Girls Like Us(36)

“Like a baseball bat?” Lee asks.

“Thinner. I’d say more like a broomstick.”

“Or a rake,” I posit.

Milkowski nods. “Yes, could be a rake. A baseball bat would have done more damage. But it’s worth noting. It seems like an angry thing to do, to hit a body postmortem. A crime of passion, perhaps.”

“Was she pregnant?” I ask. Everyone turns and stares at me.

Milkowski raises her eyebrows. “If she was, it was very early. I can run some tests.”

“Let’s do that.”

“What makes you think she was pregnant?” Lee asks me.

I shrug. “Just a hunch.”

“We also found trace amounts of cigarette ash on the body,” Milkowski adds. “So you’re looking for a smoker.”

“Can we find out the brand or anything?”

“I doubt it, but let’s give the lab a chance.”

“Morales smokes like a fucking chimney,” Lee says.

“Anything else?” I ask.

“From the angle of the bullet wound, I’d say the shooter was several inches taller than Ms. Marques. And left-handed.”

“You said she was about five six?”

“Yeah. I’d say you’re looking for someone between five ten and, say, six one.”

“How tall is Morales? Do we know if he’s a righty or a lefty?”

No one responds. Milkowski opens her mouth to reply but is cut off by Dorsey.

“We need to get moving,” he says. “The press is all over this story. We cannot not let this guy slip through the cracks again.”

“What’s our next move, Chief?”

“Let’s head back to the station. We’ve got an incident room going. Let’s circle up there.”

I hang back until both men have cleared the room. Then I turn and hand Milkowski my card.

“Hey,” I say quietly, “looked like you had more to say.”

She gives me a terse shrug. “They’re in a hurry.”

“If you want to chat, feel free to call me. My cell number is on there.”

She nods and tucks the card into her pocket. “I’ll do my best to find out if she was pregnant,” she says. “It may not be possible.”

“Do what you can do.” We exchange glances, as if sealing a silent pact between us. I hustle out the door and down the hall until I’m in lockstep with Lee.



* * *



—

IN THE PARKING LOT, Dorsey claps Lee on the shoulder. “You wrap this up fast, son, and you’ll be a hero. A win like this will be big for the department. And for you.”

“I’ll do my best, Chief.”

“It’s too bad we didn’t find enough on Morales last summer.”

“Not enough to stick.”

Dorsey makes a displeased clicking sound and then digs a tin of Skoal out of his pocket. He doesn’t take a pinch, just holds it in his fist like a security blanket. He’s been trying to quit since I left the island ten years ago. Doesn’t look like he’s made much progress. “Well, get it done this time.” He shakes his head. “Damn shame about this girl. Shouldn’t have been this way.”

“You want us to pick up Morales now?”

“Let’s get a warrant first. Do this once and do it right.”

“You think we have probable cause?”

“I’ll call Judge Mahoney. He’s a good man. He won’t hold us up. He knows what we’re up against here. He sees what these people are doing to our community.” He taps the side of Lee’s cruiser. “Let’s meet back at the station.”





11.



An incident room has been set up in one of the conference rooms at SCPD headquarters. Two white boards sit side by side at the front of the room. One is labeled “PINE BARRENS (Ria Sandoval).” The other, “SHINNECOCK COUNTY PARK (Adriana Marques).” Photos are taped to each. Squint and the victims—both young, slender, lovely—are interchangeable. They are practically the same age, the same weight, the same height. The same long black hair and glamour-girl smiles; the same olive skin and luminous dark eyes. The crime scenes, too, are nearly identical. Adriana’s twine-tied, burlap-wrapped body looks just like Ria’s. Their burial sites, both on preserved land, have the same remote, eerie feel. They both went missing on a hot, summer Friday, almost exactly one year apart. Some say it takes three or more isolated murders to make for a serial killer. But if this isn’t the work of a meticulous, thoughtful, seasoned serial killer, I don’t know what is.

And that’s when I realize: there are very likely others.

“No mistakes,” I say aloud, to no one in particular.

“What did you say?” Lee asks.

“The Sandoval murder was so clean. One shot to the head; the dismemberment, the presentation. The location is technically perfect: a shallow grave in a remote location, unlikely to be uncovered. Another month and the body would have decayed to the point of unrecognizability. It makes me think Sandoval wasn’t his first kill.”

“So there are others.”

“I’d guess so. Did you search for old cold cases with similar MOs?”