Chapter 3
It had been four days, and Nikolai was snarling more than uttering real words.
Isaac and he had read and reread everything Bedell had gathered concerning the murders, they'd talked to neighbors, friends, and relatives, had made timelines for the victims' movements, had checked schedules, emails, and text messages, and they had nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
There wasn't a single crossover in the three women's lives. No interaction, no overlapping friends, they'd never gone to the same school, they'd never worked at the same place, they lived separate lives.
The only thing tying them together was that all three had their lives stolen from them, and all three had been placed on a rug in their living rooms.
Nikolai snarled again and threw himself into an office chair. It rolled away with the force of his landing.
Isaac gave him an unimpressed look from the other side of the table. They were in the same conference room they'd been in when they'd talked to Medlin. There was a whiteboard Isaac had filled with photos and Post-its. Nikolai studied it from afar.
"Is it the rugs?"
"What?" Isaac's gaze jumped between him and the whiteboard.
"The rugs. Do you have a rug in your living room?"
"Eh...no, but I think normal people do."
Nikolai slowly widened his eyes as he stared at him. "And you're not a normal person?"
"I hate vacuuming."
Okay. "What does that have to do with rugs?"
"Vacuuming when there are rugs on the floor takes longer. I have a doormat. Nothing else on my floors."
"Huh."
"You have a living room rug?"
He did. A thick white rug underneath the coffee table. "I do, but not in the middle of the room."
Isaac pursed his lips, and he waved his forefinger at him. "How often would you say people have a rug in the middle of the room?"
Nikolai was no interior designer. "I guess it depends on what else they have in the room, the placement of furniture and so on."
"True, but did the rugs match the rest of the room?"
Nikolai pushed out of the chair at the same time as Isaac walked closer to the whiteboard. They stood shoulder to shoulder as they studied the photos of the sprawled women.
"It's hard to tell." Isaac rubbed his neck. "There is too much blood, I'm not sure what colors they were before they were soaked, much less if they matched the rest of the interior."
Nikolai studied the edges of the rugs while trying not to give in to the chill wanting to unfurl in his gut. "Would you say it's normal with no dry spots?"
"What?"
"There's about a gallon and a half of blood in a human being, right?"
Isaac looked a little green. "Sounds about right."
"If you slit the jugular, you bleed out pretty fast; the majority of the blood will be spilled?
" He hadn't meant to turn it into a question, but he wasn't sure how much of it would remain in the body.
The blood would continue to drain from the body for as long as the heart pumped.
But for how long? Did most of the blood trickle out, or only about half of it?
Was it dependent on the placement of the body?
He shuddered as an image of a slaughterhouse pushed away everything else from his mind. When you slaughtered animals, you hung them upside down to get the blood out.
Looking at the rug underneath the first victim, he scrunched his nose. Had she been moved after the murderer had slit her throat?
Maybe they should ask the ME? Zachary Mallon? There were so many names he had yet to learn.
"Yeah." Isaac dragged it out as if he wasn't sure what Nikolai was asking. He wasn't entirely sure himself. The bloodstain pattern analysis would show if there was something off.
"Right, but wouldn't the bloodstain patterns be similar?"
Isaac looked at the photos again. "They've all been stabbed in their stomachs and torso, so I assume their blood would've spilled from several sources. Maybe the fabric of the rug would soak it up."
"Would it? From edge to edge, corner to corner, or should there be a dry corner here? It's not a paper tissue. How absorbent is a rug?" He reached out and tapped his finger on the corner farthest from the first victim's head. Isaac looked at the other two photos.
They were all placed similarly. The body sprawled, feet outside the edge with the rest of the body on top of the rug, face angled away from the entrance of the room.
"Who would know?"
"I don't know." Nikolai frowned at the photos.
"Fuck." Isaac spun away and paced along the wall. "Are the rugs in evidence?"
Nikolai nodded, though he doubted the latest one was dry enough to store.
"Okay, so what do we do?"
"We look at the rugs. We figure out where they were bought, see if we can get any information about how long they've had them, and I guess...we find out if the bloodstain pattern is correct."
"Correct?" Isaac's incredulous tone made him smile.
"If he left them to bleed out as they were or if he moved them around to make sure every part of the rug was soaked."
"Oh, fuck. I hate weirdos." Isaac scrunched his nose. "You want to talk to Saylor?"
"Who?"
"Forensic team."
An image of a man in white coveralls flashed in his mind. "Yeah, sure. I can talk to Saylor."
Isaac nodded. "I'll see if I can figure out where the rugs were bought."
Nikolai nodded and headed for the door. "You think Saylor is in?"
"No idea."
Nikolai left. He'd talk to the forensic team face-to-face. He needed a change of scenery.
* * * *
Frode hadn't left his house in three days, and it had been glorious, but with each minute passing, he was one minute closer to his next assignment.
Hjalmar hadn't called or texted since they'd stood in the room where the bullet casing had been retrieved. Frode didn't know what he'd hoped would happen, but no epiphanies had occurred.
He stared at his phone. Should he check in? He never checked in. Hjalmar was the one who reached out to him, but it was unusual for him to leave it this long. There would be a silly meme, if nothing else.
Instead of reaching for his phone, he went out into the barn to talk to Captain Scratch.
He wasn't there, and Frode sighed.
Walking back inside again, he grabbed his phone and called Hjalmar.
He picked up after the second ring. "Hey, bro, all good?" There was some rustling in the background.
"Yeah."
Silence.
"What's up?" The rustling stopped.
"Nothing, I...eh...only checking so you haven't punched your lieutenant and are in lockup or something."
A snort. "Nah. We had another shooting, so I've been too busy working to commit crimes."
Shit. "You want me to touch something?" He didn't want to, but it was his job.
"Maybe. I haven't talked to Givens yet, and I quite frankly don't want to."
Ah, not punching but avoiding then. "I can't help you without her go-ahead."
"You could, but you wouldn't get paid." Hjalmar would never ask it of him, which the teasing tone confirmed.
"I like to get paid."
"Don't we all." He sighed, and some of the fatigue he was normally good at hiding shone through.
"Will it be a long day or do you think you'll get off at a decent hour?"
"I have a few more things to check, then I plan on getting out of here."
"Want to come over for dinner?" It wasn't often Frode invited him. Hjalmar tended to show up, and Frode fed him, but he rarely issued an invitation.
"I'd love to. When?"
Frode's mind went into overdrive. He had hardly any groceries at home, so he'd need to do some shopping. "Seven?"
"Count me in."
"Okay, good. See you then."
They hung up, and Frode stared out the window and groaned at himself. He didn't want to go grocery shopping.
Grabbing his car keys, he headed for the door.
There were people everywhere in the grocery store. Frode zigzagged past them as best he could and picked up some chicken. He'd make some spicy Brazilian coconut chicken with rice. It was easy, quick, and both Hjalmar and he liked spicy food.
As he reached the checkout line, someone called his name. Never good.
He turned. Slowly. Reluctantly. And was surprised to find the cute forensic guy smiling at him. What was his name? Something cool. "Saylor?"
His smile widened. "You know who I am?"
Huh, they'd never been introduced. Was it normal to call out for someone in the grocery store if you'd never spoken to them in real life?
Something in Frode's expression must have given his thoughts away because Saylor winced and ducked his head, looking bashful. "Sorry, I know this is weird. I only wanted to..." He waved a hand.
"Okay."
Saylor grinned and glanced at Frode's gloves. "Erm...How did you know who I am?" His eyes glowed with interest as they jumped between Frode's hands and his face. Frode didn't think it was attraction, more like he was one of those weird people who had a thing for psychics.
"I often see your face when I do readings. You touch things."
Surprise overtook his face. "I always wear protective gear not to contaminate the evidence."
Frode nodded. "Yeah. Doesn't stop my hands from reading your touch, though."
"Oh, wow." There was a quiver in his voice. "I've heard, but I wasn't sure...So you don't need fingerprints or anything to be able to tell if someone's touched an item?"
Frode was getting a little uncomfortable. He normally didn't talk about what he could and could not do apart from when he was telling the person who'd called him in to do a reading. "I don't, but my word doesn't hold up in court, so you still need the evidence."
Saylor waved a hand. "Yes, of course. It's...cool, you know. I mean, I've heard you could, but I didn't know for sure."
It was not cool, and who the hell had talked about his skill with Saylor, but Frode nodded.
"Right." Saylor gave a nervous laugh. "I'll let you go back to what you were--" He gestured at his groceries.
"I got excited when I saw you and acted before I could stop myself.
" His smile was charming, but Frode had liked him better when he was no more than a pretty face flashing past in his readings. Typical.
He nodded. "Have a lovely evening." Then he headed for the checkout before Saylor could say anything else.
* * * *