Page 16 of Obsession in Death

“No sexual assault. No recent sexual activity.”

“More sad,” Peabody murmured.

“Lowers the odds on a boyfriend type, an ex, a wannabe lover,” Eve considered. “You’d expect some sexual assault there, or more personal signs in the kill.”

“She’d opted for sterilization,” Morris commented. “Or I assume it was her option. Good, clean work. There’s no indication she’d ever borne a child. She tended to her body,” he continued. “The tune-ups, and her muscle tone speaks of regular exercise. As I said, no sign she abused illegals, or alcohol.”

“That’s how she lived. How did she die?”

“I concur with your on-scene. Strangulation. Thin, strong wire, piano wire would be my conclusion. A garrote. From behind.”

Eve narrowed her eyes. “Not face-to-face.”

“No. More leverage from behind, and the angle of the wound verifies. The killer got behind her, propped her up, nearly a sitting position, wrapped the wire around her neck, twisted, pulled. With some force, as it severed her larynx.”

“Okay.” She didn’t doubt Morris, so now circled the body, pulled the scene into her head. “Dumps her on the bed. You’ve already taken off the coat—don’t want blood on the coat because you’ve got to wear it out again. And it’s bulky. You need some freedom of movement. Leave on the gloves or, no, take out others. Thin gloves now, or sealant. Maybe you’ve got a protective cape and gloves, a can of sealant in the box. Open the box, get out the cape, the gloves, put them on, get out the garrote.”

“A protective cape, sealant, or gloves would cut down on any chance of fibers on the bed or body,” Peabody put in.

“Yeah, it would. And you’ve planned this out, taken some time to work out the details. Now it comes to that moment. Get on the bed, push her up so you can get behind her.”

Eve walked around the body, stood at the head.

“The wire’s thin and sharp. Being smart, you’ve probably rigged handles on the ends, so you can get a good, clean grip. You’re not looking to cause her pain, you don’t need to see her die—that toggles down the personal. No need to see her face when you do it, makes her a thing, not a person. Just feel the wire bite in. It’s not about sex, not about pleasure—not then—it’s about justice. So it’s quick and done.

“Don’t leave the wire—don’t leave anything. The wire goes back in the box, maybe in a plastic bag first, but back in the box. You lay her back down, smooth the bed where it got mussed. Neat and tidy. Do you look at her?”

Eve stopped, stared down at Bastwick’s face. “Maybe not, maybe not yet. Still controlled, hands steady. It’s not finished until you leave your message. It’s really all about the message.”

Put that front and center, Eve told herself. Time to put that on top because Bastwick hadn’t been a person to the killer, but a thing. A thing to be presented.

“You’ve got the marker in the box, too. Organized. You know just what you want to say. You’ve practiced, you’ve refined. Clean block printing, no style, nothing that would come back on you. You’ve thought of everything.

“Gloves and cape into another bag, into the box. You’ll have to get rid of them. You already know how and where. Now, now you step back, now you look. Now you feel it. You did that. You did it just the way you imagined, the way you practiced. Now you shake a little, but that’s the pleasure. Job well done, and who knew it would feel so damn good?

“Can’t stay, can’t linger. Don’t spoil it. Coat, gloves, scarf, hat, box. Go as you came, remember the cameras. Part of you wants to dance, part of you wants to whistle a tune. You’re smiling, I bet you’ve got a mile-wide grin behind the box as you walk to the elevator, shift it all, get in, go down. Down, out, and gone. Twenty-seven minutes, start to finish.”

Eve nodded, slid her hands into her pockets as she looked over at Morris. “That play for you?”

“Like a Stradivarius. A violin,” he qualified. “The neck wound is almost surgically clean. No hesitation marks. The blood pattern shows the initial, vertical flow, then the horizontal. Vic was up, then down. Her clothes are at the lab, but our check revealed no fibers, no hair, other than her own.”

“It’s almost professional—clean, quick, impersonal. If it wasn’t for the message, the little swing in the step when the killer left, I might consider pro. Somebody studied up.”

“Could be a cop.” Peabody winced. “Man, I hate saying that, but it could be. You’re a respected cop, and cops don’t have a lot of love for defense lawyers anyway. And this one was high-profile and snarky about it. A cop could get in and out of the building without anybody paying attention, case it. Or just order up the schematics.

“And you already thought of that,” Peabody finished.

“Yeah, it’s run through my mind. Easier if you have a police-issue stunner to just put it on full, hold it to her throat, and kill her that way. But... that kind of murder says cop first, so the garrote could be window dressing.”

“Crazy cop if a cop,” Peabody added. “Because the message says crazy.”

“No argument there. Thanks, Morris.”

“Dallas. Have an extra care—as a favor to me. Crazy,” he said, lifting his hands, “is crazy.”

“Yeah, it is. But while it’s not pink—thank you, Jesus—I have a magic coat,” Eve said, making him smile again before she walked out.

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