In Death 25 - Creation in Death

over her dark hair, rubbed her nose, looked at the body. “Oh, man. Someone put her through it.”
    In her sturdy winter boots, Peabody sidestepped for a better view. “The message. There’s something about that. Dim bell.” She tapped at her temple. “Something.”
    “Get her ID,” Eve ordered, then turned to Newkirk. “What do you know?”
    He’d been standing at attention, but went even stiffer, even straighter. “My partner and I were on patrol, and observed what appeared to be a robbery in progress. We pursued a male individual into the park. The suspect headed in an easterly direction. We were unable to apprehend, the suspect had a considerable lead. My partner and I split up, intending to cut off the suspect. At which time, I discovered the victim. I called for my partner, then notified Commander Whitney.”
    “Notifying the commander isn’t procedure, Officer Newkirk.”
    “No, sir. I felt, in these circumstances, that the notification was not only warranted but necessary.”
    “Why?”
    “Sir, I recognized the signature. Lieutenant, my father’s on the job. Nine years ago he was part of a task force formed to investigate a series of torture murders.” Newkirk’s gaze shifted to the body, back to Eve’s. “With this signature.”
    “Your father’s Gil Newkirk?”
    “Yes, sir, Lieutenant.” His shoulders relaxed a fraction at her question. “I followed the case back then, as much as I could. Over the years since, particularly since I’ve been on the job, my father and I have discussed it. The way you do. So I recognized the signature. Sir, I felt, in this case, breaking standard and notifying the commander directly was correct.”
    “You’d be right. Good call, Officer. Stand by.”
    She turned to Peabody.
    “Vic is ID’d as Sarifina York, age twenty-eight. Address is on West Twenty-first. Single. Employed at Starlight. That’s a retro club in Chelsea.”
    Eve crouched down. “She wasn’t killed here, and she wasn’t wrapped in this cloth when she was brought here. He likes the stage clean. TOD, Morris.”
    “Eleven this morning.”
    “Eighty-five hours. So he took her sometime Monday, or earlier if he didn’t start the clock. Historically, he starts on the first very shortly after he makes the snatch.”
    “Starting the clock when he begins to work on them,” Morris confirmed.
    “Oh, shit. Oh, crap, I remember this.” Peabody sat back on her heels. Her cheeks were reddened by the wind, and her eyes had widened with memory. “The media tagged him The Groom.”
    “Because of the ring,” Eve told her. “We let the ring leak.”
    “It was, like, ten years ago.”
    “Nine,” Eve corrected. “Nine years, two weeks, and…three days since we found the first body.”
    “Copycat,” Peabody suggested.
    “No, this is him. The message, the time—we didn’t let that leak to the media. We closed that data up tight. But we never closed the case. We never closed him. Four women in fifteen days. All brunettes, the youngest twenty-eight, the oldest thirty-three. All tortured, between a period of twenty-three and fifty-two hours.”
    Eve looked at the carving again. “He’s gotten better at his work.”
    Morris nodded as he made his study. “It appears the more superficial wounds were inflicted first, as before. I’ll confirm when I get her home.”
    “Ligature marks, ankles, wrists—just above the slashes.” Eve lifted one of the hands. “She didn’t just lie there and take it, not from the looks of this. He used drugs on the others.”
    “Yes, I’ll check.”
    Eve remembered it all, every detail of it, and all the frustration and fury that rode with it. “He’ll have washed her, washed her clean—hair and body—with high-end products. Wrapped her up, probably in plastic, for transport. We never got so much as a speck of lint off any of the others. Bag the ring, Peabody. You take her, Morris.”
    She straightened. “Officer Newkirk, I’m going to need a full and detailed written report, asap.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Who’s your LT?”
    “Grohman, sir. I’m out of the one-seven.”
    “Your father still there?”
    “He is, yes, sir.”
    “Okay, Newkirk, get me that report. Peabody, check Missing Persons, see if the vic was reported. I need to contact the commander.”
     
    B y the time she exited the park, the wind had died down. Small mercy. The crowd of gawkers had thinned out, but the media hounds were more dogged. The only way to control the