Chuck Morton poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the windowsill. A fat black fly buzzed sluggishly against the windowpane in a halfhearted attempt to escape into the steamy August air. The atmosphere was muggy and oppressive, the air heavy with rain that refused to fall.
"Okay, what do we know about this guy?" he said, slinging himself into his chair. He was feeling antsy, and more coffee probably wasn't a good idea, but he didn't care. Elena Krieger was at the far end of the room, putting as much distance between her and Detective Butts as possible.
Lee Campbell rested his lean body against the doorframe. Chuck thought his friend looked tired-there was a gray pallor to his face, and he cradled his injured arm in his left hand.
"There's evidence of some confusion as to sexual preference or gender identity," he said.
Detective Leonard Butts settled his broad backside into one of the chairs across from Chuck's desk.
"In English, Doc?" he said, scratching his ear. His ears were large, with long, pendulous lobes, and reminded Chuck of the ears of his childhood beagle, Charlie.
"He kills men as well as women," Lee said. "And since these probably are sexually motivated crimes, it points to an offender who is either attracted to both men and women, or is confused about where he belongs in the gender spectrum."
"How do you know he is sexually motivated?" Krieger challenged.
"Postmortem mutilation almost always has a sexual element," Lee replied.
"So he's one kinky bastard," Butts said, throwing a glance at Krieger, who stiffened. Chuck opened his mouth to reprimand Butts, but realized with a quiver of guilt that he enjoyed watching the detective bait Krieger. He turned and poured himself more coffee.
"Would that mean we're looking for someone who is… effeminate?" Krieger asked.
More effeminate than you, Chuck wanted to say, but he took a sip of coffee instead.
"Not necessarily," Lee replied. "He's conflicted, but he might appear completely normal to the casual observer."
"Let me get this straight," Morton said. "Are we talking about a bisexual?"
"It's not as clear cut as that," Lee answered. "I'd say that he's primarily heterosexual, but displays some form of feminine identification-maybe rooted in a childhood trauma of some kind."
Butts frowned. "We talkin' about a tranny?"
Krieger stared at him. "A trann-ee?"
"A transsexual," Chuck explained.
Krieger flushed, color spreading from her elegant neck to her forehead. "Oh, yes-of course."
"Very possibly," Lee replied. "Or a transvestite. There are plenty of men who like to dress in women's clothing, but are primarily or even solely attracted to women."
Butts leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, frowning so that his bushy eyebrows nearly touched. "Let me get this straight. You're talkin' about a guy who's a hetero but who likes to wear panty hose?"
"That's one possibility," Lee answered.
They all paused to consider this idea. Chuck listened to the sound of daily life in the station house. Footsteps came and went, office doors opened and closed with a click, snippets of conversation drifted into the room. Out in the lobby, someone laughed-a short, percussive sound, like a dog barking. He found the everyday ordinariness of it comforting. After the horrors of 9/11, which swept them all up the flood of disaster and its aftermath, there was something reassuring about the gradual return of daily routine.
"Is there a chance this-person-could be a woman who had an operation to become a man?" Krieger asked.
"Sexual murders of this sort are almost entirely committed by men. I don't see it as likely-it's not just the physical size and strength required, it's also the amount of testosterone in the system. This killer linked violence and sex early in life. Women aren't likely to act as sadistic sexual predators. They're much more likely to become victims, not offenders."
This seemed to displease Krieger. She frowned and bit her lip, but said nothing.
"Some of 'em become sidekicks to killers," Butts said. "They work with their boyfriends."
"That's true," Lee admitted, "but I'm fairly certain this offender is working alone."
There was an awkward silence; then Butts said, "Well, what are we waitin' for? Let's get out there and track down some leads."
"I have an idea of where we might start," Lee suggested. "What?" Chuck asked. He recognized the look on his friend's face-the narrowing of the deep-set eyes, the pursed lips. Lee Campbell was coming up with a plan.
"I'd like to look through old police reports of missing persons."
"How come?" Butts asked.
"I'll explain on the way. Let's go down to records."
The NYPD was in the process of converting old case records into computer files, which was-predictably-taking forever. There were miles of dusty stacks of manila folders containing all that was left of people's lives. It was ironic, Morton thought, that if you were a crime victim you stood a good chance at having the details of your life recorded-even if it was in a smudged file folder in the basement of a police precinct.
"Shall I come?" Krieger asked.
"Many hands make light work," Lee said, opening the door for her. He looked back at Chuck. "I'll check in with you later."
"Right," Chuck said.
When they had all gone, Chuck sat down at his desk with the crime-scene photos. He stared down at the bloated bodies of the victims, grotesque and swollen beyond recognition. He rubbed his eyes, red from lack of sleep and bad city air. Murder was a nasty, dirty business. Sure, you could glamorize it in books and films and tidy little stories where the bad guys always got caught and crime never paid, but the truth was that crime did pay, far more often than anyone in law enforcement wanted to admit.
He knew all this, and tried not to let it keep him up at night. But when it came down to it, there was no one left to speak for the victims except people like himself who were willing to do whatever it took to track down their killer. The responsibility he felt was oppressive-and instead of growing lighter over the years, it had become heavier. He looked back down at the crime-scene photos, forcing himself to think of each lifeless body as a former person-with a soul, if you like, a living flame snuffed out by a ruthless murderer who was just getting started.
There was a knock on the door, and Sergeant Ruggles stuck his head through the door.
"Beg pardon, sir."
"Yes?"
"Your wife's on the phone." "Thanks, Ruggles."
"Not at all, sir." He cleared his throat. "I was wondering, sir, about-" He paused, blinking rapidly.
"Yes, Ruggles?"
"It's about Detective Krieger, sir."
"What about her?"
"Is she-I mean, she's not-" He cleared his throat again. "I mean, do you know if-" "If she's married?"
"Not that it's any of my business, of course," Ruggles added quickly, frowning. He looked like a condemned prisoner facing a firing squad.
"No, she's not."
Ruggles's eyes widened. His neck muscles tightened, and he swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, like a turkey gulping for air.
"Right-thanks."
"She's trouble, Ruggles. I wouldn't, if I were you."
"I'll keep that in mind, sir," he said, but Chuck knew the sergeant was lost already. Krieger would eat him up and spit out the bones, not even pausing to pick her perfect teeth as she searched for her next victim.
But Ruggles was glowing. Sweat darkened his collar, and his hands trembled, but the man was grinning all over. If the brass buttons on his uniform could smile, Chuck thought, they would have.
"I'm off now, sir, if you don't mind."
"Sure-see you tomorrow, Ruggles."
"Yes, sir-thank you, sir."
Ruggles withdrew and closed the door. Chuck wondered if he should be more sociable with his desk sergeant. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea after all to ask Ruggles to join him for a drink sometime. The cops under him socialized with each other all the time-why couldn't he join them once in a while? And maybe he could warn him off Krieger. That woman was a Venus flytrap; he had no wish to see poor Ruggles caught in the sticky sap, wriggling and struggling to escape as she slowly digested him.
He looked down at the phone on his desk, the console blinking red. He sighed and picked up the receiver, but as he did, his eye caught one of the crime-scene photos. He leaned over and flipped it facedown, then cradled the phone to his ear.
"Morton here."
His wife's voice stroked his ear like a cool caress.
"Hi there. Will you be home for dinner tonight?"
He glanced at his Rolex, a Christmas present from Susan. He didn't give a fig about expensive trinkets, but she did. It was after six-he was officially off duty over an hour ago. The meeting had lasted well over two hours.
"I'm on my way," he said.
"The kids want to wait to have dinner with you."
"I'm leaving now."
As he put on his jacket, Chuck thought about the photos of the victims on his desk. No one would be waiting for them to come home ever again, he reflected as he flicked off the lights and closed the door behind him.