Текст книги "Evil Dark"

Автор книги: Justin Gustainis

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  I gave her a tight smile. "Sorry. That's classified."

  She glared at me, then turned to McGuire. "Lieutenant, would you please tell your officer to–"

  "All right," I said. "All right. What I meant was, it would be a bad idea to try to talk to Lacey about this today."

  Instead of asking the question, Thorwald just gave me raised eyebrows.

  "Because she's still in the initial hours of grieving," I said, "and because right now she is either a) drunk, or b) viciously hung over. You shouldn't try to talk to her in either condition."

  "Unless you enjoy being told to go fuck yourself," Karl said. "And if that's your kink, we can save you the ride to Wilkes-Barre and do it for you right here."

  "Let me talk to her," I told Thorwald. I tried for a reasonable tone of voice. "Tomorrow. If you'll give me a screen cap of the victim's face, I'll show it to her. If she IDs it as her sister, then I'll get all the information I can from Lacey about her."

  "I thought you said the two women weren't close," Thorwald said, but she sounded like she was trying for reasonable, too.

  "I did, but Lacey also told me that they exchange Christmas cards, so she'll have the address, at least. I'll get that, along with the sister's current last name and anything else that Lacey knows. Just give me twenty-four hours, fortyeight at the most. What do you say?"

  "I say you ought to–" Greer began, but Thorwald made a sharp gesture and cut him off like a guillotine. "Very well, Sergeant," she said calmly. "If you'll give me your email address, I'll have some screen caps made, showing only the victim's face, and send them to you. When you have some information about said victim, I'd like to know about it. Fair enough?"

  I gave her a nod. "Fair enough."

  Her voice was mild, but the message in her eyes was the same one you'd get from a high school bully whose torments have been interrupted by a teacher:   "We'll finish this later."

As I got behind the wheel I said to Karl, "Still think Thorwald likes me?"

  Karl fastened his seatbelt and pretended to ponder it. "Well, maybe the same way that Cain liked Abel, something like that."

  "Yeah, I was thinking along those lines myself."

  "Where we going?" he asked.

  "Let's pay another call on the rug merchant," I said. "I wanna ask Castle how it is that a few hours after we're talking to him about Helter Skelter, I've got a bunch of goblins in my garage, wanting a close-up look at my liver."

  "You think Castle's on the same side as people who are killing supes and making snuff films? Those guys oughta be Castle's worst enemy, man."

  "Yeah, you'd think so, wouldn't you? But if we're working off the assumption that the gobs were sent after me because we're on the trail of those Charlie Manson wannabes, how many people know that? Castle sure did."

  "That's true," Karl said. "Plus whoever Castle told about it. Maybe he put the word out to the local supe community – 'Anybody heard anything about Helter Skelter? A couple of cops think someone's trying to make it happen here in Scranton'."

  "If he did that, wouldn't you have heard something?"

  "Not necessarily," Karl said. I caught his grin out of the corner of my eye. "I haven't been going to the meetings."

  "We'll see if we can get Castle to tell us who he's been talking to."

  "You know who else could've put out the word that we're looking into Helter Skelter?" Karl asked.

  "Who?"

  "Pettigrew. Our favorite human supremacist."

  "Why would he do that?" I said. "He doesn't want Helter Skelter to start – he isn't sure his side would win."

  "Maybe he didn't do it deliberately," Karl said. "Could be he told somebody he trusted, who told somebody else, who told the bad guys – whoever they are."

  "Yeah, that's not exactly impossible, is it? Guess we better add Pettigrew to our list of people to see."

  "We? You mean I get to go along this time?" To his credit, there wasn't a lot of sarcasm in Karl's voice. A little, maybe – but not a lot.

  "Sure," I said. "Maybe your fangs'll scare him."

  "They didn't work real well with Thorwald."

  "Shit, Pettigrew's not nearly as tough as Thorwald."

  Karl snorted laughter. "You know, it occurs to me, Pettigrew's little Nazi playpen is closer than the rug shop from here. Save us from doubling back if we go there first."

  "Sounds like a plan, man," I said, and turned right at the next corner.

  About five minutes later, we pulled into the parking area of Born to Be Wilding. The only other vehicle there was a customized Harley that I was pretty sure belonged to Pettigrew. Good – he was still here. I would've figured that anyway, since all the lights in the place were on.

  As I turned the engine off, I said to Karl, "Look, I don't expect you to put up with any shit from Pettigrew, but try not to start something, OK?"

  Karl unlatched his seatbelt. "I seek peace, and pursue it," he said, the way you do when quoting somebody.

  I looked at him. "Where's that from?"

  "Psalm 34."

  "You've been reading something besides James Bond," I said.

  "No Bibles for me anymore. I just remember it from school."

  We were walking toward the open service bay when Karl suddenly stopped. "Uh-oh."

  "What?"

  "Blood, close by," he said. "Fresh, and lots of it."

  "Human?"

  "I think so."

  As we started forward again, I drew my weapon and saw Karl do the same. That turned out to be unnecessary – the only one in there was Pettigrew, and he wasn't going to be dangerous to anybody ever again.

  The human supremacist lay on his back near one of the big workbenches, splayed out like an abandoned rag doll – except you never find Raggedy Andy in a pool of his own blood. Pettigrew's lips were drawn back in a snarl, as if he were defying what had recently killed him. Most of his throat seemed to be missing.

  After a quick look around to be sure that nobody was lurking, we walked toward Pettigrew, stopping at the edge of the blood pool.

  "Pardon the stupid question," I said to Karl, "but is he dead?" If by some fluke Pettigrew was still alive, I'd be legally and morally obligated to try CPR and call an ambulance. Otherwise, I planned to stay out of the blood and not mess up the crime scene.

  "No heartbeat at all," Karl said. "He's gone."

  "Can you tell how long?"

  "Uh-uh. But it's a fresh kill."

  Karl's voice sounded a little shaky. It couldn't be because he was grieving for Pettigrew – if anything, he'd probably have a drink of plasma to celebrate. That's when it hit me. My vampire partner was in the presence of an awful lot of the stuff that constituted his diet. His training as a detective was probably warring with a strong impulse to start drinking the evidence.

  "Listen, Karl, you wanna wait in the car? It's cool."

  "No, I'm all right." His voice didn't completely support his words.

  "Are you sure? Because I–"

  "I said I'm all right."

  "OK, then. OK."

  I knelt down and touched a finger to the blood on the floor. It was only slightly tacky, which supported Karl's conclusion that the attack had been fairly recent – probably within the last couple of hours.

  We were supposed to call this in, but I figured there was no hurry. And I wanted to have a look around before every cop and forensics tech in town started traipsing through the place.

  As I stood up, I said to Karl, "You're the one with the super-acute vision. See anything that I'm missing?"

  He didn't answer for a couple of seconds, and I wondered if he had zoned out on me. But then he said, "There are some hairs in the blood. See there?" He pointed, and I could just make out three or four hairs, a couple of inches long. "There's more over there," Karl said, and pointed again. "And some more, over near the body."

  "Nice of the killer to leave us with so much evidence," I said.

  "Yeah, I was just thinking that myself," Karl said. "And get this – I'm pretty sure it's not human."

  "What, then? Dog?" I was pretty sure that Pettigrew didn't keep a dog here. And if he had, it would probably be howling over his body – that, or lapping up the blood.

  "Close," Karl said. "I'd say wolf."

  "Well, fuck me," I said. "You saying our perp's a werewolf?"

  "I'm saying that's what somebody wants us to think."

  I turned and looked at him. "And where did that come from?"

  "Main reason is, there's no wolf smell," Karl said. "I got a good whiff of it the other night at Nay Aug, so the scent's fresh in my memory. And I'm getting – nothing. There's probably some on the hairs, or fur, but the blood is masking it."

  "Anything else you've noticed?"

  "Yeah, no blood spatter or trail of blood drops."

  I glanced around the garage, "Yeah, it is pretty clean, isn't it – apart from the pool he's lying in."

  "And it makes no fucking sense," Karl said. "Think about it, Stan. We're supposed to believe that a great big wolf attacked Pettigrew and tore his throat out. But there's no defensive wounds, no claw marks, nothing like that. Guy like Pettigrew, he'd fight."

  "Yeah, I'm with you."

  "And, shit, you've seen animal attacks before – we both have," Karl said. "Tearing somebody's throat out, even if you've strong jaws and a good set of sharp teeth, is gonna be messy. Blood flying all over, arterial spray, the whole nine yards."

  "In contrast, what we got here is almost… surgical."

  "Fuckin' A. And if our hypothetical werewolf did kill the guy, he couldn't help but get blood on him – all over himself, probably. And yet he ran off without getting a drop of it on the floor, all the way to the door and beyond."

  "So somebody set up a fake werewolf attack for us to find." I nodded slowly. "You wanna say it this time?"

  "What – Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?"

  "Uh-uh. Helter Skelter, man. Helter fucking Skelter."

We called Homicide, which was a nice change from them always calling us. Scanlon arrived with a couple of his guys shortly after a couple of black-and-whites pulled in, lights flashing and sirens wailing. They didn't have to hurry – Pettigrew wasn't going anywhere.

  Karl and I had just started to explain to the uniforms how we'd come to discover Pettigrew when Scanlon walked over and said to them, "I'll take care of interviewing these officers. You two secure the scene – the media jackals have police radios, and they'll probably be here any minute. I don't want them fucking up my crime scene by walking all over it."

  My crime scene. Scanlon was taking over – good. That's exactly what I wanted.

  "Something I wanted to ask you, Lieutenant," I said. "How come you still show up at these things, while my boss stays back at the office instead of coming to ours?"

  "It's his choice," Scanlon said. "We all have our own ways of doing things. I like to be on the street, and fortunately, I've got a sergeant who stays in the squad room and runs things pretty well when I'm not there." He gave me a quick grin. "From what I hear, McGuire doesn't have that luxury. Now – you wanna tell me about this?"

  Karl and I took turns filling him in on what we knew, and what we suspected. As we were finishing up, an ambulance arrived with the guy from the ME's office. Actually, it wasn't a guy, but a painfully thin woman named Cecelia Reynolds, one of the three pathologists who work for the ME and the only one that I never joke around with. A very serious lady, is our Doctor Reynolds. But then, I hear she grew up in the South Bronx and proceeded to work and study her way out – all the way to a full scholarship at Columbia University's med school. I guess serious is her default setting.

  I asked Scanlon to excuse us, and Karl and I drifted over to where Cecelia was pulling on a pair of latex gloves. "Good evening, Cecelia," I said.

  She looked up. "Hi, Stan. Karl."

  She looked at Karl a second or two longer than necessary, something I'd only noticed her doing a few months ago. Maybe she found Karl's new state intriguing. I sometimes wondered if she was a vamp vixen – a human woman who's into the undead – but any vampire who put the bite on Cecelia had better not be looking for a big meal.

  "So," she said, "looks like we have us a nice, messy homicide here."

  "At first glance," I said, "it looks like a werewolf killing."

  "Do tell. I never worked one of those."

  "Well, I hope you didn't have your heart set on it, because this probably isn't your lucky night."

  "What are you talking about, Stan?"

  "There's a good chance that whoever killed the dude over there tried to make it look like a werewolf is responsible."

  She frowned. "Why on Earth would someone do that?"

  "The answer to that's long and complicated, and I'm sure you've got better uses for your time tonight. I'll tell you all about it some night over a beer."

  Cecelia looked at me, her head tilted a little to one side. "That promise is based on the assumption that I would consent to the behavior in question, Stan – an assumption that has yet to be tested."

  "Could I have that in English, please?"

  "You're assuming that I'd be willing to have a beer with you sometime."

  "Does that mean you won't?"

  "No, it merely means you should be careful about your assumptions."

  "Duly noted," I said. "Now, about the deceased over there…"

  "Yes?"

  "When you're doing the post, you might want to check the ratio of serotonin to free histamines, to see if he was alive, or at least conscious, when he was killed. And while you're looking at his blood, it might be worthwhile to check for poison or some sort of tranquilizing agent."

  The smile she gave me was as bright as it was false. "Goodness me, Sergeant, if I didn't know better, I'd have sworn that you were just telling me how to do my job."

  "Not at all," I said. "And I apologize if I gave offense. But tell me something: would you have checked the serotonin-free histamine ratio as part of your regular procedure?"

  One of the things I like about Cecelia is her utter honesty. After a couple of seconds she said, "No, Stan, I probably wouldn't have. The snarky comment is hereby withdrawn."

  "Fair enough. I was–"

  Karl's head lifted a couple of inches, like a hunting dog that hears the far-off sound of geese approaching. He said, "Pardon me," and started walking rapidly toward the open bay door.

  "Something wrong?" I called after him.

  "Think I hear the radio." Can't beat those extra-sharp vampire senses. It was nice to have them on my side, for a change.

  I chatted with Cecelia for another minute or two, then Karl came back in the garage. "Stan."

  "What's up?"

  "Radio call. It's McGuire."

  He turned and went back out, and I followed him. Over my shoulder I said to Cecelia, "Gotta run. Talk to you after the post, OK?"

  I saw her nod and then I concentrated on getting out to the car without quite running. McGuire wouldn't get on the radio personally just to ask us to pick up a pizza.

  As we reached the car, I asked Karl, "Did he tell you anything?"

  "Better hear it from him," Karl said.

  No, definitely not a pizza run.

  I got in, and grabbed the radio. "This is Markowski."

  "This is McGuire."

  Yeah, I knew that already – get to it.

  "Yes, boss."

  He said, "Sefchik and Aquilina are in the house, but I thought I'd try to reach you first. Figured you might want this one, since it concerns Rachel Proctor."

  Please don't tell me that she's the latest witch to be burned. Please, for the love of God, don't tell me that.

  "What happened?" I didn't yell, but everything in me wanted to.

  "For starters, she's OK. So cool those jets of yours."

  Guess McGuire could tell that I'd wanted to yell.

  "All right, boss. What's up with Rachel?"

  "Looks like our witch burner may have made a try for her tonight."

  "And…?" I asked.

  "She had a spell of some kind ready, and she zapped the bastard," McGuire said.

  "Good for her – but 'zapped' how?" I already knew she couldn't have killed him. White magic, and all that.

  "Froze him in place, apparently. Maybe you ought to get over there, have her thaw out the suspect, and bring him in. There's a black-and-white on scene already, but I figured you'd want in on this."

  "As my partner likes to say, Fuckin' A. Where's 'over there'?"

  "Rachel's house," McGuire said. "I guess the guy made his move on her front porch."

  "We're on the way. Markowski out."

  As I started up, Karl said, "Fuckin' A? You stealing my lines, now?"

  "I was only borrowing that one, Mister…?" I let my voice trail off, figuring that Karl would get what I was doing.

  He did. He gave a laugh, then said, in his best Sean Connery imitation, "Renfer. Karl Renfer."

The black-and-white unit, red and blue lights flashing, was parked in front of 1484 Stanton Street, and I slid our car in behind it. Rachel's front porch light was on, and under its illumination I could see Rachel, two uniformed officers – and a strangely posed mannequin. At least, it looked like a mannequin.

  As we approached the porch, I could see that one of the uniforms was talking to Rachel, his notebook and pen in hand, while the other one stood next to the thing that looked like it belonged in a display window at Boscov's, or maybe in Madame Tussauds wax museum.

  We mounted the creaking steps and went over to Rachel, who looked like she'd had a shock but was holding herself together pretty well. Karl probably would have said that she appeared shaken, but not stirred.

  I nodded at the uniform who'd been talking to her. His name was McHale, and I'd been seeing him around for the last five years or so. He was tall and broad, the dusting of freckles across his nose an odd contrast to his King Kong physique. He took a couple of steps back as I approached Rachel.

  "How you doing, kiddo?" I said to her.

  "I'm not bad, considering, and stop calling me 'kiddo'."

  I tried not to smile. Same old Rachel.

  "Wanna tell me what happened?"

  "As I was saying to Officer McHale, I got home about half an hour ago. I was standing in front of the door, sifting through my keys to find the right one. I heard a sound off to my left. I looked, and he–" she pointed with her chin toward the still figure "–was coming at me quite fast, his arm extended the way you see now."

  "You didn't notice him before that?" I asked. I glanced around her porch. "There isn't anyplace to hide up here."

  "The porch light was off – I only went inside and turned it on after the excitement was over. He'd been hiding in the shadows over near the side railing."

  "Gotcha. So you look over your shoulder and see him coming at you. Then what?"

  "As I told you when we talked last, I had a spell ready, the kind I could invoke with a single word – and the proper gesture. So I made the gesture, said the word, and voila – instant statuary."

  "Nice casting," I said. "I'm glad you were prepared."

  "Me, too." Her lips compressed grimly. "Especially considering the fate I would probably have suffered, if this motherfucker had been successful in abducting me."

  Rachel rarely swears. The fact that she'd done so meant that she wasn't feeling quite as calm as she looked. Not that I blamed her.

  "So then I went inside," she said, "turned on the outside light and got my phone out. I called 911 and reported the attack, then realized that I probably should have called 666 instead. So I did."

  "Never hurts to cover all the bases," I said, then turned to Karl. "Keep Rachel company for a few minutes, will you? I wanna check out our perp."

  "Sure," Karl said, stepping forward. "Hey, Rachel. How's the witch business?"

  "Not bad, Karl. How the vampire business?"

  "It kinda sucks, but that's not always a bad thing."

  I left those two to trade bad puns and went over to the human statue.

If this was a museum, the exhibit could be titled "Cat Burglar – Early Twenty-first Century". Or maybe the guy had Googled "Commando", then clicked on "Illustrations" and copied the results – to the letter.

  His wiry build was right for the role, anyway. He looked flexible and strong, but without a lot of bulging muscles. Rachel's attacker seemed to be around thirty, and that was all I could tell about him, apart from the outfit.

  He was dressed completely in black – pullover sweater, gloves, jeans, and shoes. I'd have to check later, but I was betting he wore black socks, too. To top it off, he even had the black stocking cap pulled down low over his ears. Put some black camo paint on his face – the one part of the look he'd passed up – and this role-playing asshole would be all ready for a raid on some Nazi ammo dump. He was perfect.

  His posture now looked like what you get when you hit Pause on your DVD player. His feet were well apart, one in front of the other, as if he'd been moving fast when the magic hit him. His right arm was extended, fist clenched. He was holding something white in his clenched hand, so I stepped close for a look and saw what appeared to be a folded handkerchief. Then I stepped closer, and took a whiff. Chloroform.

  Old school all the way. Jesus.

  He was being guarded, if that's the word, by the other uniform, whose name was Perrotta. I'd seen him around before. He had smart-looking brown eyes, and the thick mustache that covered his upper lip was within department regulations, but only by a millimeter or so. I nodded to him and said, "Have you advised the prisoner of his MirandaStoker rights, yet?"

  Perrotta shook his head. "No way for him to show that he understood 'em, Sarge, the way he is now. Don't want some shyster lawyer gettin' him off later on a technicality."

  "Good thinking," I said. "We'll Stokerize him ourselves, once he's thawed out. You frisk him?"

  "Sure, Sarge. He had this on him."

  Perrotta produced an evidence bag – which is just a plastic sandwich bag with "Evidence" stamped on it – and handed it to me.

  It took me a second to realize what I was looking at. "Christ, it's a fucking blackjack," I said. "I haven't seen one of those in years." I handed the bag back to him. "Anything else of interest?"

  "Just the usual – wallet, keys, handkerchief, pocket change. I left it all in place."

  "Did you check the wallet for ID?"

  "Yeah, I did – and get this: there was nothing."

  "No ID, you mean?"

  "I mean no nothing," Perrotta said. "Only thing in the wallet was cash. No drivers license, no registration, no credit cards, not even a fucking library card."

  "How much cash was he carrying?"

  "Exactly $440."

  "You mentioned keys," I said.

  "Just a set of car keys, left front pocket."

  I reached into the guy's pocket and pulled out a key ring. No helpful bauble dangled from it – I'd been kinda hoping for a plastic tab that said Witch Burners Club, with an address and phone number. But my luck never runs that good. All I got were two Ford keys on a plain metal ring.

  I handed the keys to Perrotta.

  "Once Detective Renfer and I have secured the suspect, I want you and your partner to check every Ford vehicle parked on this block, until you find the one that the keys fit."

  "OK, Sarge."

  "You shouldn't have to look real hard – he's got to be parked close by. You don't go carrying a limp body any distance around this neighborhood, even at night."

  "Maybe the scumbag had an accomplice," Perrotta said.

  "One who drove off when Rachel zapped this guy? Yeah, could be. But we gotta look for the car, anyway."

  "Yeah, I know. What do you want us to do, assuming we find it?"

  "First thing, check it over, including the trunk. I wanna know if this dude was carrying a can of gasoline and maybe some rope. Stuff like that."

  Perrotta nodded. "Sounds like you like this guy for the witch burnings."

  "Yeah, and I'll like him even better for it if there's rope and gas in his back seat." I handed him my card. "If you turn up something, I want you to call me – ASAP."

  "Sure, will do."

  "Then have the vehicle towed to the impound lot. Tell whoever's on duty that the vehicle is not to be released to anybody without my specific authorization."

  "Got it, Sarge."

  "Be sure to get a receipt from the impound lot. Leave it, with the keys, in my mailbox at the house. If you didn't find the car, then just leave the keys. There's no big hurry about that last part," I said. "I won't get to the car until tomorrow." I looked at the frozen figure next to me. "I'm gonna spend the rest of tonight having a nice chat with Chuck Norris, here."

  I went over to where Rachel and Karl were quietly talking. "Rachel, did you happen to notice if some vehicle, maybe one parked nearby, took off in a hurry once you took care of that guy?"

  Rachel bit her lip for a few seconds, then shook her head. "I don't remember anything Stan – but I have to admit I was kind of distracted for a while there."

  "OK, just thought I'd ask. Now, you wanna thaw this jerk out for me? We're taking him down to the station house, and it's gonna be tough getting him in the car if he can't bend."

  "Sure, Stan. The sooner you take this garbage off my porch, the better."

  She stood facing the still figure. "Tell me when you're ready."

  Karl and I positioned ourselves on either side of the still figure. "OK," I said. "Go ahead."

  She pointed her index finger at the frozen man and said what sounded like "Keslungi pasha notro!" – then she dropped her hand abruptly, with a slicing motion.

  A second later, the guy lunged for her, but Karl and I were ready for him. We each grabbed a wrist and twisted his arms up behind his back. We had handcuffs on him before he fully knew what was happening.

  "What? Hey, let go of me! Where'd you come from? Let me go, dammit!"

  He was struggling to get free now, but it was a waste of time and energy. Karl held his arm on one side, and I had a tight grip on the other. With my free hand, I showed him my badge. "Police officers," I said. "You're under arrest for trespassing, attempted abduction, attempted assault, and a bunch of other stuff we'll think of later. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. If you are a supernatural being, you have the right–"

  Our commando prisoner gave a nasty laugh. "Supernatural being?" he said. "Are you fucking kidding me? Do I look like one of those subhuman scum to you?"

  I shook him hard enough to get his attention. "Shut up until I finish. If you are a supernatural being, you have the right to have someone of your own kind present during questioning, in addition to an attorney. Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?"

  "Yeah, sure, I understand. I want a fucking lawyer!"

  "You can call one after you're booked," I said. "Let's go."

  He didn't fight us as we got him down the steps and over to our car, then put him in back. I glanced over my shoulder towards the porch and saw that one of the uniforms had resumed taking Rachel's statement while the other one bagged the chloroform-soaked rag the suspect had dropped when he unfroze. A few seconds later, we were on our way to the station house.

The commando didn't say anything en route. There was a time when I might have tried to draw him out. Once he's been Stokerized, anything he says in the car is admissible, although we're not supposed to interrogate him without his lawyer. Back in the day, I might've said to my partner, a little louder than necessary, "Boy, that witch sure looked scared, didn't she?" If the suspect wanted to offer his opinion, who were we to stop him?

  But not with a vampire riding up front. If the DA tried to introduce as evidence something commando boy said in the car, his lawyer would claim that Karl had used Influence to get him talking – and how could we prove otherwise?

  Back in 1975, the Supreme Court ruled in Barlow v. Maine that information obtained under Influence was inadmissible in any trial, criminal or civil. The DA won't even allow Karl in the room when a suspect is being interrogated, even if the perp's lawyer is present.

  I've been learning that there are some advantages to having a vampire partner, but getting information from suspects under arrest isn't one of them.

  Of course, that doesn't apply when we want to know something from a guy – or creature – who wasn't under arrest. I hoped Karl would get better at using Influence soon. It would come in handy when talking to informants who we thought might be holding out on us.

  At the station house we brought our commando prisoner upstairs, where we turned him over to the booking sergeant. Tonight that was Ron Beck, who's been booking suspects longer than anyone can remember. Some say he once fingerprinted Jesse James, but I don't believe it. Everybody knows Jesse never got this far north. Ron's got thick white hair and a potato nose whose color suggests some experience with alcoholic beverages.

  We brought the suspect over to Ron's desk and took the handcuffs off. If commando boy tried anything cute, there were plenty of cops in the room to stop him.

  "Have somebody bring him upstairs when he's processed, will you, Ron?"

  "Absolutely, Stan," he said. He took our prisoner firmly by the arm and led him off to be fingerprinted.

In the squad room, Karl and I briefed McGuire about the attack on Rachel and the guy who had tried it. I was describing what the perp had been wearing when my phone started playing music. I glanced at it and said, "I'd better take this, boss."

  McGuire nodded, so I answered the call.

  "This is Markowski."

  "Sarge, this is Officer Tom Perrotta from the crime scene earlier tonight."

  "Right, Perrotta. What've you got?"

  "You pegged it right, Sarge. Three houses down from Rachel's place, other side of the street, we hit the jackpot with an Econoline van. You want the tag number, all that?"

  "No, I want to know what you found inside it."

  "It was just like you said. In the back of the van he had a five-gallon can of gas, full, and a couple coils of nylon rope. Oh, and a Bible."

  I asked, "Which version?" Catholics still stick with the Latin Vulgate edition, while Protestants use the King James. It might give us a clue as to which side of the Christian fence our perp called home.