“You want to see her again.”
“Yeah.”
“Let me clean up a bit. Our gentleman friend will hold.”
He went to the sink to scrub blood, matter, and sealant from his hands. “Her body was more traumatized than the others.”
“Violence is escalating. I know.”
“So is his pace.” Morris dried his hands, then removed his protective gear, dumping it in a hamper.
“We’re closer. Every minute, we’re closer.”
“I have no doubt. Well.” He stepped over in his pristine blue shirt and red necktie, offered his arm. “Shall we?”
She laughed, as only he could make her in the company of the dead. “Jesus, Morris, you’re some number.”
“I am, indeed, I am.” He led her to storage, checked the logs, then opened the seal on one of the drawers. The puff of cold vapor steamed out as he drew out the body tray.
Ignoring the marks of Morris’s work, Eve studied the body. “Face took more of a beating this time. Face and upper body. Maybe he’s straddling her.” She put it into her head. “Straddling her while he pounds on her.”
“Her jaw wasn’t broken, as with Napier, but her nose was, and several teeth. The blow to the back of the head wasn’t fatal. She may or may not have come around for the rest of it. My guess is not, mercifully.”
“The rape. More brutal this time.”
“If there can be degrees of brutality in rape, yes. More abrasions, more trauma. She was a bit small, vaginally. Smaller, that is, than the other two victims in this particular area. And our killer sports one hell of a woody.”
“The eyes. Surer cuts than the first, not quite as clean as the second.”
“You’re very good at what you do, and again cause me some concern about my own paycheck. Yes. They’re all three within a range of skill, but this one falls between the others.”
“Okay.” She stepped back so he could replace the tray, seal the door.
“How close, Dallas? It’s beginning to depress me, hosting all these pretty young women in my house.”
“It’s not close enough,” Eve said flatly, “until he’s in a cage.”
Chapter 17
Dickie, less affectionately known as Dickhead, Berenski was sitting at a long white counter in the lab, apparently compiling or assessing data on a screen.
When Eve came up behind him she saw the data consisted of a role-playing game involving a bevy of scantily clad, stupendously endowed women battling each other with swords.
“Hard at work, I see.”
In response, he waved a hand in front of the screen. The battling beauties laid down weapons, bowed low enough to show considerable cleavage before calling out: “At your pleasure, my lord.”
“Jesus, Berenski, are you twelve?”
“Hey, maybe the program’s evidence from a crime scene.”
“Yeah, one where several adolescent boys masturbated to death. You may not be on the clock, but I am.”
“Ten minutes recreational. Got you the shoe, didn’t I?”
He had, and she told herself to remember that and not crush his egg-shaped head between her hands. “Annalisa Sommers. Hair anal.”
“Work, work, work.” He swiveled around on his stool. “Gave that to Harvo, my best hair guy. She’s a fricking genius, even if she won’t put out.”