"Not in the least. For starters, he was black."
"He could have hired out."
Poe shrugged. "I doubt if he thought she'd be worth the effort. Guy must have a stable of a dozen female flaggers."
Jensen said, "How much did Newel steal from him?"
"He didn't say. I don't even know if she took cash or rock. Just that she took something."
Myra came over with a pot of coffee, poured a cup for Poe. "Mickey, did you remember to order the extra chairs?"
"R and R Rentals," the lieutenant answered. "They assured me they'd be here by four."
"What a doll!" Myra said. "I've got a hundred and fifty people coming in tonight. Sam Silverman's eightieth birthday. For the last forty-five years, Sam's been celebrating his birthday in Vegas. Last year, his son turned very religious and started keeping kosher. Sam was distraught, thinking that his son wouldn't eat at his party. Then he discovered my place."
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"He's paying me double what he paid the trayf place who hosted his party last year, that's how happy Sam Silverman was. Thank God for the Jewish born-agains. They pay the rent. How about some refills?"
Patricia put out her cup. She just loved coffee. It not only hyped her up, but had zero calories. "Thanks, Myra."
To Weinberg, Poe said, "You know, I'm going to be downtown anyway for court. Why don't I stop by Freemont and scan some mug books? See if I can't find a candidate that matches our composite. Also I could run the Newel case through the Crime Analysis hookup down there. See if it gives me any other recent cases."
"Like what?" Weinberg asked. "We haven't had a desert dump in over a year."
Poe's brain worked frantically. "How about last February? The Filipina women we found in the plastic bags?"
Jensen said, "They were left in a truck-size communal waste container, buried under three feet of garbage. Rotting but otherwise intact."
"Except for the gunshot wounds in their heads," Patricia added.
Jensen said, "Newel wasn't shot, she was ripped apart like an animal. She was also found in the open desert. I don't see any connection, Poe."
"They were both body dumps."
"All bodies gotta be dumped somewhere."
"It's worth a shot," Poe insisted.
Weinberg said, "I haven't heard of any recent similar case. But sure, try it out, Poe. As long as you don't waste time digging up bones that don't mean anything."
Poe agreed.
A couple of hours in Records was all that he needed.
The Downtown Metro building wouldn't be winning any architectural awards, but Poe gave it an A for effort. It was an eightstory thing, shaped like a cylinder missing a wedge with its center hollowed out for a courtyard. The courtyard was floored with pavers and decorated with oversized concrete planters designed not only for interest, but also to prevent wayward cars from smashing into the structure. The streetside perimeter wall was made from stone and adorned with a cryptic primitive mural of tile in primary colors. The courtyard exterior wall was a continuous sweep of glass windows and concrete balconies.
Police records were stored on the first floor next to the Traffic Division. Thousands upon thousands of case files arranged according to number. To look up the case required a trip to the card catalog, then an exhaustive search through shelves of folders. Poe knew right away that he'd hit blanks. The files started in the mid-1990s.
Which necessitated a trip to IAD. Like Homicide, IAD had its own separate building, which housed past files stored on microfiche. In the meantime, Poe did what he could at Metro.
Ambling up the stairs to the second floor. Most of Metro's detectives were housed here. Each detail had its own squad room. Ten detective quarters surrounded the interview rooms, which, like islands, sat in the middle of the floor. Spotting an empty Crime Analysis hookup in
Fugitive turf, Poe pulled up a chair and entered the particulars of the Brittany Newel case.
Waited as the cursor blinked.
Over the next hour, the computer spit back twenty similars which had taken place in the last two years.
Serial killers who took body parts as trophies—lots of scalping.
Serial killers who gouged and mutilated.
Serial killers who cannibalized their victims.
Grisly stuff, but none screamed Newel's MO.
When the clock struck three, Poe had had enough. He logged off the computer, then took out the composite and scanned the recent mug books. Finding nothing applicable, he gave up, left Metro, and headed to Internal Affairs Division, arriving at the building five minutes later.
Clearing the reception room at IAD, he made his way to the bowels of Records, where he was blocked by the file clerk. A very efficient young lady who wore her hair in a bun. Her name plate read Madison.
"You haven't filled out the papers correctly."
Poe politely explained that he was not sure what case he was looking for, only that he'd know it when he saw it.
"Detective, you know and I know that you can't go browsing through files without authorization. It's a violation of civil rights—"
"A dead person has no civil rights." Poe kept his temper in check. "It's a twenty-five-year-old case. She isn't going to come back to sue."
The clerk frowned. "Do you at least have a year for the case?"
Poe rubbed his face. "Nineteen seventy-two or -three."
"I said a year. In the singular."
"I gave you a two-for-one. C'mon. Give me a break!"
Madison rolled her eyes—an old schoolmarm who didn't believe his excuse for not having his homework. "How long are you going to be?"
"Maybe an hour."
Madison motioned him inside the crypt.
Within fifteen minutes, Poe was alone with the films, cases flipping by with a flick of the wrist. He felt his heartbeat, heard his steady breathing; he was the only one in the room.
There was no Bogeyman case file: that was the sensationalized name invented by the media. He found only one twenty-fiveyear-old unsolved murder case that had all the elements.
Her name had been Janet Doward.
Y had told him she had been a schoolteacher. In fact, she had been a teacher's aide, only nineteen at the time of her demise. She had found her grave in a desert stretch off Spring Mountain Road…about a quarter-mile away from where Treasure Island now stood.
So close to the Strip. But back then there had been loads of empty lots and parcels. So much empty space. It was the Las Vegas Poe had loved, had tried to reinvent with his own measly piece of homestead perched in the middle of nowhere.
Reported missing. There had been search parties. A week later, the partially decomposed body had been discovered. Confirmation had been made by dental records.
The police crime photos.
Enough to make a vegetarian out of the most dedicated of carnivores. Between the deep slashes and the blowflies, there hadn't been much flesh left to work on. What wasn't rotting had been baked into sun-dried tomato texture, on its way toward mummification.
Autopsy indicated that she had been hacked by something with a serrated edge. The skin had been ripped and torn. Doward's eyes had remained with the body, but had been pulled from their sockets. Poe stared at the black spaces heavily infested with white maggots.
Taking notes as he bounced in his chair, his legs shaking, his foot tapping loudly. He tried to steady his limbs, but was unable to stop the palsied activity.
He read on.
The corpse had been damaged by animal scavenging. Bite marks in the buttocks and thighs.
He looked away, covered his face. He forced himself to take a deep breath, then let it out slowly. A few more breaths.
Stop tapping your foot, Rom.
His fingertips making contact with one another.
And don't snap!
He had seen dozens of dead bodies. Why was this murder affecting him so much?
Think about the case.
Similarities:
> 1. Desert dump.
2. Torn flesh.
3. Eye involvement.
4. Possibly both were victims of scavenging activity.
Differences:
1. No knife marks on Brittany.
2. No bite marks on Brittany.
Body fluid analysis:
Stagnant blood taken from the aorta and saphenous vein.
BAL 0.005.
Oral swab.
Nasal swab.
Vaginal swab.
Anal swab.
Some evidence of sexual activity. How long ago was anyone's guess. Results likely tainted because of the advanced state of decomposition.
Fingernail and toenail swab: microscopic findings of hair, blood, skin, and dirt.
He rubbed his eyes, took more notes. Poring over the minutiae. When he checked his watch, he found he had been sitting at the machine for over an hour. Madison was bound to be checking up any moment. Time pressing him, he forced himself to move on to the Bogeyman's other victim. Y had said she had been a runaway.
Poe began searching the files, flipped and searched and flipped and searched.
Cases passing by as quickly as the seconds.
But nothing about a murdered runaway in the same time frame.
Blinking hard, Poe turned the wheel backward. How could he have missed it? Another file had to be in there somewhere. Y had said that there had been two victims.
He scanned as quickly as he could.
The only reference he found was something that had occurred a full year after Janet Doward's murder—a year and a month, to be exact.
A Jane Doe around sixteen years old. A desert dump. A couple of postmortem snapshots. Her throat had been slit. And her eyes had been gouged.
Footsteps. Madison was on the warpath.
Poe quickly scribbled down the evidence.
Similarities:
1. Both desert dumps.
2. Both eye involvements.
Differences:
1. No signs of scavenging.
2. No bite marks.
3. Slit throat (Brittany's throat not slit).
4. More than a year apart.
Body fluids:
BAL .12—she was probably drunk.
Oral swab, nasal swab.
Vaginal and anal swab: positive for semen.
Fingernail and toenail swab: hair, blood, skin, grass, sand, and dirt.
He heard Madison calling his name.
"Coming!" Poe gathered up his notes. He could reconcile the forensic differences, because there were still lots of similarities. What he couldn't reconcile was the passage of time between the two dates.
But Y had said that there had been two victims.
Poe paused.
Unless Y was lying.
Always a distinct possibility.
FOURTEEN
SHUTTING THE door to his house, Poe jumped when he saw the giant on his couch, the cushion flattened under his weight. A carpet bag was at his side. The big man stood. Four feet worth of legs made of thick and heavy bone. Apelike arms emanating from a dense torso. Baseball-mitt hands attached to ham-hock forearms. A muscular bull neck. The prognathous jaw jutted out from the face, slightly agape and askew like a door dangling on one of its hinges. Deep-set, angry black eyes made piggishly small by an oversized, protruding forehead. Thick, straight black hair combed off the brow. He wore his usual black suit over a white shirt. No tie. His shoes were as big as rowboats. He licked his rubbery lips.
"Hello, Rom."
The voice was nasal and deep and flooded with fury. Poe's speech faltered. He started snapping his fingers, then choked out, "I've been calling your number all night."
"I don't doubt it. You're snapping."
Immediately Poe stuck his hands in his pockets. "Something to drink, Remus? A beer maybe?"
"I'm fine."
"Take one anyway." Poe pointed to the couch. "Have a seat."
Remus sat.
Poe closed his eyes, opened them. Went to his picnic cooler and noticed his hands were shaking. He took a deep breath. Remus always had that initial effect on him. Because of his girth and elephantine features, Remus had that initial effect on everyone.
Remus.
His brother.
His twin.
His identical twin, up until the age of ten. Poe supposed they were still identical genetically, because they were hatched from the same egg. But the word identical was hardly applicable anymore.
They had been tiny boys. Tiny, tiny boys, Poe being about an inch taller than his brother, but still not tall enough to make a percentage scale. Their mother had taken them from expert to expert, and all of them had suggested growth hormones. But Mom had been reluctant. The doctors had tried to reason with her. The boys were trailing in growth, and their bone plates were beginning to close, indicating that their final height wasn't far off. If the doctors didn't intervene soon, all would be lost.
Even after Mom agreed, she had remained cautious.
Do it one at a time.
They had started with Remus, because he had been the smaller of the two. Treatments began. Immediately they had sent the child's pituitary into overdrive. Remus grew at an alarming rate. His bones seemed to elongate overnight, causing him months of severe skeletal aches and blinding headaches. After six months, they stopped the shots.
But Remus had fooled them all and kept growing. At eleven, he had become an acromegalic giant.
The disparity in their heights had given both brothers long hours of sleeplessness and nightmares. As midgets, they had been objects of derision. With Remus's newfound stature, they had graduated to pariahs. No one had dared to taunt them, as Remus had finished off many a bigmouth with one well-placed punch. But no one had dared to converse with them, either.
Being anxious, compulsive, and wee-bit, Poe had found solace in a multitude of tics. He began to drum his fingers endlessly; he developed a stutter. Drawn together by their freakishness, the brothers became close. Slowly, they developed a cast of misfit friends, somehow plodding through the agonizing teen years.
Rom had found himself in an odd position, secretly envying his gigantic brother. Yes, Remus was ugly and weird, but at least he was tall. Relentlessly, he begged his mother for hormone treatments.
His biggest ally turned out to be his brother.
They goofed with me, Remus had bellowed to his mother. They'll get it right with Rom. You can't let him stay like that. He's worse than I am.
Shell-shocked, his mother broke down and began an arduous search for a doctor whom she could trust. In the meantime, Poe's plates were inching toward the finish line. Finally, Mom found someone acceptable as Poe's paltry height nosed upward at a terrifyingly slow rate.
At seventeen, Rom had reached his adult height. Fitted for his high school cap and gown, he had measured out at five-seven and a quarter, grateful for every millimeter. He had his brother to thank.
Steadying his hands, Poe carried over a couple of glasses of beer. "It must be serious."
Remus downed the suds in a single gulp. "I need you to take Mom."
Calm. Poe said, "For how long?"
"Forever."
Dread shot through Poe's veins. "You can't be serious—"
"I'm very serious."
Poe started to pace. "Remus, look at this place. I can't put up a dog, let alone a person. I've got no plumbing, I've got no electricity—"
"So move into a normal apart—"
"Remus—"
"Rom, being a hermit doesn't relieve you of your re
sponsibilities, any more than being a freak relieved me of mine!"
Poe said nothing, his mind a scrambled mess.
Remus said, "I've had her for the past fifteen years. Now it's your turn. Even geeks have a life."
Poe tried to talk, but words lodged in his throat. His heart hammered like a steam drill. Try empathy. Calm him down. "I can see that you're…stressed. And I know you've done all the work. So…you have a right to make some demands."
Remus waited. Poe's brain was racing. "I know you don't want to hear this, but—"
"Then don't say it."
"Remus, Mom is really too much for either of us. There are lots of nice communities—"
"No."
"—who specialize—"
"Out of the question."
"She'd make lots of friends—"
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