Friday. Today was Friday. Four days before he would strike again, if the pattern held true.
The last thing we have is time.
She was right.
He felt nauseated and closed the notebook. He looked over at Wainwright.
His jaw was set, almost clenched, and he hadn’t said much since Emily Farentino had walked out of his office. He didn’t need to say what Louis suspected, that he was embarrassed about the choice his friends at the bureau had made. Farentino was a rook. And she was female. Was Wainwright’s reputation worth no more than that?
“Dan,” Louis said softly.
Wainwright grunted.
“About Farentino. .”
“What about her?”
“She must have something going for her for them to send her.”
Wainwright grunted again, this time more softly.
“At least they sent someone,” Louis said.
Wainwright glanced at him, then looked back at the road. “It’s a token offer of assistance, Louis. In the old days, a request from someone like me would’ve carried some weight.”
They stopped at a light. Louis watched a small plane take off from Page Field and lift quickly into the cloudless blue sky. It gave him a moment to work up the guts to ask the question that had been on his mind all morning.
“Dan, what division did you work?” Louis asked.
Wainwright didn’t look at him and didn’t answer until the light turned green and they started moving. “OPR,” he said. “Office of Professional Responsibility. Retired early on a medical.”
Louis stared out the window, lightly tapping his notebook on his knee. Office of Professional Responsibility? Man, he had thought Wainwright’s past was a colorful blaze of manhunts, priority investigations, and high-tech forensics. What was this OPR thing?
“We’re here. And so is she.”
Louis saw Emily Farentino waiting for them outside the medical examiner’s building. She was talking to a man in a suit whom Louis recognized as Driggs.
They climbed out and Farentino turned to watch them approach, pushing her glasses up her nose with her middle finger.
“Chief, this is-” Emily began, motioning to the suit.
“We know each other,” Wainwright mumbled, without looking at Driggs.
Driggs was staring at Louis. A wind gust off the nearby airstrip made his comb-over take sudden flight. When he saw Louis looking at it, he smoothed it down over his sunburned head.
“Let’s get this over with,” Wainwright said.
They followed him inside, down a tiled hall to the autopsy room. Louis trailed, watching Emily Farentino walk-strong, determined steps, a sense of purpose to her stride. She was still dragging that big briefcase but her small shoulders handled it well.
She had changed into jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt that Louis suspected might be a man’s. Her tiny ankles were pale and bare, her feet covered in black slip-on flats.
Odd uniform. Odd cop.
Octavius was at his station at the door and nodded silently as they approached. When he held the door for Emily, she thanked him.
“He’s the diener,” Louis said. “It’s German-”
“For servant. I know,” she said.
There was no sign of Vince Carissimi except the tape player on the counter. Louis could make out Lynyrd Skynyrd singing “That Smell.” He realized suddenly that the sickly sweet death smell that had surrounded Anthony Quick’s water-bloated corpse was absent this time. The room now smelled just vaguely musty, like a refrigerator that wasn’t quite clean. He looked at Emily Farentino. She didn’t seem fazed by it or anything in the room, including the body on the table.
Vince came in. “Welcome back, guys,” he said. His eyes immediately picked up Emily. “And you are. .?”
There was no sarcasm to his voice, Louis thought, just a hint of. . what? Interest?
Emily motioned toward the badge hung on a chain around her neck. “Agent Farentino. FBI.”
“FBI? Well. Good to meet you. What office?”
“Miami.”
“Let’s get to it, Doc,” Wainwright said.
Vince drew his eyes off Farentino and went to the fiberglass table where the corpse lay, head slanting toward the stainless-steel sink. “No name yet for victim number three?” Vince asked.
Wainwright shook his head. “Got his description, prints, and that dog tattoo posted all across the Southeast. Nothing.”
Vince lifted the sheet covering the body from the feet, leaving the face covered.
“The man sorely neglected himself,” Vince said. “Don’t imagine he’d been to a doctor in years, didn’t bathe regularly. He had a scrape that had been infected for weeks.”
“Unless the infection killed him, I don’t think we care about that,” Driggs said.
Vince looked over at Driggs, then went on. “He’s about forty, maybe less, no drugs, but a BAC of point-two.”
“I don’t suppose that killed him either,” Driggs said. “Get to the point.”
Vince didn’t even give Driggs the courtesy of a look this time. He lifted the corpse’s hand. “He had motor oil on his palms and on his clothing. Might give you a starting point for a pickup. Unlike the last one, he had no defense wounds. And I was right. No sign of a shotgun wound this time.”
Driggs sighed loudly.
“Eighteen stab wounds in the chest cavity and shoulders, but here’s the kicker, my friends. .”
Vince paused. “The wounds are different sizes,” he said. “At first I thought I was seeing two different knives, but upon closer inspection, I discovered the killer had broken his knife about halfway through his rage. Look.”
Vince pointed to a gaping split in the neck. “This was done with what was left of the knife. The wound depth is only three inches as opposed to up to twelve for the others. Those bruises were made from the butt hitting the skin.”
“He broke the knife and he just kept stabbing?” Louis asked.
“Apparently.”
Emily squeezed forward between Louis and Driggs. “Tell me we have the blade,” she said.
Vince turned and picked up an object wrapped in plastic. He opened it to reveal a thin, bloody blade, with an upward bow to its nine-inch length. “It was stuck in his spine. I believe the killer tried to retrieve it with his hand. I found massive injury to internal tissue that was inconsistent with knife wounds.”
Louis felt sick.
“You make the knife yet?” Wainwright asked.
Vince shook his head. “Not yet. But at least I’ve got the blade to send to the lab now. Ignotum per ignotius.”
“So he was stabbed to death,” Driggs said.
“Technically,” Vince said.
Vince lifted the sheet off the face. Louis tensed, feeling his stomach begin to swirl. Without the blood and seawater, the sunken face looked like a pile of week-old hamburger meat and mushy shredded wheat.
“The beating was postmortem, just like the others,” Vince went on. “And he was painted, as you can tell from the flecks still visible. Most of the paint washed away with the tide.”
“Same kind of paint?” Wainwright asked.
“Consistent with glossy black Krylon. He used satin on Mr. Quick.”
“At least that part of the pattern still holds,” Wainwright said.
“It didn’t match the boatyard paint?” Louis asked Vince.
“Nope. Definitely plain old Home Depot spray paint.”
“That still doesn’t eliminate Van Slate,” Wainwright said.
“Who’s Van Slate?” Driggs demanded.
Wainwright ignored him.
Driggs stepped forward. “Look, Wainwright, I don’t care if you bring in half of Quantico’s graduating class. If you’re holding out-”
“Could this wait, gentlemen?” Vince interrupted. “I moved this case to the top drawer for you boys and now I’ve got bodies stacked up like 747s at Newark. Let’s move on here.”
Driggs stepped back. Louis glanced at Farentino. She was staring at Driggs.
Vince cleared his throat. “Now, here’s something really interesting. I found nonhuman tissue in the chest wounds.”