The Devils Teardrop

buddy at the FAA. I’ll have him check it out.”
    Parker glanced at the clock. “No response from Kennedy’s news conference?”
    Lukas made a call. She spoke to someone then hung up.
    “Six calls. All cranks. None of them knew anything about the painted bullets so they were bogus. We’ve got their names and numbers. Nail ’em later for interference with law enforcement activity.”
    “You think the unsub wasn’t from around here?” Hardy asked Parker.
    “Right. If there was any chance he thought we could compare his handwriting with public records in the area he would’ve disguised his writing or used cutout letters. Which he didn’t. So he’s not from the District, Virginia or Maryland.”
    The door swung open. It was Timothy, the runner who’d brought the note. “Agent Lukas? I’ve got the results from the coroner.”
    Parker thought, It’s about time.
    She took the report and as she read it Cage asked, “Parker, you said he was a sociopath. How do you figure that?”
    “Because,” Parker said absently, his eyes on Lukas, “who’d do something like this except a sociopath?”
    Lukas finished and handed it to Hardy. He asked, “You want me to read it?”
    “Go ahead,” she answered.
    Parker noticed that the young man’s sobriety had lifted, maybe because he was, for a moment, part of the team.
    The detective cleared his throat. “‘White male approximately forty-five years old. Six foot two. One hundredeighty-seven pounds. No distinguishing. No jewelry except a Casio watch—with multiple alarms,’” Hardy looked up. “Get this. Set to go off at four, eight and midnight.” Back to the report: “‘Wearing unbranded blue jeans, well worn. Polyester windbreaker. JCPenney workshirt, also faded. Jockey underwear. Cotton socks, Wal-Mart running shoes. A hundred twelve dollars in cash, some change.’”
    Parker stared at the letters on the screen in front of them as if the words Hardy was reading described not the unsub but the note itself.
    “‘Minor trace elements. Brick dust in hair, clay dust under nails. Stomach contents reveal coffee, milk, bread and beef—probably inexpensive grade of steak—consumed within the past eight hours.’ That’s it.” Hardy read another METSHOOT memo, attached to the coroner’s report. “No leads with the delivery truck—the one that hit him.” Hardy glanced at Parker. “It’s so frustrating—we’ve got the perp downstairs and he can’t tell us a damn thing.”
    Parker glanced at another copy of the Major Crimes Bulletin, the one he’d seen earlier. About the firebombing of Gary Moss’s house. The austere description of the near deaths of the man’s daughters had shaken Parker badly. Seeing that bulletin he’d very nearly turned around and walked out of the lab.
    Parker shut off the projector, put the note back on the examining table.
    Cage looked at his watch. He pulled on his coat. “Well, we’ve got forty-five minutes. We better get going.”
    “What do you mean?” Lukas asked.
    The senior agent handed her her windbreaker and Parker his leather jacket. He took it without thinking.
    “Out there.” He nodded toward the door. “To help Jerry Baker’s team check out hotels.”
    Parker was shaking his head. “No. We have to keep going here.” He looked at Hardy. “You’re right, Len. The unsub can’t tell us anything. But the note still can. It can tell us a lot.”
    “They need everybody they can get,” Cage persisted.
    There was silence for a moment.
    Parker stood with his head down, opposite Lukas, across the brightly lit examining table, the stark white extortion note between them. He looked up, said evenly, “I don’t think we’ll be able to find him in time. Not in forty-five minutes. I hate to say it but this is the best use of our resources—to stay here. Keep going with the note.”
    C. P. said, “You mean you’re just going to write ’em off? The victims?”
    He paused. Then said, “I guess that’s what I mean. Yes.”
    Cage asked Lukas, “Whatta you think?”
    She glanced at Parker. Their eyes met. She said to Cage, “I agree with Parker. We stay here. We keep going.”

9
    From the corner of her eyes Lukas saw Len Hardy, standing motionless. After a moment he smoothed his hair, picked up his coat and walked over to her.
    Right as rain . . .
    “Let me go at least,” he said to her. “To help with the hotels.”
    She looked at his earnest young face. He kneaded his trench coat in his large