Cross Cut (9 page)

“Not Dale Huntington?” I asked.

“No—no, I see no use in that. Not yet.” She paused for thought. “It would be pointless to ask any of the officers and agents from that time. Even if they were in possession of greater facts than I, the chances of them letting them go is low.” She pulled her chair back slightly and crossed her legs. “Regarding the murders from then and now. No doubt they are similar, but there is one major difference—”

“Yeah,” I interrupted. “The victims back then weren’t hanged.”

She regarded me for a mere second. Not with awe, just quiet satisfaction.

“Yes,” she said.

“Want me to apologize for taking your glory?”

“Pah.” She rose from her chair and walked over to the furthermost aquarium, which contained the patagonians. A rather dull looking breed in my opinion, silver with brownish outlines, but little is known about them. I think that’s why seahorses intrigue her. The fact that research is sparse, and new species are found regularly just adds to their mystique. There was a stool by the window that she used when she watched them. She always smiled. Like a child at a pet store. Few things brought her happiness, but they did. She turned to face me from the stool and said, “The schedule for today, then—”

She gave me the list. The first was to check the restroom in Anaheim, and if I could arrange it, a meeting with an FBI agent to go through some things. The next part was to visit the girlfriend of Jake Segal, victim number three. After that, I was to look into Nora Klyne. Which could involve talking to any number of people. All that, and there was still Zeus Higgings to look into. Not to mention the staff at Gillham and Mane. Something told me I wouldn’t get round to half of the list, and I may as well state right now that I was correct in that assumption. Ryder was the kind of employer whose endeavors were never ending, so you could never clock off early, but, at the same time, she didn’t begrudge me for not completing the tasks within a day.

I wrote it all down, as usual. I got my stuff together and made sure the P230 was in my inside jacket pocket. If Cristescu was following me, he’d better watch out.

“You do realize,” I said, “that there are twenty-four hours in a day, and I like to have eight of them in bed.”

“Yes, well, I would never stop a man from sleeping. Be back here before dinner and we’ll see where we stand.”

“And what will you be doing all day?”

“My routine will remain as normal. While you are out, I will be looking into something else—the small problem of the impostor Lynch.”

“Oh, I see—how, exactly?”

“It occurred to me that whoever instigated that fiasco Monday morning must have acquired an actor of some description from somewhere. They assuredly had to
shop around
, as it were, to find someone painstakingly similar to Guy Lynch. Of course, they needn’t necessarily be the killer, but it will be a start.”

I smiled and nodded, as if I had accepted her excuse for not coming along with me. I looked at a half bookcase at the opposite wall facing her desk and took out a large, yellow book and threw it on her in-tray.

“Phone book. I think you’ll need it.”

“Pah. I suggest you get to work.”

I had nothing to say to that. I seldom do. I went into the kitchen and made myself a couple of sandwiches for the day and took out a fresh bottle of water. I’m not against fast food, but I’d never hear the end of it from Ryder. I said goodbye to Melissa and took the Lexus to Anaheim.

12

Anaheim is hardly London. That’s the first thought that comes to my mind. In fact, that comes to my mind every city I drive along in America. For one thing, there is actually space for cars to drive. Cars can park alongside the curb instead of on top of them, and you still have room for a bus or two. Instead of row to row buildings that all possess that charcoal look, as if they’ve been barbecued, there’s space, greenery, trees along the sidewalk. The only tree I ever saw on a London
pavement
belonged to a drunken Santa Claus with tourette's.

The public restroom in question was a brand new contraption. Most likely provided when the end of year budget allowed it. It was a solitary brick building, set back from the sidewalk. The bricks were sandalwood, if I’m not mistaken. A low triangular roof with a gable, three red doors; one for males, one for females, the other for the disabled, as well as a janitor’s room. There was still a loop of crime scene tape around the building, and no doubt the doors were locked.

I parked up beside the church across the way and waited for my collaborator, Kacie Cordell, FBI. She was usually the one I consulted with when it came to the FBI. We get along fine and Ryder had no objection to her. Melissa seems relatively friendly with her, too. I originally opted to go through the scene with Johns and Mantle of the BI, but they passed it along. Apparently, the FBI had the bat and the BI was playing catch.

In previous engagements with Kacie Cordell, she had a different partner each time, so I had no idea who else I’d be dealing with. As it turned out, I’d be dealing with no one. When a black SUV stopped a hundred yards in front of me and a young woman with girlish brown hair (that managed to look blonde in the sunlight) jumped onto the sidewalk, carrying a black satchel, it was clear Kacie was running solo. I took off my shades, approached her and gave a sarcastic salute.

“Morning,” I said.

“It is.” She smiled. “I was wondering when I’d see you again.”

“Most women say that to me.”

“Do they now.” She brushed back her hair and dipped into her jacket pocket. “Got the keys. It’s the door on the right.”

“You seem eager. That why you’re by yourself?”

“Partly,” she said. “It’s all hands on deck back at headquarters.”

“Have to admit, I’m surprised the FBI are dealing with us.”

“Be fools not to. All this cross department bickering makes me sick. We’re all on the same side.”

“You and me both, sister.”

“Call me sister again, and see what happens.”

I laughed and motioned a nod to the restroom. “Shall we?”

“Yeah. I got the file here, although, the scene cleaners haven’t been yet. So the blood and other markings will still be visible.”

“Well,” I said. “She did say the crime scene would wait for me.”

Kacie smiled and walked with me across the road to the restroom. She took the path while I hopped the bush along the sidewalk. She ducked under the tape and unlocked the red door to the right. I looked at the ‘ladies’ sign and wondered why Lynch had died here.

I expected the inside of the restroom to be quite decent and it was. Well furnished and clean, as far as public restrooms go. Small, though. If Ryder had an opinion of it, she’d likely appreciate the efficiency. There were three stalls along the north wall and three wash basins along the south with a landscape mirror running across. A modern dryer on the east wall and a towel rack. The west side was the entrance. There was a partition wall for privacy from the outside, and a trash can.

It didn’t take long for me to see the blood, or should I say, the bloodstains. More burgundy than red now, due to the age. The pool had originated from the middle stall, creeping over the tiles and stopping two feet short of the wash basins. The toilet stall was rife with stains all over the walls, floor and toilet bowl.

“You know, I think the floor would look better in that color. Matches the brickwork outside,” I said.

“Suggestion noted. Now, let’s get on with it.” She walked over to the stall and flung open the door and pointed to the coat hook on the inside. “He was found hanging on this. Lynch’s belt was buckled tightly around his neck, but with enough slack to get up and over the hook.”

I moved to the right slightly and stood by the towel rack, all the while looking at the stall door.

“That hook’s pretty high, must’ve taken some effort to get a guy like Lynch up there,” I said.

“Yeah, I reckon he’d have been lifted forty—maybe fifty centimeters.”

“And he just let it happen?”

She came over and showed me the file and said, “Nope, he was bashed over the back of the head. All the incisions were made postmortem. He was hit with a typical blunt instrument, few centimeters in diameter, rounded edges—most likely a hammer of some sort. No such item was found, though.”

“The blow killed him?”

“Hard enough to knock him out, but the fatality came from the front, most likely when he hit the floor. Must be made of ceramic, because his skull was in pieces.”

“Anything else?”

She hummed. “Nothing amazing, no.”

“What about prints?”

“Hundreds of them. So what? It’s a public restroom.”

“Yeah, okay. What about on Lynch?”

She shook her head. “Lynch’s jacket, shirt and pants were full of his blood, that’s about it.”

I walked to the other side of the room and kept my eye on the stall. My notepad was still in my pocket, I was confident I could remember all the information at this point.

“So then our killer hangs him up and cuts him—” I trailed off and mumbled. “Why—”

“Huh?” Kacie said.

“I just don’t get the hanging thing. Why—” I stopped, realizing I was about to say
he didn’t do that in Afghanistan.

“It’s his ritual, isn’t it?”

I nodded and let it go. No sense arguing with her over it. “The cuts were the same as the other murders?”

“From a first glance, yeah, I guess. It depends really. I’m no forensic or pathology expert, but I’ve heard talk of how irregular the cuts have been throughout the murders. No doubt you and Miss Genius know about case number three?”

“Uh-huh,” I mumbled.

“Well, according to the lab guys, even the cuts that look the same differ. The type of knife is said to change throughout. Sometimes the cuts have the quality of a scalpel, sometimes the quality of a plain old butcher knife. This one here is plain. Sharp, but nothing special like a scalpel.” She showed me a top down photograph of Lynch’s body. “The horizontal cut is slightly lower than usual, too.”

I nodded in agreement. “What’s that mean, then?”

“I guess it’s open to interpretation. You should probably come down and check with the medical examiner.”

“Ah,” I said. “Maybe. I’ve got a full day as it is.”

“That so. Is Miss Genius working on an angle we don’t know about?”

“If I knew, would I tell you?”

She gave a dry laugh and turned her head toward the mirror above the wash basins. Admittedly, I was feeling a bit clammy, so decided to wash my hands. I went for one of the faucets, when I realized the hot water faucet was damaged, with the handle missing.

“Oh,” Kacie said, “I forgot to mention that. There was almost a flood by the time the BI got here. The faucet was broke and spraying water everywhere.”

“In the struggle, you think?”

Kacie shrugged her shoulders. “Probably.”

I rubbed my chin for five seconds and took it all in. After I’d seen enough I left the restroom and breathed in the fresh air outside. No one out in the street and no cars but ours, just a single kid on a bike. When Kacie had locked the door I was by the sidewalk, looking up and down the street.

“Why here of all places?” I asked.

“I stopped asking why years ago,” she said.

I knew what she meant, but my question was more technical than philosophical.

“It seems too likely that Lynch was attacked in the restroom. I just don’t figure anyone would bring a body here. Yet, I don’t figure a public restroom as a safe place for a killer to strike, either.” I paused for a second and gave it more thought. “Was there a way to lock the restroom doors from the inside—so no one came in unannounced?”

Kacie checked, and then gave it some thought. “Not without the key, but I reckon the killer could have used the trash can to block entry.”

I screwed my face up a little and took out a sandwich from a plastic bag in my pocket. I took a bite and then shook my head.

“It still makes no sense,” I said. “Either way you look at it. For starters, why the hell did Lynch go into the ladies’?”

Kacie’s lips twitched and she shrugged. “Maybe there were no stalls free in the men’s room?”

I shook my head again and swallowed another bite. “Nah. Like everything in this case, it stinks.”

We walked over to my car and I stood idly up against the driver’s side door. With her arms crossed, Kacie said, “Surely, this place wasn’t the Cross Cutter’s choice, either. After all, wasn’t he following Lynch? In such an area I would say it’s very unlikely you wouldn’t realize you were being followed, and the chances that the Cross Cutter had the foresight to wait for Lynch in a restroom of the opposite sex seems close to zero.”

I have to admit, I nearly slipped, forgetting about the impostor Lynch. Of course, Ryder and I hadn’t yet decided whether the Cross Cutter had actually followed the real Lynch. Naturally, everyone else had already forged a conclusion and was thinking accordingly. For them, Lynch had run scared from our office to his death at the restroom. I told Ryder it was a bad idea to keep the impostor Lynch secret, but she wouldn’t listen. It was going to bite us in the ass, that was for sure.