Memory Zero (Spook Squad 1)

“You requested the building’s security tapes?”

Stephan nodded. “Copies have already been sent back to your office.”

“Good.” Gabriel stepped into the apartment. The place was huge, and the floor-to-ceiling glass flanking two sides of it only added to the feeling of space. What few inner walls the apartment had were pale blue, but the carpet and the furniture were white. Another CSM hovered in the middle of the room, red light flashing to indicate it was recording.

Gabriel showed his badge to the monitor, then said, “Our victim obviously didn’t have any kids, not with all this white furniture. Do we know his name?”

“Harry. And no—there are no kids, no wife, and, as far as Frank knew, no girlfriend.”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “What about a boyfriend?”

“It’s a possibility. Frank was rather brusque when I asked if there was any particular woman his son might have been seeing.”

The body lay on one of the white sofas. As long as you didn’t look below the waist, it would be easy to think Harry had merely died in his sleep. His arms were crossed, his face peaceful. There was no terror, no hint that he’d known he was about to die so brutally.

“Cause of death?” Gabriel asked, despite the fact that it was obvious. No man could lose both his penis and testes and survive the resulting shock and blood loss unless he had medical help really fast.

“Same as the others—blood loss. There’s an ashtray full of cigarette butts on the dining table, too.”

“Same brand as before?” Gabriel squatted to inspect the gaping wound. The blood staining the leather no longer smelled fresh, and the wound itself was beginning to blacken.

“Yes. We’ve scanned for prints, but our killer was wearing gloves again. All we got was a latex smudge.”

“Hmm. There’s one difference, at least. Our killer has shown no real precision with his knifework here. He’s basically just hacked it all away.”

Stephan snorted softly. “I suppose it’s a hell of a lot easier to part a man from his penis than it is a woman from her womb and ovaries.”

“True. But all three victims were obviously unconscious before the murderer operated, so why take care with the women and not with young Harry here? There are several deep nicks on his right inner thigh.”

“Maybe our murderer gets a perverted pleasure from gutting women and wants it to last longer.”

Gabriel frowned. Something in that statement didn’t sit right. The murderer had been meticulous in every detail so far, so why would he change anything just because this victim was male? The sheer number of cigarette butts at every scene very much suggested that the murderer had sat back and watched the blood pour from his victims. And that, in turn, perhaps suggested that he enjoyed the death more than he did the cutting.

Gabriel rose and then hesitated. On the back of the sofa, near Harry’s right hip, a hair glinted softly in the light. It wasn’t one of Harry’s. His hair was red, the same as the hair of the other two victims. This was blond and long, with a dark root.

He dug a glove out of his pocket and carefully picked up the hair. “Got a bag?”

Stephan dug one from the crime kit on the table. “Maybe he did have a girlfriend.”

“This could still be male. Long hair is fashionable in the rave scene at the moment. I’ll run a check on Harry’s acquaintances and see what I can find.”

Gabriel secured the bag in the crime kit and turned back to the sofa, certain there was something still to be found. In the previous two murders, the killer had been careful not to leave anything behind. No hair, no prints, nothing that might give him away.

But this time he’d been less than precise with his cutting. So maybe, just maybe, he’d been less than precise with his cleanup. Gabriel studied the position of the body for a long moment, then walked around to the back of the sofa. Blood had soaked through, contrasting starkly with the white, embroidered material. Oddly enough, the thick carpet showed signs of a recent vacuuming.

He frowned and studied the crisscrossed suction patterns on the carpet. Only the small section between the sofa and what looked to be the bathroom had been touched. Near the bathroom door, a faint footprint marred the lush white expanse.

“How many people have been in the apartment since the body was discovered?” he asked, squatting near the print.

“The usual—the two State officers who attended the original call, the building super who let them in, and us. Forensics is still on the way. Why? What have you found?”

“A print.” He glanced up at the CSM. “Record image and location of print.”

The black sphere responded immediately, zipping across the room to hover inches from his head. “Image recorded,” a metallic voice stated.

“Resume original position.” He knelt to study the print. As he did, he noticed a slight stain near the door. Liquid of some sort had been spilled near the doorframe. He touched it lightly; the carpet fibers were dry and stiff, almost as if they had been glued together. He sniffed his fingers. The faint but unpleasant mix of urine and rotten eggs had him screwing up his nose in distaste.

“Jadrone,” he muttered, coughing to ease the sudden sting in the back of his throat.