Night Prey

said.
     
     
     
    LUCAS HUNG UP, then dialed the number for Connell. She picked it up, her voice a weak croak: “Hello?”
    “This is Davenport,” he said. “A girl from out in the country just got killed and dumped up on the north side. It looks like it’s our guy.”
    “Where?” Wide-awake now. Lucas gave her the address. “I’ll see you there.”
    Lucas hung up, hopped out of bed, and headed for the bathroom. “You were going to observe tomorrow,” Weather said.
    Lucas stopped, turned back. “Oh, jeez, that’s right. Listen. If I finish up out there, I’ll come over to the hospital. You’re starting at seven-thirty?”
    “Yes. That’s when the kid’s coming in.”
    “I can make that,” he said. “Where do I go?”
    “Ask at the front desk. Tell them the operating suite, and when you get up there, ask for me. They’ll be expecting you.”
    “I’ll try,” he said. “Seven-thirty.”

    CARRIGAN’S SECOND CLAIM to fame was that he had small, fine feet, with which he danced. He had once appeared on stage at the Guthrie, in a modern interpretation of Othello , wearing nothing but a gold lamé jock and a headband.
    His third claim to fame was that when a rookie had referred to him as a fag dancer, he’d held the rookie’s head in a locker-room toilet for so long that homicide submitted the kid’s name to the Guinness Book of Records for the longest free dive. The claim was noted, but rejected.
    Carrigan’s first claim to fame was that a decade earlier, he’d twice won the NCAA wrestling title at 198 pounds. Nobody fucked with him.
    “Couldn’t have been too long ago,” he told Lucas, looking back at the crowd gathering on the corner. Carrigan was black, as was most of the crowd gathered across the street. “There was some people up here playing ball until dark, and there was no body then. Some kids cuttin’ across the park found her a little after one o’clock.”
    “Anybody see any vehicles?”
    “We’ve got people going door to door across the park there, but I don’t think we’ll get much. There’s an interstate entrance just down the block and it’s easy to miss it; people come in here to turn around and go back, so there’s cars in and out all the time. Nobody pays any attention. Come on, take a look.”
    The body was still uncovered, lying on bare ground between a couple of large bushes. The bushes lined a bank that ran parallel to the third-base line on a softball field. Whoever had killed her didn’t care if she was found; he must have realized that she’d be found almost immediately. Portable lights illuminated the area around the body, and a crime-scene crew was working it over. “Look for cigarettes,” Lucas told Carrigan. “Unfiltered Camels.”
    “Okay. . . .”
    Lucas squatted next to the dead girl. She was lying on her side, twisted, her head and shoulders facing down, her hips half-turned toward the sky. Lucas could see enough of the wound to tell that it was identical to Wannemaker’s: a stab and a disemboweling rip. He could smell the body cavity. . . . “Nasty,” Lucas said.
    “Yeah,” Carrigan said sourly.
    “Can I move her?”
    “What for?”
    “I want to roll her back and look at her chest,” Lucas said.
    “If you want to—we got photos and all,” Carrigan said. “But there’s blood all over her, you better use gloves. Hang on. . . .” He came back a moment later with a pair of thin yellow plastic gloves and handed them to Lucas. Lucas pulled them on, took the woman by the arm, and rolled her back.
    “Look at this,” Lucas said. He pointed at two bloody squiggles on her breast. “What do they look like?”
    “Letters. An S and a J ,” Carrigan said, shining a pen-light on the girl’s body. “Kiss my rosy red rectum. What is this shit, Davenport?”
    “Insanity,” Lucas said as he studied the body.
    A moment later, Carrigan said, “Who’s this?”
    Lucas looked over his shoulder and saw Connell striding toward them, wrapped in a raincoat. “My aide,” he said.
    “Your fuckin’ what?”
    “Is it him?” Connell asked, coming up. Lucas stood up and stripped off the gloves.
    “Yeah. Cut the SJ into her,” Lucas said. He crooked his head back and looked up at the night sky, the faint stars behind the city lights. The guy had pissed him off. Somehow, Wannemaker didn’t reach him so personally; this kid did. Maybe because he could still feel the life in her. She hadn’t been dead long.
    “He’s out of his pattern,”