Obsession in Death (In Death #40)(80)

Removed a can of Seal-It from the box, removed the gloves.

“She’d have sealed up before she came in. Hands, feet, everything. Maybe she gave the hands another backup coat, but she didn’t step in without being sealed first.”

“The cleaning service came in on the twenty-third,” Peabody said, referring to her notes. “No one came to her place that we know of until this. The sweepers didn’t find any hair, fiber, prints that weren’t the vic’s.”

“Sealed up tight. She might even have a seal cap under the hat, just to be sure. She’d have put the security back on – this program doesn’t show that, but she would’ve. No chances. And she’d have taken off the coat. Too hot, too bulky, but we don’t know what’s under it. And why take her into the bedroom?” she added as the killer deadlifted Bastwick, hefted her into a fireman’s carry.

“More comfortable?” Peabody speculated.

“Drawing it out a little, that’s what I think. There has to be some nerves, so she’s drawing it out. Curious, too. Into the bedroom, check it out. Lay her down,” Eve continued, “take a breath or two, go back for the box.”

Eve watched murder, saw the way, even stunned, the body’s heels beat a tattoo on the bed. And the eyes rolled open again, went to glass as the blood slid down the throat.

“From behind. Had to take the coat off, sure. Have to be sealed up under it. Protective clothing under it in case of blood, even the vic’s hair. You burn the protective gear later, but there’s no chance of blood or trace on the coat.”

“Medical gear, morgue gear, sweeper gear?”

“Like that. Or like painters or exterminators use. Put it on to kill, take it off. Roll it inside out or even bag it, put it back in the box. Pause program.”

The scene froze in place as Eve moved through it, circling the killer with her sketched face.

“You had this planned out for so long, every single detail. Computer, elapsed time?”

Elapsed time is twelve minutes and forty-five seconds.

“Add into elapsed time removing protective suit from box, putting it on, removing it again, bagging it, replacing it in the box.”

Average time calculated at one minute and fifty-two seconds for full protective covering.

“Recalculate with additional time, continue program.”

“We had her at twenty-seven minutes from entry to exit,” Peabody said.

“Exactly, and she’s only used about half that time. Writing the message adds to it,” Eve commented as the killer did so. “Replacing everything in the box, resealing it, replacing the coat, the gloves. A glance around to be sure you got everything, then out. With that little spring in the step.”

She waited, still watching the killer, until the computer announced program, first stage, end.

“Elapsed time?”

Twenty minutes, ten seconds.

“What did she do with the other seven minutes?” Peabody asked.

Insufficient data to answer.

“I’m not asking you. Maybe she took a quick tour of the place. It’s a nice place, classy. Maybe she did take a couple things nobody noticed.”

“I don’t think so. I’d say, possibly, she needed time to gather herself to do the kill, or to pull herself together after. But she’d waited so long to do this, she’s so happy when she leaves. And the writing’s rock solid.”

“Gloating?”

“No.” Once again Eve circled, studied. “That’s wasting time. She can gloat when she’s in the clear. I’m betting she had a power beam and some microgoggles in that box. She checked the bed, just in case – smoothed it all out so she could detect a stray hair. Retraced her steps from bedroom to living room, back again. That’s what she did with the time.”

“So, she’s smart, thorough, and probably anal.”

“Maybe some obsessive-compulsive thrown in. I’m betting when we get her, Mira finds a whole deep well of neuroses. Computer, begin second stage.”

No security cams here, no way to know the time the killer spent. But Eve was betting she’d spent extra combing over the dirt and debris of Ledo’s flop to be certain nothing of herself was left behind.

“More emotional this time. It’s a similar sort of kill.”

As she had in the other program, Peabody looked away when the killer took out a scalpel to remove the tongue.

“Similar?”

“She had to put her back into both. Pulling back on the wire so it cut that deep? Her arms probably trembled with the effort. Jamming the cue into Ledo? She had to push down, both hands, give it her weight. She needed to feel the kill, feel responsible for it, in control of it. But the second time she’s a little, just a little, less controlled.”

“Shouldn’t she be more? More confident?”

“But she knows how good it feels now, and that adds anticipation on a different level. Not just duty – as she sees it – but pleasure, too. Or at least satisfaction. Plus, she got my attention, but it wasn’t exactly what she wanted. She wanted approval,” Eve said as the killer wrote on the grimy wall. “And some f*cking gratitude. She’s trying to convince herself she saw all that in the media conference. That I somehow signaled that to her. But the words I said – and words matter – aren’t the right ones.”