“I read this article about how what you wear under your clothes is all about what makes you feel empowered and in control. It’s the Under You.”
“If wearing matching boxers and socks makes you feel empowered, you’re a weenie. He’s got standard over-the-counter male birth control, a few unimaginative sex toys, some porn discs in the bedside goodies drawer. Golf clubs, various golf paraphernalia in the closet with his clothes. No female clothes in here.”
“Did you check this?” Peabody held up a ’link sealed in an evidence bag.
“Yeah, some client checks, a couple guy conversations, some out-goings to women, not yet answered. Nobody threatening to kill him.”
“There’s a knife block in the kitchen with one missing,” Peabody said. “The one sticking out of him looks like part of the set.”
“Bash with the trophy, it’s handy. Then get a little creative with the kitchen knife, again handy.” Eve put her hands on her hips, then walked out to the living area.
She scanned the room—messy, sloppy, but nothing that indicated a fight. “Okay, considering there’s no sign of break-in, no sign of struggle out here, the vic let the killer in. He knows him—or her. He’s wearing drawstring pants and a T-shirt—at-home clothes, so he’s comfortable with the killer, enough that they went back to the bedroom together.”
“Maybe he was forced into the bedroom. Maybe the killer had a sticker.”
“If the killer had a sticker,” Eve argued, “why bash the vic in the head with a trophy? Plus, the vic’s extremely buff, so I’ve got to figure he’d put up a fight. But the vic was taken by surprise. They go back in the bedroom. For sex? The bed’s messed up, so maybe there was sex.”
“Red-shoes lady?”
“Possibly.”
Eve studied the shoes, the bra, all out in plain sight.
“But if you have the cold blood to haul a dead guy onto the bed, go into the kitchen, rip off the top of a take-out pizza box, write up the message, take the knife, go back in the bedroom, stab the dead guy, wouldn’t you have the brains to grab your shoes and underwear?
“You’ve got enough brains and cold blood to take the marker used to write the message—because I haven’t found one on scene—to wipe off the knife handle and the trophy base so you don’t leave prints, but you leave your polka-dot bra and red shoes?”
“Yeah, it’d be a pretty big oops.”
“Still . . . Maybe there’s sex, or the start of it—he’s fully dressed, so either they did and he put his clothes back on, or he never got them off. Either way, before, during, after, whoever came back here with him grabbed the trophy, swung. Vic goes down, but you bash again because we’ve got one wound on the side of the head, one on the back of the head. You don’t panic, you don’t keep bashing so there’s some control. But you’ve got a need to—ha ha—twist the knife, so you dig up some cardboard, write the note. You’ve got to haul him onto the bed, prop him up, then jam the knife, with note, into his chest.”
“That part’s just mean. Yeah, murder’s the ultimate mean,” Peabody said when Eve glanced at her. “But the knife and note’s salt in the wound. Seriously.”
“It’s steel in the chest. He really pissed you off,” Eve continued. “But you paid him back. There’s satisfaction here. Quick violence—probable impulse—followed by a cold-blooded flourish.”
?
??Well, just for the sake of argument, say it’s Red Shoes.”
Trying to visualize an alternate scenario, Peabody circled said shoes.
“Things get hot, they’re moving along into the bedroom. She changes her mind, he gets pushy—bash. Or they do the deed, then he acts like a jerk. Says something about her weight, her technique, or whatever. Bash. She holds it together long enough to set him up like this—it’s all fury and adrenaline. Then she panics, and runs.”
“Possible.” She’d put away people who’d done stupider, Eve considered. “Let’s have his comp taken in, go through it. And let’s find Red Shoes.”
“They’re really nice shoes. I wonder what size they are.”
“Jesus, Peabody.”
“Just wondering,” she said and hurried to the door to let in the sweepers—and avoid Eve’s wrath.
• • •
By dawn, Ziegler lay on a slab at the morgue, the sweepers swarmed over his apartment, and the initial canvass of the building netted a not-unexpected “nobody saw nothing.”
“I vote the classic crime of passion.” Peabody, once again wrapped up like a woman facing the Ice Age, walked out of the building with Eve. “Jewelry, cash, credits, plastic, electronics, fancy sports equipment still on premises, no sign of break-in, obvious signs of hanky-panky.”
“How does hanky-panky translate to sex? Who comes up with words like that?”