“Goddamn you, Reirdon!” he grumbled, positioning the computer’s arrow in the search field of the PC’s monitor where he typed: SYMBOLS BLUE ZIGZAGS. The response was immediate. After a listing of four icon hawkers, including eBay, where you can get anything on the planet, twenty-four-seven, he learned from Doughtydesigns. com that blue zigzags are often used to illustrate one of the four elements: earth, air, water, and fire. In this case, water. Continuing his inquiry, he clicked on eRugGallery. com. They featured Serape blankets woven by the Navajo in the early 1800s, which included zigzags used as stripes. Blue was one of the preferred colors used in the weaving of the blankets. He made a mental note to check if the Catawba tribe was part of the Navaho nation. Scrolling further, a couple of fashion sites informed him that zigzag patterns were prevalent in the spring of 2005. But when his search led him to Wikipedia, the Internet’s free encyclopedia, he learned that the tattoo was a genogram, commonly used to construct a family tree; it was also used to depict the family’s health history and interpersonal relationships. Further search led him to a Web site for Northwestern University and instinct told him he had found what he’d been looking for. Academia unraveled the geno-gram’s meaning: sexual abuse. He grinned. He had established motive.
As the computer made a whirring sound, Driscoll looked up to find Mr. Shewster standing in his doorway, holding a Dieffenbachia, adorned with a red ribbon banner.
“What’s that for?” asked Driscoll. The banner on the small tree read: WORKING TOGETHER WE CAN BURY THE HATCHET. Driscoll found the fitting play on words amusing. “Great! You bring me a plant with poisonous sap?”
“According to my man in research and development, you’re looking at the cure for multiple sclerosis. Give us another three years and we’ll have it refined and capsulated. It’ll be available in every Duane Reade.”
“So, why give it to me?”
“To cure any hard feelings between us.”
“Squawk! Squawk!” Driscoll’s mechanical bird sounded.
“See? Your fine feathered friend knows a quality plant when he sees one.”
Driscoll hit the OFF button on Socrates’ claw.
“Some headline in yesterday’s paper,” Driscoll said. “If I recall correctly, those were the exact words uttered in the Blue Room at Gracie Mansion.”
“But today you’re the toast of the town! Why look back? Wayward is the way of politics. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.” Shewster fanned out the small tree’s plumage.
What was he up to? “Mr. Shewster, before we go any further, there’s one thing we’ve got to resolve.”
“And what’s that?”
“You look me dead in the eye and tell me you had nothing to do with the fickleness of our illustrious Sully Reirdon.”
“Lieutenant, you’re holding on to baggage that is best left unclaimed.”
“Dead in the eye,” Driscoll repeated.
The businessman returned the Lieutenant’s glare. “I had nothing to do with that headline.”
Time froze. Shewster was the first to flinch.
“I’m only interested in catching the psycho who killed my daughter, or twin psychos, as you contend. It’s been my only interest from the start. I needn’t bore a lawman with the statistics of how many homicides go unsolved. With all due respect, even serial homicides! Take the Axeman of New Orleans, the Capital City murders in Madison, Wisconsin, the Frankfort Slasher in North Philadelphia, the Monster of Florence. Hell, the goddamn Zodiac Killer reigned for thirty years! I’ll be damned if I’m going to stand by and watch these twisted twins do the same. I’m likely to be dead in thirty years! Let’s face it. That early photo of Abigail’s killers isn’t the only likeness that’s going to hit page one. You know it and I know it. All I’m asking is that you let a grieving man help. With my contacts, I can put together a team of physiognomy experts and graphic computer artists who can project their current-day likeness better than any civil servant the NYPD has on its payroll.”
Driscoll studied Shewster’s face. He saw a grieving parent looking for closure. The Lieutenant’s own mirror had returned that look many times. “Couldn’t hurt.”
Chapter 37
WELCOME TO THE NEW YORK AQUARIUM
After he used his Discover card to gain admittance, a strong smell of fish assaulted his sinuses. He popped a stick of Doublemint into his mouth and listened to the voice that boomed over the site’s loudspeaker: “Boys and girls, ladies and gentlemen, it’s four o’clock. Time to feed the dolphins! Come join us in Pavilion Four.”
The announcement caused a stir in the crowd. Families scurried toward the Big Top, where a school of dolphins were sheltered from the sun.
Joining the crowd, he climbed the steps of the bleachers, found a comfortable seat, and scanned the spectators. There were no sailor’s caps to be found. Had he said baseball cap? There were dozens of those. Nah. That wouldn’t be likely. It had to be a sailor’s cap. He adjusted his. Although he felt somewhat like a dork, it was a British one, like he’d been asked. The Royal Navy issue porkpie cap stood out. Perhaps he’d be spotted first.
“Quite a show they put on,” the woman beside him murmured, eyes fixed on the dolphins swimming in tandem. “Wow! Did you catch that, Brendan?”
Her four-year-old nodded. “Mommy, can I open my Cracker Jacks now?”
“Sure,” she said, stroking the side of the child’s face.
“Love that caramel corn, myself,” said the man, feeling awkward, being the only adult without child. “Battery went dead on my digital,” he lied. “Caught some good shots of the sharks, though.”
The woman smiled. “A photography buff?”
“Do some freelance for the local papers. Work the zoos, the parks.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Mommy, is this a peanut or a bug?”
While the mother examined the oddly shaped nugget, he scanned the bleachers. No sailor’s cap. He checked his watch. He was sure they were to hook up at 4:00. It was now 4:20.
Ten minutes later, feeding time was over. He watched the crowd spill from the stands.
“It was nice chatting,” said the woman, guiding her youngster down the steps.
“Same here,” he replied.
What should I do? In about ninety seconds I’m gonna look pretty dumb sitting here alone.
He decided to find a secluded area and call the number he had used to arrange the get-together. He found a path that led to a fieldstone tunnel. There was no one else in sight.
Chapter 38
“The suspects have either changed their MO again, or they’ve gotten sloppy,” said Margaret, who, along with Thomlinson, had been invited to a brainstorming session in the Lieutenant’s office. “The ME says the victim was struck twice on the left temple before being scalped, not the right parietal like all the others. And it doesn’t look like the perp stopped to pose the body. The vic was found curled inside a tunnel.”
“Could be a copycat,” said Thomlinson. “He’d know about the scalping from the papers.”
“What do we got on the victim?” Driscoll asked.
“One Francis Palmer from San Antonio, Texas. Like Miss Moneybags, not exactly a tourist. He was in town for an Internet convention. Headed up a company that designed Web sites for entrepreneurial self-starters. The guy’s got a prior, John. He was busted three years ago for child molestation.”
“Now there’s a connection. These twins have a beef with sexual abusers. That’s evident by the tattoos on the scalps. That makes the killings far from random. We may be dealing with vengeful executions. Anything yet from Interpol?”
“On it,” said Thomlinson, dashing out of the office.
“Why’d our guy at the aquarium get two hits?” Margaret pondered aloud.
“Crime Scene may have the answer to that one. It could be a simple one. The blood trail might suggest the first blow didn’t kill him. He lunges for his assailant and whack! He gets it again. Whatever the reason, I don’t think they’re getting sloppy. And I don’t buy into the copycat theory. I think they’ve turned their anger up a notch. The fact that the body wasn’t posed says to me the killer was rushed-interrupted by someone approaching.”