Chapter 19
CHAPTER 19
ASHER
T he flashing lights from the squad cars hurt my eyes. I don’t care how many times I’ve been around them; the seizure-inducing dance of lights makes me want to punch things.
Ducking under the crime scene tape with a coffee in hand, I walk down the damp, dark alley between a bodega and a bookstore in Chelsea.
“Took you long enough.”
“Calm your tits, Berkowitz. I got here as fast as I could.”
His tie is loosened, and the top button of his shirt undone. His hair looks like it was once styled neatly but has since been tousled.
He runs his hands through his thick, dark mane and breathes a deep sigh. “It’s bad.”
I hand him my paper coffee cup and make my way around the side of the dumpster. Kowalski stands there, looking down at the sheet covering the dead body. He remains still, with his lips pursed.
“Did the M.E. come by?” I ask, shaking him from his concentration.
“Not yet; they’re on their way. Busy night, I guess.”
I snap on a pair of gloves and squat down, moving the sheet back to examine the scene.
I’ve seen a lot of ugly in my time with the bureau, and even before then with NYPD, but the pure rage displayed here, makes my stomach churn. I can’t focus on how her eyes are empty. I can’t think about how the bruises on her body stand out like a sore thumb. I can’t wonder about what was probably going through her mind when the piece of shit raped and killed her.
My feelings need to take a back seat while I examine the body—not woman—objectively.
The wedding dress is covered in blood and torn; her face is unrecognizable. And instead of one purple hyacinth, there’s a whole bouquet scattered and ripped apart.
My voice comes out detached, just like I need to be. “The state of the gown suggests he dressed her before he killed her, a deviation from his MO. There’s a sticky substance here that looks to be semen—another deviation. He’s usually careful. Make sure the crime scene techs swab it. And the damage to her face, along with everything else, suggests he’s devolving.”
Berkowitz nods in agreement as Kowalski briefs me. “I searched her for an ID and didn’t get one. We’ll have to rely on DNA or dental records for identification.”
Berkowitz crosses an arm and rests his chin in his other hand. “There’s more than one flower this time, and he tore them apart. His anger at the target of his affection is growing. He’s always been reverent with his victims, showing remorse and taking the time to lay them out. He either isn’t able to get to the one he wants, or she hasn’t given him the recognition he’s seeking from her.”
“Or both,” I add.
Kowalski pulls out his notepad. “I talked to a local florist; purple hyacinths aren’t easy to come by in the summer. They usually bloom in the spring. He has to be ordering them from someone, or he grows them himself.”
“Good work.” I drop the sheet and mentally count the days in my head. “His cooling off period is getting shorter, which means we’re probably going to have another body soon.”
“Or there’s one already out there that we haven’t found yet,” Kowalski speculates. “This guy is going to be bigger than John the Baptist thirteen years ago.”
Berkowitz gives a derisive snort. “No way. John the Baptist killed twenty-four women in less than a year.”
Leaving them to their debate, I stand from my hunched position, and a few pops ring out from my knees and hips. I groan and lightly stretch. I look down again, and the dispersed hyacinths cause another sight to flash in my mind.
Spencer shocked and terrified as she held a vase of flowers.
The vase broken and bits of glass all around the kitchen.
Ah, hell.
“When we get the possible DNA sample from the dress, have the techs compare it to the sample we got from the NYPD.”
“On it,” Berkowitz answers.
“And has anyone talked to Marreli?” I inquire.
Berkowitz and Kowalski glance at each other then me.
Shit.
“Fine. I’ll take this one, but the next call comes from one of you.” I raise my phone to my ear and wait for my supervisor to answer my call.
“You better have a lead, Dawson,” Marreli says groggily.
“I have a theory.”