“And her. As in your notes, she was struck with the same bat as killed her friend, across the knees, shattering her kneecaps. The ear, eye, and tongue were removed postmortem, and with a smooth, sharp blade—a scalpel would be my opinion. And it was done with precision. Do you know how many are responsible for this?”
“One.”
Morris’s eyebrows shot up. “One? You never fail to intrigue.” He looked over the bodies again. “The damage here, the strength, the sheer energy it took to beat the first vic was considerable. On the second, the stab wounds are very deep, very forceful, and there are eighty-five holes in that unfortunate boy. That also takes strength and energy. Considerable endurance.”
“And when he’d finished there, he still had enough to manually strangle—correct?”
“Yes,” Morris confirmed, “he used his own hands.”
“To manually strangle the third, which also takes strength. And still after that, he had it in him to break chairs, tables, basically wreak havoc. He ended it, according to the wit we’re working with, by dancing down the sidewalk.”
“Then he has a powerful constitution, probably chemically enhanced. He enjoyed this.” Morris laid a gentle hand on Jennifer Darnell’s head. “I’m not Mira, so that’s simply a dead doctor’s take. But you and I see, every day, what one human being is capable of doing to another. This one enjoyed himself.”
“Yeah, and when they have that much fun, they want to do it again.”
She headed to Central. She needed to review her notes, write an initial report—harass the sweepers and the lab for theirs—start her murder board and book. And she wanted a look at the wit, or at least Yancy’s sketch.
Somewhere in there she wanted to carve out some time to do a good, solid run on Eton Asshole Billingsly.
She smelled cookies the minute she stepped into the bullpen, caught the scatter of crumbs on Jenkinson’s shirt, watched Baxter stuff the remains of one in his mouth before he offered her a big smile.
“Nadine’s in your office, LT.”
“Pathetic. Pathetic that a bunch of cops, fat-assing at their desks instead of out taking down bad guys, can be bribed with cookies.”
Jenkinson shot up a hand. “We got one, Dallas. Reineke’s walking him down to lockup. I’m doing the fives.”
“With cookie crumbs on your shirt.”
He brushed at them hastily as she turned away to stride to her office. Where Nadine Furst, reporter extraordinaire, lounged in her visitor’s chair, nibbling on a cookie and working on her PPC.
Saying nothing, Eve lifted the lid of the bakery box on her desk, took out a fat chocolate chip. “What do you want?”
“A man of amazing sexual prowess, great sensitivity, stupendous abs, and the face of an angel. Toss in a wicked sense of humor and stupendous wealth, who adores the very ground I walk on. Oh wait, you already have him.”
Eve bit into the cookie.
“Second choice?”
Nadine fluffed back her streaky blond hair, smiled her feline smile with her cat’s eyes glinting. “I heard you caught a messy one.”
“That’s right. I don’t have anything to give you. I haven’t put it together yet.”
“Three victims, beaten, stabbed, and strangled, recovering addicts with a connection to the Whitwood Group—killed, in fact, on property owned by same. The Whitwoods are always a strong story.”
&n
bsp; “The victims are the story.”
“I know.” Nadine’s smile faded. “They were young, trying to turn things around. Are you looking at gang and/or illegalsrelated murders?”
“I’m looking at everything, everyone.”
“Including the Whitwoods, and the very dreamy Justin Rosenthall.”
“Including.” Nadine, Eve calculated, was always a good source. “What do you know about Eton Billingsly?”
“He’s a dick.”