Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [61]
This seemed to displease Krieger. She frowned and bit her lip, but said nothing.
“Some of ‘em become sidekicks to killers,” Butts said. “They work with their boyfriends.”
“That’s true,” Lee admitted, “but I’m fairly certain this offender is working alone.”
There was an awkward silence; then Butts said, “Well, what are we waitin’ for? Let’s get out there and track down some leads.”
“I have an idea of where we might start,” Lee suggested. “What?” Chuck asked. He recognized the look on his friend’s face—the narrowing of the deep-set eyes, the pursed lips. Lee Campbell was coming up with a plan.
“I’d like to look through old police reports of missing persons.”
“How come?” Butts asked.
“I’ll explain on the way. Let’s go down to records.”
The NYPD was in the process of converting old case records into computer files, which was—predictably—taking forever. There were miles of dusty stacks of manila folders containing all that was left of people’s lives. It was ironic, Morton thought, that if you were a crime victim you stood a good chance at having the details of your life recorded—even if it was in a smudged file folder in the basement of a police precinct.
“Shall I come?” Krieger asked.
“Many hands make light work,” Lee said, opening the door for her. He looked back at Chuck. “I’ll check in with you later.”
“Right,” Chuck said.
When they had all gone, Chuck sat down at his desk with the crime-scene photos. He stared down at the bloated bodies of the victims, grotesque and swollen beyond recognition. He rubbed his eyes, red from lack of sleep and bad city air. Murder was a nasty, dirty business. Sure, you could glamorize it in books and films and tidy little stories where the bad guys always got caught and crime never paid, but the truth was that crime did pay, far more often than anyone in law enforcement wanted to admit.
He knew all this, and tried not to let it keep him up at night. But when it came down to it, there was no one left to speak for the victims except people like himself who were willing to do whatever it took to track down their killer. The responsibility he felt was oppressive—and instead of growing lighter over the years, it had become heavier. He looked back down at the crime-scene photos, forcing himself to think of each lifeless body as a former person—with a soul, if you like, a living flame snuffed out by a ruthless murderer who was just getting started.
There was a knock on the door, and Sergeant Ruggles stuck his head through the door.
“Beg pardon, sir.”
“Yes?”
“Your wife’s on the phone.” “Thanks, Ruggles.”
“Not at all, sir.” He cleared his throat. “I was wondering, sir, about—” He paused, blinking rapidly.
“Yes, Ruggles?”
“It’s about Detective Krieger, sir.”
“What about her?”
“Is she—I mean, she’s not—” He cleared his throat again. “I mean, do you know if—” “If she’s married?”
“Not that it’s any of my business, of course,” Ruggles added quickly, frowning. He looked like a condemned prisoner facing a firing squad.
“No, she’s not.”
Ruggles’s eyes widened. His neck muscles tightened, and he swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, like a turkey gulping for air.
“Right—thanks.”
“She’s trouble, Ruggles. I wouldn’t, if I were you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, sir,” he said, but Chuck knew the sergeant was lost already. Krieger would eat him up and spit out the bones, not even pausing to pick her perfect teeth as she searched for her next victim.
But Ruggles was glowing. Sweat darkened his collar, and his hands trembled, but the man was grinning all over. If the brass buttons on his uniform could smile, Chuck thought, they would have.
“I’m off now, sir, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure—see you tomorrow, Ruggles.”
“Yes, sir—thank you, sir.”
Ruggles withdrew and closed the door. Chuck wondered if he should be more sociable with his desk sergeant. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all to ask Ruggles to join him for a drink sometime.