire, twine, and duct tape. From the bottom of the aquarium, he pulled out bags holding the false driver’s license and insurance cards, license plates for the motorcycle, the cell phone pack, and the one grenade. Then he cut the lining off the curtains and peeled out a change of clothes, several Tyvek suits still in their plastic covers, and his motorcycle leathers.
Tripper changed clothes, stuffing the remainder of the cheap cop costume into the back of the sofa before putting the slip-covers back on all the furniture. He put on the leathers and turned on the cell phone to check its charge. The manufacturers had been good to their word; it had held its charge since he’d last been at the unit. He typed in a text message and pressed Send. When he saw it had gone through, he smiled and put on his helmet. He lifted the door and began to wheel out the motorcycle.
TWENTY-SIX
Mark Wilson plugged the flashdrive into the computer. He spoke as he tapped keys. ‘I just got off the phone with Gerrit Leuven. I think I know where King got his inspiration for the killings. Check this out.’
The projection screen at the end of the room switched to an image of a streambed bordered by tall reeds whose color was washed out to a pale yellow by bright sunlight. The clear sky above them looked almost white. Amongst the reeds was a black photo board. It looked out of place. Beyond it on the ground, a fluorescent orange plastic arrow pointed toward a plastic letter N.
Mark looked at Jayne and Steelie. ‘After you two left Kigali in ’ninety-six, Gerrit and King were called in by the Civilian Police to assist on a homicide investigation. At first, CivPol had thought it was related to the genocide but then they realized it couldn’t be because the body was fresh. So then they thought it was a retribution killing; like, a witness for the Tribunal killed so she couldn’t testify about the genocide. That was when CivPol called in Gerrit and he in turn asked King to photodocument. All right, look at this. Here’s the overall scene and the photo board’s right near the body parts.’
‘Parts?’ Scott asked.
‘She was dismembered.’
Scott muttered something but Mark continued: ‘Hang on. Look at this. I’m putting it on slide show.’ He pressed a button and the slide dissolved and was replaced by another, which stayed on the screen for a time before dissolving and being replaced. Each photo brought them closer to the reeds, but in the third shot, a body part was slightly visible. In the subsequent photographs, someone was holding back the reeds with a flat tool, exposing the body parts like eggs in a nest. Two feet, the brown skin mottled by decomposition and the soil beneath them darkened with dried blood. Two hands, each finger separated from the palm. Then a single body part that it took Jayne a moment to recognize as a neck.
Mark came to sit by Scott. ‘Remind you of anything?’
‘Yeah, the first body parts we found on the outskirts of Atlanta. The neck especially.’
‘And I don’t think it’s a coincidence. I think that when King was called in to photo these BP’s, it gave him ideas.’
Scott sounded doubtful. ‘But if he worked in the Bureau Lab, he’d have seen all kinds of stuff during his career. Why this particular case? Did they ID the body? Did they find the head?’
‘No, never. And they only made a probable ID – turns out there aren’t that many new missing persons in Rwanda. Most cases date to the spring of ’ninety-four when the genocide broke out. So the list of new mispers was small and most of the women on it were sex workers – and most of them weren’t even Rwandan. They came from elsewhere to cater to the peacekeepers and internationals. For this body, they liked a young woman from the Ivory Coast. She’d only been in Kigali for a short time but was already known to pick up Johns at a club called . . .’ He consulted his notes. ‘The Cadillac.’ He looked up interrogatively at Steelie and Jayne. ‘Heard of it?’
Steelie addressed Jayne. ‘Um, maybe now would be a good time to tell them.’
Scott held up an index finger as his cell phone rang.
Jayne could tell he was talking to Eric and the news wasn’t good. She looked back at the screen, where the slide show was progressing automatically. As she watched, she began to think, Something’s here . . .what is it? She went closer, pulled by that familiar professional curiosity again, which was quickly displacing the self-doubt that had put her on the back foot earlier. She only gave part of her attention to Scott as he relayed Eric’s news that the shelters used code words for clients and, therefore, Patterson’s name and photograph wasn’t getting them anywhere.