You'll understand when you get here, O'Bannon had said, and those words were still echoing in my head when I reached the Burger Bliss fast-food joint as per his instructions. Don't bring Darcy. O'Bannon had initially been resistant to my involving Darcy in police investigations, but over time had become gradually, if guardedly, accepting of it. Despite his protestations to the contrary, some part of him must've enjoyed seeing Darcy's phenomenal gifts put to good use. For the past couple of months, it had been automatically understood that anytime he gave me a consulting job, Darcy would be tagging along. Until today. Which told me that either he had undergone a dramatic change of heart… Or there was something in there he really did not want Darcy to see.
I gave a shout-out to the two uniforms posted at the door, who smiled and waved me inside without a word. I can still remember, just after I was released from detox and got myself booted off the force, when I practically needed a hall pass to get onto a crime scene. And O'Bannon would sniff my breath the moment I arrived. This was better.
It wasn't hard to figure out where the action had taken place. The videographer was making a detailed record of the entire kitchen, everything behind the cash register counter. At least a dozen other crime techs were swarming around in their coveralls, protective coverings on their shoes, always careful not to step off the butcher paper that had been laid on the tile floor. I loved watching these guys (and gals) work. It was like when you're a kid and you can spend hours staring at an ant farm, observing all the specialized tasks as the creatures scurry across one another's paths but never collide. Some of the crime techs were using forensic oils and chemical swabs, some were shining fluorescent lights, some were crawling on their hands and knees, scrutinizing the tile floor for anything that might've been missed. It was no accident they decided to set that TV show in Vegas; according to the FBI, we had the second best CSI unit in the country, here in a city that ranked only thirty-second in terms of population.
On the far left, one of the stainless steel countertops was covered with blood spatter. Didn't take empathic powers to figure out what must've happened there.
I hopped over the countertop and was heading in that general direction when I felt a strong arm yank me backward. It was Barry Granger, the man who filled the gap I left when I lost my job and had recently been promoted to chief homicide detective. He'd been my husband David's partner; he was very close to David and took his death hard. Over the past few months, we'd learned to coexist, but we weren't friends and I couldn't imagine that we ever would be. Fair or not, he blamed me for David's death.
"Just so you know," Granger said, "I was opposed to bringing you in on this case."
I smiled. "Top o' the mornin' to you, too, Barry. How are the wife and kids?"
"Don't get smart with me. Just listen and understand what I'm saying. We have a good homicide department and we will crack this case. You've been asked-against my wishes-to give us some psychological insight on the sicko who did this. That's all. The men here respect me, and I don't want you parading around with your smart mouth and superior attitude and undermining my authority. It's my case. You work for me. Understood?"
"Loud and clear. Now let go of my arm before I have to embarrass you in front of all these men who respect you." He did.
"I mean it, Pulaski. Are you going to cooperate?"
"Hmm. Magic 8 Ball says: Outlook Not Good."
"It would be different if you were a team player. But you never are. While my men are out pounding the street, you're off in your own little world, doing your weird stuff."
"I'm a behaviorist, Granger. I don't street-pound."
"If you really wanted to help, I could assign to you some of the hundred or so people who need to be interviewed. You could hit the back alleyways, talk to contacts, see what you can stir up. Show the street scum that we mean business."
"Thanks, but that sounds a little too Starsky and Hutch for me. Who was the first responder?"
"MacNeill."
"Thank God." Meaning, thank God it wasn't you. The first officer on the premises has the critical job of securing the crime scene, making sure it isn't contaminated. If it had been someone as sloppy as Granger, there'd be no clues left to find.
I turned back toward the blood spatter. Even at a glance I could see the arching pattern that suggested a single blow from behind. And although the quantity was plenty enough to turn my stomach, there was very little blood outside the arch. No pooling on the floor.
"DRT?" I asked Granger. This is hip cop slang for Dead Right There.
"No question."
"ID?"
"We're working on it. My men just arrived. The body is not on the premises."
"That adds to the challenge."
He made a mock salute. "That's why you're here." His voice rose. "Now get to work, lieutenant. Er…former lieutenant. Whatever. Hop to it."
Granger walked away, having accomplished his mission. Which was not to put me in my place. He knew that was useless. What was important to him was that he stage a scene that everyone present would see-with him reading me the riot act, reminding everyone that no matter how smart I was or what cases I had solved in the past, I was not in charge.
I'd be seriously mad at him-if I didn't know deep down that it was important for the head of the department to be in charge, to be seen to be in charge, to keep upstarts in line. He didn't want to lose his job any more than I had wanted to lose mine.
In the back of the kitchen, I spotted Tony Crenshaw. I knew he'd be useful. He'd come on board as an expert in dactylograms-that's what he insisted on calling what you and I call fingerprints-but had proven himself so darn smart that anymore O'Bannon let him do pretty much anything he wanted to do. What's more-he liked me, and he had stuck by me, even in the tough days following David's death. Being single and good-looking didn't hurt him any, either.
Tony smiled as I approached. "Me and the boys were betting on how many seconds would pass before you showed up."
I guess that was a compliment. Of sorts. "That weird?"
"Oh yeah."
"Slit the guy's throat?" I paused.
"Right."
"Looks like he did it in a single blow."
His eyes widened appreciatively. "Very good. So you were awake during my blood spatter seminar."
Well, off and on. "Do we know what weapon was used?"
"Not exactly. Any big knife would do. Lots of them here in the kitchen. I don't really know yet. But we can safely assume it was something strong and extremely sharp. Look at the pattern of the arch." With a finger in the air, he traced the path of the blood across the stainless steel counter and then onto the wall behind it. "It's one thing if your victim is beneath you and you can swing the weapon executioner-style, like you're swinging one of those hammers to ring the bell at the county fair. But if that had been the case, the blood would've spattered across the floor. These two, killer and victim, were standing one behind the other. Meaning the assailant had to reach around his throat, while holding him upright."
"So we're looking for a guy. A very strong guy."
"I don't want to sound sexist, but given the upper-body strength requirement…" He shrugged. "Either it's one of those chicks from the Worldwide Wrestling League, or it's a guy. A barbarian."
"Tall, dark, and brutal?"
Tony shook his head. "Again, look at the main concentration of the blood spatter. Over six feet off the floor, and forming an upward elliptical arch. Our assailant was shorter than his victim, probably shorter than average."
"A homunculus."
"Well, I don't like to make value judgments about strangers. But I wouldn't set him up on a date with my sister."
I nodded my agreement. "I'm surprised the victim didn't struggle more."
"Oh, God, didn't anyone tell you?"
Just the way he said it gave me a severe case of the jimjams. "Just give it to me straight, Tony. What happened?"
He pointed to the stainless steel gizmo to the left, obviously uncomfortable. "Do you know what that is?"
"Tony, the only thing I cook is Lean Cuisine."
"That's a deep fat fryer. It's where they make french fries and onion rings."
"I feel certain the victim wasn't killed by onion rings."
Tony swallowed. "The killer pushed the vic's face down into the fryer. Into the boiling oil. While it was on."
I felt an intense surge of nausea rising up my stomach like a surfer on the big kahuna. "So the temperature was…"
"Approximately three hundred and fifty degrees."
I took several quick short breaths, trying to steady myself. "How-"
"First," he continued, "the skin would melt off your face. Then you would go into shock. Your brain would literally begin to cook. It would feel like-"
I held up a hand. "I don't need to know what it would feel like."
"Okay." He looked away, then muttered: "Having his throat cut afterward was probably a mercy."
I fought back the nausea, the shaking in my knees that oh so desperately wanted a quick snort of something with a very high alcoholic content, and asked, "But-why?"
Tony laid his hand on my shoulder. He was looking a bit ashen himself. "And with that question, Susan, you have officially moved out of my realm-and into yours."