Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) (36 page)

Chapter 32

The victim lays face up in the alley, mouth gaping, eyes open, pupils completely dilated and reflecting the night sky.  Whatever sh
e’
s seeing, I pray i
t’
s better than the last few minutes of her life. 

“
Hello, son
,”
Doc Smalley greets me, shooting DeeDee and SAC Smith cursory gazes and an impolite grunt. 

I circle the body, half-in and half-out of the garbage bag, propped against the dumpster. 

“
Gotta give Megalo credit
,”
Doc says, kneeling.
 “
Daring bastard dumps his bodies in the same spot every time
.
”

“
Yep
,”
I answer
,“
h
e’
s not afraid
.
”
 
He never changes his MO, either.  In fact, h
e’
s taunting NPD.  But this is where the buck stops for him.  If h
e’
s been here, and at this point it looks like his MO,
I’
ll nail Megal
o’
s ass. 

“
If you find one hair, or a fiber or speck of dust from that crazy bastar
d’
s body, I want to know
,”
I say.   

Doc grunts again.  H
e’
s in operational mode, busy supervising the crime scene photographer.

I take another turn around the dumpster, and then return to the body. 
Yes, you are one daring bastard.  But yo
u’
ve touched her, so no matter how clever you think you are, yo
u’
ve left evidence. 
But then my sense of triumph evaporates: I think with futility of the moon pie crumbs we found on Angie Mille
r’
s body.  The
y’
re useless as forensic evidence.  Coul
d’
ve been left there by her killer, or they coul
d’
ve been eaten by Angie Miller for dinner: and she was a sloppy eater.

Surely, the
y’
ll pick up something
,”
I say, glancing toward the NPD deputies and CSU techs sweeping the scene.  

“
H
e’
s a beauty, he is
,”
Doc says.
 “
Sixteen hands high, and white with blue spots
.
”

For a second I think h
e’
s referring to Megalo.
 “
What?  Oh, yeah, right
,”
I say. 

As many times as h
e’
s canvassed death scenes, it still troubles him.  Talking about anything other than the body helps.  Tonight, i
t’
s the new thoroughbred stallion h
e’
s found for my mom.

“
That big
?”
I ask.
 “
Is he Arabian
?
”

While we chat about the new stallion named Sahib, the techs swab the vi
c’
s mouth and bag and tie off her hands.  Doc watches, angling his head this way and that.  I
t’
s comforting having him here.  Like I said, h
e’
s the best ME in Kentucky.  I watch him stretch and look at the vi
c’
s face from multiple angles, guiding the photographer in for differing shots, and at the same time directing the techs. 

“
A friend of mine over in Louisville found him.  You want to come over and take a look at him this weekend
?
” 

“I’
ll be busy chasing this bastard
,”
I say, aware Do
c’
s picked up on my anxiety.  W
e’
ve both seen many homicide victims, Doc more than I, but this vi
c’
s been grossly abused. 
I’
m sure the ante mortem
mental abuse was as bad as the physical.
 “
Who is Sahi
b’
s sire
?”
I ask.  Talking about whatever Arabian horseflesh Do
c’
s rounded up for my mom eases both our minds.  Trying to relax, I take more mental snapshots and keep asking myself the same question over and over. 

Motive.
 
Wha
t’
s Megal
o’
s motive?

“
Any ideas yet, Doc?  Anything
?
” 

“
I
t’
s too soon to tell
.
”  

I try to pin him down to speculating.
 “
Why do you think h
e’
s doing this
?
”

“
I leave motive to you, but by tomorrow
I’
ll be able to tell you when she died
.
”

“
Okay
,”
I say, not worried about that right now.  Determining time of deat
h—
the when of this vi
c’
s demis
e—
is Do
c’
s purview. 
I’
m worried about other things.  Wh
y’
s Megalo doing his murdering?  And where?  Until I figure out where these victims are being murdered, I do
n’
t even have a primary crime scene.  All
I’
ve got is a dump site here in the alley behind Oma
r’
s, a secondary crime scene. 

“
H
e’
s obviously killed her somewhere else and dumped her here
,”
Doc says, musing out loud but not really needing to speak.  We can almost read each othe
r’
s thoughts.
 “I’
m guessing i
t’
s the same MO
,”
he says.
 “
I
t’
s hi
m—
again
.
”

I heave a sigh of relief.
 “
Tha
t’
s good
.
” 

“
Encouraging
,”
DeeDee says, watching me glance toward SAC Smith, who smiles, his lips a thin grim line, and nod
s
—
“
good wor
k
”
—
then takes off to join the CSU techs.  H
e’
s got a suave manner and smooth manicured hands, but I can tell h
e’
s a bloodhound on a kille
r’
s scent. 

“
Doc,
I’
m gonna run over there and talk with him
,”
I say, to which I get a surly grunt.

When I reach him, SAC Smith does
n’
t speak.  Walking the grid with the CSU techs, h
e’
s not writing anything down or taking notes, either, a good sign.  I fall into step beside him.

“
You ought to know better
,”
he says.
 “
We need more women in law enforcement
.
”

“
Yo
u’
re right
,”
I say.
 “
I did
n’
t need to call my rookie out in front of God and everyone
.
”

“
Sh
e’
s not the type to accept your apology
?”
he asks.

I snort. 

Staring ahead at the graveled alley, he keeps walking.
 “
Sh
e’
s green as spring willow, is
n’
t she
?
”

“
Yup
,”
I say, realizing what h
e’
s asking.
 “
I
t’
s been a while since anyon
e’
s accused me of sexual profiling
.
”

We keep walking the grid. 

Asking her to dig up everything she can on Alain
a’
s friend
s
’ sexual habits is
n’
t about profiling as DeeDee mistakenly believes.  The new FBI, whose protocol I use, focuses on unique traits of individuals with access to a crime scene.  They gather evidence with a pit bul
l’
s locked-on discipline, and then they plug their evidence into whichever behavioral category the evidence fits.  But in every case, the evidence has to be there.  No looking at offenders pooled into abstract groups o
r“
profile
s”
and then compiling a suspect list into which just about anyone can be socked.  The evidence has to fit the crime scene, not some vague group of offenders.  And the suspect has to be linked directly to the evidence. 

Which is why i
t’
s critical I figure out where Megalo Don is doing his killing.  

I
t’
s also why
I’
m glad SAC Smith is walking the grid with me.  I approve, as long as he knows whose case this is.  Mine, not DeeDe
e’
s.  Not the FB
I’
s.

“
You got a high solve rate
,”
he says, never missing a step. 

“
Yup
,”
I agree.  Humbl
e’
s not my style. 

“
You think your roo
k’
s really worried about profiling Alaina Colb
y’
s friends
?”
the SAC asks.

“
Nah
,”
I say, truthful.
 “
She knows why
I’
m asking, and i
t’
s not about wanting her out of the way.  Sh
e’
s a rookie and can prove herself, if she can learn to take orders
.
” 

SAC Smith knows this, too, so I do
n’
t give him the run down on DeeDee.  Finding out who Alaina knows and what her friends do with their mouths and bodies during intercourse is
n’
t about sexual profiling.  I
t’
s about finding ways, and people and places, from which to start collecting hard physical evidence.  Forensic evidence.  If
I’
m right and Megalo has targeted Alaina as his next victim, then one of her friends, or someone sh
e’
s been in contact with, is a walking DNA or evidence pool. 

“
So who do you think Alaina Colby knows
?”
he asks.

“
Soon as I get a list,
I’
ll share it with you
,”
I say.
 “
Doc Smalle
y’
s waving at me from over near the dumpster. 
I’
ll be back in a few
,”
I add.

SAC Smith just keeps walking the grid.  Ma
n’
s a robot.  I like his style.

* * *

              “You ready to turn her over
?
”

I nod.
 “
Sure, Doc, le
t’
s do it
.
”

Using surgical tweezers, he lifts the garbage bag by an edge and pulls it back from the body.  With the help of a CSU tech, he turns the vic gently over with his gloved right hand.  When he flips her, we both turn away for a few seconds to avoid gagging.  Even wearing our cotton masks, the stench of rotting mea
t—
like frozen raw hamburger that has thawed and then set encased in a plastic bag in the sun for day
s—
is overpowering. 

“
Phew! 
I’
m getting too old for this
,”
Doc says.
 “
My horse barn smells better
.
”