Part 31 (1/2)

Jablonski peered at her. ”Greer.”

”Uh-oh.”

”What?” Chris asked. ”Greer who?”

Theresa said, ”As in Councilman Greer. The councilman who's so hot on having 4950 Pullman razed to the ground.”

”Maybe to cover up an old family secret.” Jablonski nodded his head and topped it off by swigging champagne with a theatrical flourish, though he ruined the effect by coughing afterward.

”And maybe,” Theresa said, ”Greer is simply a common name. We haven't come across anyone named Greer in connection to the building.”

”Other than the councilman.”

”He just wants to collect his fee for building the recycling plant.” His fear at the crime scene had been real, and he couldn't possibly have gotten from the RTA station onto that train with the victim in time to encounter her by the tracks. Not possibly...”Did you see him there?”

Jablonski drained his gla.s.s. ”Who?”

She explained her encounter with the councilman.

”He wasn't in the crowd outside the tape when I arrived,” Jablonski said insistently. ”I milled through everyone present, trying to get tidbits and reactions. If he'd been there I would have interviewed him.”

No, she thought, impossible. ”Feel free to work on that angle, Jablonski, because my boss is already unhappy with me for getting on Greer's sh-um, list.”

”But it would make sense, wouldn't it? Everyone always said the killer came from a wealthy family that covered up any clues to his guilt, and those politico types have usually been in that line of work for generations-”

”Everyone also said he had to have had medical training in order to dismember his victims, and I'm not one hundred percent down with that theory, either. People said a lot of things. They always do in unsolved cases.”

”But-”

The door to the garage opened suddenly, letting in the crisp fall air and Rachael, who carried a stack of books, a purse in the shape of h.e.l.lo Kitty, a backpack, a bottle of water, and a duffel bag approximately as large as her torso slung across her back. ”Hi, Mom. I wondered whose car that was-”

”Honey!”

Harry barked in excitement. Even the cat leapt from Jablonski's lap in welcome.

And then her daughter, who had apparently not been murdered, been raped, flunked out, or been found dead in a ditch somewhere after a bad car accident, was in Theresa's arms. ”Did Tonya give you a ride? Are you hungry? Did you eat dinner? How are your cla.s.ses? Do you like your teachers? What about your roommate?”

”I see you have company,” Rachael said as she allowed her mother to divest her of the heavy accoutrements. ”Are you celebrating your birthday?”

”Hi, Rachael,” Chris Cavanaugh said, shooting a triumphant look at Jablonski.

”Hi, Chris.”

The duffel bag thudded to the floor. ”No, we were talking about a case. You know Chris, and this is Brandon Jablonski, he's a newspaper researcher. Thank you for the information, Mr. Jablonski, but you both have to leave now.”

The young man didn't notice Chris's smugness or Theresa's hint, too busy taking in every inch of Theresa's daughter until his mouth gaped open a bit. ”Wow.”

”Especially you,” Theresa added.

CHAPTER 39.

SAt.u.r.dAY, SEPTEMBER 11.

PRESENT DAY.

Theresa bustled off to work bright and early on Sat.u.r.day morning, intending to finish her examination of William Van Horn and his b.l.o.o.d.y clothing and get home before Rachael rolled out of bed. A month at college and still in teenager mode-without any cla.s.ses to attend, her daughter would not rise before lunchtime.

A stern look combined with a mental pat on the head for his good work in New Castle had gotten Jablonski to shuffle out of her home without much difficulty, though she locked every door and window behind him. Chris Cavanaugh left only after a firm and excellent kiss in her cold garage, so that she went to bed flush with happiness, flattered at his continued (though sporadic) interest-always date interesting men-but mostly glad that her daughter had returned home safely and voluntarily.

Even the half-rotten-groceries smell that had long since permeated every ceramic tile in the old building seemed to greet her like a close friend as she waved to the deskman and plucked Van Horn's ripped pants and s.h.i.+rt from the drying rack. She poked her head into the autopsy room, where Christine Johnson met her with a baleful expression and asked, ”Do I have you to thank for this?”

”Yeah, I thought it might save you some time if I started cutting at the scene.”

The pretty doctor laughed, then contradicted that by saying: ”You are so not funny, missy. I heard you met him the day before he turned up like this. Is that true?”

Theresa said yes. It still felt odd to her. She felt as if she should call Edward Corliss to express her condolences but didn't know quite what to say. I'm sorry the friend you introduced me to was murdered by a modern-day Torso killer. Which wouldn't be you, would it, by the way?

She gathered what information she could from Christine and then went into the amphitheater to spread out the khaki pants. The pair of Burberrys was torn at the back; the pants found with one of the original victims, known only as the Tattooed Man, had also been described as ripped in the back. As in 1936, a white men's handkerchief nestled in the rear pocket. She put that aside without unfolding it.

After noting the size, condition, staining, and label of the pants, she got out the 3M packaging tape and eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sheets of clear acetate paper and ”taped” the front and back, inside and out, for hairs and fibers. As always, even a clean-looking piece of clothing gave up a myriad of loose trace evidence. A few black fibers, pieces of dead gra.s.s, and a dog hair.

She folded the pants-stiffened with blood-loosely and stuffed them into a paper bag. On a fresh, smaller piece of paper, she unfolded the clean handkerchief that had been found in the back pocket. A single bloodstain marred its snow-white material. She opened it carefully, with a magnifying lamp hovering above. She taped both sides and smoothed the tape onto the acetate, then moved the handkerchief to its own brown bag.

The tapings showed only minute particles of lint, except for one dark fiber and three white specks. They seemed to be round and flat. She would have to run them through the FTIR to be sure, but they seemed very similar to the ones found on Kim Hammond.

Theresa covered the table with a fresh piece of brown paper from the large roll mounted at the end and repeated the process with the s.h.i.+rt. The s.h.i.+rt did not offer any new insights, only a few splotches of blood, most likely transfer from the severed head. No particular staining on the shoulders, which supported her theory that the clothing had been removed prior to the decapitation.

When she had finished taping the s.h.i.+rt, she covered the table with yet another fresh piece of paper and placed the s.h.i.+rt on the upper half and the pants on the lower half, both facing upward. Then she pulled out the loafers and held them in her hands. Dirt, dead gra.s.s, and a few pieces of fine gravel had been wedged into the treads.

Frank appeared in the doorway. ”Mornin', cuz. I finished your birthday cake for breakfast. Hope you don't mind.”

”Not at all-what, you stayed at your mother's last night?”

”I don't know about stayed. Stopped in for a shower and a change of clothes.”

Theresa felt guilty. She should have spent a sleepless night working on the case, too, but motherhood had interfered. ”But why-”

”A certain young lady didn't take our breakup well and tends to call and pound on my door at odd hours. It's not worth changing my number-she'll get over it before long.”

”Frank.” Sometimes she wondered where his restlessness came from. No one else in the family was like that. He hadn't learned it from his father-whatever bad habits his father may have had, philandering wasn't one of them. Theresa sighed and didn't bother to tell him that it was high time he grew up and started dating nice, sensible women like Angela Sanchez. The tone of her one word said it all.

He ignored both her tone and her meaning. ”What do we have so far?”