Part 1 (2/2)

”I'll be able to give you a better figure after the post,” the Medical Examiner said without looking up from his work.

A tall, big-nosed man in plain-clothes suddenly turned away from the scene on the table, his mouth moving queerly, his eyes hard. After a moment, his lips relaxed. Still staring at the wall, he said: ”I guess the case is out of Federal jurisdiction, then. We'll co-operate, as usual, of course.” He looked at me. ”Could I talk to you outside, Inspector Royall?”

I looked at Kleek. ”O.K., Sam?” I didn't have to have his O.K.; it was just professional courtesy. He knew I'd tell him whatever it was that the FBI man had to say, and we both knew why the Federal agent wanted to leave.

Sam Kleek nodded. ”Sure. I'll keep an eye out here.”

The FBI man followed me into the outer room.

”Do you figure this as a s.e.x-degenerate case, Inspector?” he asked.

”Looks like it. You saw the bruises. Dr. Prouty will be able to tell us for sure after the post mortem.”

He shook his head as if to clear it of a bad memory. ”You New York police can sure be cold-blooded at times.”

The thing that was bothering him, as Kleek and I both knew, was that the FBI agent hadn't been exposed to this sort of thing often enough.

They deal with the kind of crimes that actually don't involve the callous murder of children very often. Even the murder of adults doesn't normally come under the aegis of the FBI.

”We're not cold blooded,” I said. ”Not by inclination, I mean. But a man gets that way--he has to get that way--after he's seen enough of this sort of thing. You either get yourself an emotional callous or you get deathly sick from the repet.i.tion--and then you have to get out of the job.”

”Yeah,” he said. ”Sure.” He quit rubbing his chin with a knuckle, looked at me, and said: ”What I wanted to say is that there's no evidence that she was taken across a state line. Whoever sent that ransom note to the Donahue parents was trying to throw us off the track.”

”Looks like it. Look at the time-table. The note was sent _after_ the girl was murdered, but _before_ the information hit the papers or the newscasts. The killer wanted us to think it was a ransom kidnaping. It isn't likely that the note was sent by a crank. A crank wouldn't have known the girl was missing at all at the time the note was sent.”

”That's the way it seems to me,” he agreed. The color was coming back into his face. ”But why would he want to make it look like a kidnaping instead of ... of what it was? The penalty's the same for both.”

My grin had anger, pity, and disgust for the killer in it--plus a certain amount of satisfaction. Some day, I'd like to see my face in a mirror when I feel like that.

”He was hoping the body wouldn't be found until it was too late for us to know that it was a rape killing. And that means that he knew that he would be on our list if we did find out that it was rape.

Otherwise, he wouldn't have bothered. If I'm right, then he has outsmarted himself. He has told us that we know him, and he's told us that he's smart enough to figure out a dodge--that he's not one of the helplessly stupid ones.”

”That should help to narrow the field down,” he said in a hard voice.

He felt in his pocket for a cigarette, found his pack, took one out, and then held it, unlit, between the fingers of his right hand.

”Inspector Royall, I've studied the new law of this state--the one you're working under here--and I think it'll be great if it works out.

I wish you luck. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to call the office.”

As he went out to the desk phone, I gave him a silent thanks. Words of encouragement were hard to come by at that time.

I turned and went back towards the clean-up room.

She didn't look as though she were asleep. They never do. She looked dead. She'd been head down in the sewer, and the blood had pooled and coagulated in her head and shoulders. Now that the filth had been washed off, the dark purple of the dead blood cells showed through the translucent skin. She would look better after she was embalmed.

Doc Prouty was holding up a small syringe, eying the little bit of fluid within it. ”We've got him,” he said in a flat voice. ”I'll have the lab run an a.n.a.lysis. We're well within the time limit. All we have to do is separate the girl's blood type from that of the spermatic fluid. You boys find your man, and I can identify him for you.” He put the syringe in its special case. ”I'll let you know the exact cause of death in a couple of hours.”

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