Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [17]
“All right, knock it off, both of you!” Chuck said, running a hand through his blond crew cut.
“I beg your pardon,” Butts said. “I mean Mr. Malette. The point is that his ex isn’t a likely suspect. And we haven’t found anyone who disliked the guy—at least enough to kill him.”
Morton plucked another of the photos from the pile on his desk. “The writing in the suicide note found on the floa—Dr. Ziegler—is being analyzed by a handwriting expert, but there’s no question it does not belong to him.”
“That’s an odd suicide note, in any case,” Lee remarked.
Elena Krieger picked up the photo of the note and studied it. “I’m sorry—I was wrong. I don’t deserve to live,” she read slowly. “It sounds more like a confession of guilt than a suicide note.”
“Yeah,” Chuck agreed, “but guilt about what?” “If we can figure that out, we’ll have a big piece of the puzzle,” Butts remarked.
“Also, it’s not addressed to anyone in particular, which is odd. Most suicides who write notes address them to specific people in their lives,” Krieger pointed out.
“Right,” said Chuck. “And look at how carefully the note was wrapped in a Ziploc bag so the water wouldn’t spoil it. Someone really wanted us to find it.”
“You going to release it to the media?” Lee asked.
Chuck cocked his head to one side. “What do you think?”
“I wouldn’t. It’s not elaborate or long enough to give you a personality profile.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Chuck agreed. “I don’t see someone seeing the note in the paper and calling us to say it reminds him of his brother.”
“Yeah, right,” Butts said. “This ain’t no Unabomber.”
He was referring to the capture of Ted Kaczynski, the infamous Unabomber. He was finally brought to justice when David Kaczynski recognized the ranting political polemic published by the New York Times and Washington Post as sounding very much like his brother Ted.
“No useable prints, I guess?” said Lee.
Butts shook his head. “The guy must have been wearing gloves.”
“Or the woman,” Krieger corrected him.
“Whatever,” Butts said, rolling his eyes at Lee. “Anyway, we’re doing a tox screen on all the vics, just in case.”
“You think maybe the UNSUB drugged them first?” Lee asked. UNSUB was shorthand for “Unknown Subject.” He didn’t particularly like using cop jargon, but it was a way to sidestep the morass of gender issues that Krieger was clearly prickly about.
“Anything’s possible—especially if it’s a woman,” Butts replied. “She’d probably have to drug them to control them, unless she’s one strong bi—female,” he said, with a nervous glance at Krieger.
If Krieger noticed the slip, she didn’t react. “What about the writing on the mirror?” she asked. “Any match to the other note?”
Chuck picked up the crime-scene photo and shook his head. “It’s in block letters in lipstick, so our expert says she can’t do much with it.
“But look at the wording,” Krieger said.
Lee took the photo from Chuck and studied it. “I am very bad. Sorry.” He put the photo back down.
“They both say they’re sorry,” Krieger pointed out. “With most people who kill themselves, that would be an apology for the suicide itself. But this is different: they seem to be apologizing for being bad.”
Butts frowned. “So the same UNSUB wrote both notes?”
“It’s extremely likely,” Krieger replied.
“What do you make of the notes?” Chuck asked Lee.
“Well,” he began, but Krieger intrrupted.
“Obviously the victims offended the killer in some way,” she said.
“Jawohl,” Butts said.
Krieger glared at him, and then at Chuck, but he pretended not to notice.
Lee thought, not for the first time, that this was going to be a challenging investigation.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Lee arrived at his apartment a little after noon to find three messages on his answering machine. Unlike some of his friends, who were discarding their landlines, he kept his. He’d had the same number ever since he moved to the East Village, and he held on to it partly out of sentiment—but also because it was the coveted 212 area code,