Saturday, April 21, 2007

4:15 p.m.

Patti sat at the IBIS console while the device compared the striations on the bullet found in Sammy’s body to the one they had test-fired into the box of gel.

They matched beautifully, leaving no doubt both bullets had been fired from the same weapon.

She gazed at the computer-enhanced images. She had him. At long last. Her husband’s murderer. Most probably the Handyman killer as well.

Her feelings swung between elation and doubt. The elation she understood, but not the doubt. Ben Franklin did not seem a terribly menacing villain. More a low-level hood and all-around loser.

Which meant exactly nothing. Real life wasn’t like Hollywood, where the bad guys screamed the part. The most vicious killer she’d ever busted had had the appearance and demeanor of a choirboy.

She sat back. She felt he had been telling the truth about his reason for contacting Anna. Sharing that had been too uncomfortable to have been a lie.

If he was Sammy’s killer, if he had buried him and the woman there in City Park, would he have admitted being anywhere near there? Sure, he could simply be an extremely stupid thug. A lot of them were.

But she didn’t want to spend time or energy on the wrong guy. She didn’t want to celebrate prematurely.

She wanted him. Sammy’s killer.

And she wouldn’t rest until she was certain she had him.

“Good news?”

She glanced over her shoulder at Spencer and smiled grimly. “We may have him. Take a look.”

He crossed and peered at the IBIS-enhanced images. A moment later, he straightened. “It’s a good match.”

“Yes.”

“But you want more.”

It wasn’t a question; she answered, anyway. “What if Franklin did find the gun? The real killer buried the bodies, then disposed of the weapon.”

“And got the hell out of town before Katrina struck.”

“Yes.”

“So, we find a connection between Franklin and the woman, and we’ve got him nailed. This might help.” He handed her a legal-size manila envelope. “The analysis of the City Park Jane Doe. Elizabeth Walker dropped it off.”

Excited, Patti opened the envelope and slid the report out. Female. Caucasoid. Approximately twenty to twenty-five years old. Sixty-four inches tall. Hadn’t given birth. An unusual number of broken bones. All old breaks. Probably the victim of childhood abuse. Badly overcrowded teeth.

“She could have been strangled,” Patti said. “Says here the hyoid bone was broken.”

“Elizabeth mentioned that. Problem is, as young as the victim was, she can’t say for certain.”

Patti nodded. The hyoid bone was a horseshoe-shaped bone at the base of the skull that anchored the tongue in place. It started out in three pieces, not fully fusing until around age thirty-five.

Patti read on, through information she already knew from the crime scene, stopping when she found what she was seeking.

This victim belonged to the Handyman. The bones, the dismemberment point, fit perfectly.

It was official then-this young woman had been one of the Handyman’s victims. Since Sammy’s badge had been found in the grave with her, it could be assumed he had been one, too.

Spencer smiled. “You got to the good part.”

She met his eyes. “This is our lucky day.”

“Elizabeth suggested we send the skull over to Mackenzie at the FACES lab. It’s in good shape, she thinks we could get a decent likeness.”

Alison Mackenzie was a forensic sculptor with Louisiana State University’s Forensic Anthropology and Computer Enhancement Services lab. Using standard data about tissue depths for a person’s age, sex and race, along with the victim’s skull, she re-created the dead’s image in life. It was truly amazing how accurate some facial reconstructions turned out to be.

Of course, every Jane Doe didn’t get such treatment. Forensic sculptors didn’t grow on trees-and they didn’t come cheap, either.

But this case was special. Not only were they dealing with a serial killer, but a cop killer as well.

“Next step, Captain?”

“We identify this victim. Then we link her to Franklin. Run a missing-persons search for anyone who fits this Jane Doe’s description.”

He arched his eyebrows. “A missing-persons search? From around the time of Katrina?”

It sounded like a sick joke. Eighty percent of the city had either evacuated or gone missing. At one point after the storm, the official “missing” toll had been over eleven thousand.

There were still people who couldn’t be accounted for.

“Get the skull over to Mackenzie. Tell her it’s a priority.”

“You going to clear that with the brass?”

“This comes under ISD’s jurisdiction and I’m ISD, Detective.”

He didn’t respond and she went on. “Fill Detective Sciame in. Tell him his weekend is ending early.”

“And Franklin?”

“For now, we hold Mr. Franklin on unlawful possession of a firearm by a felon and possession of stolen goods.”

Saturday, April 21, 2007

6:15 p.m.

The duplex occupied an overgrown lot on the deathly quiet Mid-city street. The double row of multifamily residences stood vacant, boarded over, FEMA’s bright orange X a shot of startling color on each entryway-like door decorations from hell.

Before Katrina the rentals had housed low income families, hard-partying singles and those preferring to keep a low profile.

And one of those had been someone special. With special secrets. Secrets housed inside those walls.

My pretties. Mine. Gone now. Being kept by strangers. It’s almost more than I can bear.

Yours to lose. Your fault. You left them behind.

Here! In our safe house. Stored as best as-

In a freezer? A monster storm on the way? You never even checked on them.

How could I? No one expected what happened. After the storm, the city was impassable, all routes in closed. Later, it wasn’t safe. I could have been found out.

If you had cared enough, you would have found a way. Stop whining and start a new collection.

It’s not a collection! You know nothing of inspiration. Of beauty. From the hands and heart flow eternal truth and beauty.

And from both spew ugliness and betrayal.

Stop it. Please. I can’t take your bullying anymore.

Make it right, then. Do what you need to do to make it right.

Sunday, April 22, 2007

1:15 a.m.

Yvette worked to calm herself. She vibrated with anger. And with outrage.

Nobody gave her the run-around. Nobody stiffed her. Not even Marcus, the self-proclaimed owner of the universe.

She lit a cigarette and inhaled greedily, knowing the nicotine would calm her. She had played his blasted game, met his clients at the half dozen properties, let them in and waited for them to do their thing.

Whatever that was. Certainly not viewing commercial properties, though she didn’t know squat about real estate.

But when it had come time to pay her, he had squeezed her ass and told her to be patient.

Bastard had promised her five hundred bucks. Just like the other times.

Then he came in tonight, with a group of his highfalutin cronies, and pretended she didn’t exist.

Prick. He had sat back and laughed while one of the guys in his group tried to grab her tits. Big yuck.

Maybe what she needed was a little insurance policy. Before today, she had figured what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. She had been a good girl, doing just as Marcus instructed, not particularly interested in the people she let into the properties or why they were there.

She’d wanted the money. That’s what she had focused on.

No more. Next time she-