In Death 25 - Creation in Death

wrote them out for herself because she stood for all of them now.
    Feeney walked in. “The kid’s cleared for this. The Newkirk kid.” His gaze moved to the board, stayed there. “His old man’s going to dig out his own notes from before. Said he’ll put in any OT you want, or take his own personal time on this.”
    “Good.”
    “I pulled in McNab and Callendar. McNab knows your rhythm and won’t bitch about the drone work. Callendar’s good. She doesn’t miss details.”
    “I’ve got Baxter, Trueheart, Jenkinson, and Powell.”
    “Powell?”
    “Transferred in from the six-five about three months ago. Got twenty years in. Chips away at a case until he gets to the bones. I’ve got Harris and Darnell in uniform. They’re solid. But I’m giving Newkirk the lead there. He was first on scene and he knows the previous investigation.”
    “If he’s like his old man, he’s a solid cop.”
    “Yeah, I’m thinking. Tibble, Whitney, and Mira should be on their way down.”
    She stepped back from the board. “I’m going to brief on the current first. Do you want to brief on the prior investigation?”
    Feeney shook his head. “You take it. Might help me see it from a different angle.” He pulled a book out of his pocket, handed it to her. “My original notes. I made a copy for myself.”
    She knew he wasn’t only passing her his notebook, but passing her the command as well. The gesture had something tightening just under her heart. “Is this how you want it?”
    “It’s the way it is. The way it’s supposed to be.” He turned away as cops began to come into the room.
    She snagged one of the uniforms, ordered him to distribute the files, then studied the boards Peabody and Roarke had set up.
    All those faces, she thought. All that pain.
    What did she look like, the one he had now? What was her name? Was anyone looking for her?
    How long would she last?
    When Whitney walked in with Mira, Eve started over. It struck her what a contrast they made. The big-shouldered man with the dark skin, the years of command etched on his face, and the woman, so quietly lovely in the elegant pale pink suit.
    “Lieutenant. The chief is on his way.”
    “Yes, sir. The full team’s assembled and present. Dr. Mira, there are copies of your original profile in each packet, but if there’s anything you want to add verbally, feel free.”
    “I’d like to reread the original murder books.”
    “I’ll make them available. Sir, do you wish to speak?”
    “Lead it off, Dallas.” He stepped to the side as Tibble entered.
    The chief of police was a tall man and—Eve always thought—a contained one. Not an easy man to read, but she doubted he’d have climbed the ranks as he had if he’d been otherwise. He played politics—a necessary evil—but to her mind he found a way so that the department came out on top.
    Dark skin, dark eyes, dark suit—part of his presence, she decided. Along with a strong voice, and a strong will.
    “Chief Tibble.”
    “Lieutenant. I apologize if I delayed the briefing.”
    “No, sir, we’re on schedule. If you’re ready now.”
    He only nodded, then moved to the back of the room. He didn’t sit, but stood. An observer.
    Eve gave Peabody a nod, then walked to the front of the room. Behind her, the wall screen flashed on.
    “Sarifina York,” Eve began. “Age twenty-eight at TOD.”
    She was putting the victim first, Roarke realized. Putting that image, that name into the mind of every cop in the room. So that every cop in the room would think of her, remember her as they were buried in routine, in data, in the long hours and the frustrations.
    Just as they would remember what had been done to her as those next images came up.
    She went through them all, every victim. The names, the faces, the ages, the images of their suffering and death. It took a long time, but there were no interruptions, no signs of restlessness.
    “We believe all of these women, twenty-three women, were abducted, tortured, and murdered by one individual. We believe there are likely more than these twenty-three who have not been connected or reported, whose bodies may not have been found or who were not killed in the same manner. Earlier victims, we believe, before Corrine Dagby, when he decided on his particular method.”
    She paused, just a moment, to insure, Roarke understood, that all eyes, all attention focused on the image of that first victim.
    “The method deviates very little from vic to vic, as