Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [83]
“It took some digging,” Butts said, gulping down more coffee.
Krieger frowned. “Why didn’t a search of his apartment turn up the women’s clothing?”
“Because he didn’t keep them in his apartment,” Butts announced triumphantly. “Apparently he was worried his wife would find out, so he had a little storage unit Midtown where he kept all his fancy dresses. But you figure he had to wear them somewhere, otherwise—”
“He’d be all dressed up and nowhere to go,” Lee said.
“Exactly!” Butts said, raising his coffee cup as though it were a glass of champagne. “His sister finally spilled the beans, after a little persuasion that it would help find his killer.”
“Well done, Detective,” said Morton.
“Wait—there’s more,” Butts said, setting down his coffee. He was clearly enjoying himself. “Get this: Vic Number Two liked to hang out in tranny bars.” He looked at them, awaiting their response.
“Wow,” Lee said. “How did you get that information?”
“Let’s just say that it involved a trip to Christopher Street and about a day’s salary in tips to a certain bartender.”
“How did you know where to go?” Krieger asked.
Butts shrugged. “I got friends in vice downtown—they know all the tranny hookers. Some of them work outta this place.”
Lee always found it ironic that “vice” in law enforcement referred to illegal sex and drugs, as though those were the only offenses deserving that description.
“Do we have an ID on yesterday’s victim yet?” Krieger asked.
“Yep,” said Chuck. “Name’s Joe Grieco, twenty-four years old, contractor working in his dad’s business in Nutley, New Jersey. He was arrested for drunk driving on Friday, held overnight in the Tombs, then disappeared until he turned up yesterday with his head buried in a men’s room toilet. He was ID’d by his friend he’d been out partying with on Friday.”
“We should interview the friend as soon as possible,” Lee said.
“As soon as we’re done here,” Chuck said. “I’ve got his cell number and address in Jersey.”
“I’ll do it,” Butts said. “I live just down the road.”
“Okay,” Chuck said, picking up a manila envelope from his desk. “Now, this is what we’re not going to release to the media.” He fished out an eight-by-ten glossy crime-scene photo and pinned it up on the bulletin board next to the others.
Krieger put her hand to her mouth. “Jesus,” Butts murmured, staring at it. The crime-scene photo showed a young man with his eyes neatly cut out of their sockets.
“That’s Joe—the latest vic?” Butts asked.
“Yeah,” said Chuck.
They all looked at Lee.
“What do you think it means?” Chuck asked.
Lee stared at the photo, thinking of Ana—at least he didn’t have to see her face this way. A shiver wormed its way down his back.
“It could be something specific to this victim. Or—” Krieger looked intently at him. “Or what?” “His signature is evolving.” “That’s not good,” Butts said.
“In either case, it means something—the question is what?” Chuck asked.
“With the eyes, my first thought is there’s an association with watching or being watched,” Lee answered.
Krieger cocked her elegant head to one side and crossed her arms. “You mean he doesn’t want the victim looking at him?”
“Or he does want to be looked at, which is why he took the eyes as trophies.”
“Or maybe he’s conflicted about that, too,” Chuck offered.
“Either way, it’s a good bet that it’s linked to a specific trauma in his past,” Lee said.
“Perhaps someone he loved went blind,” Krieger suggested.
Lee rubbed his left temple, which was beginning to throb. “Could be. But whatever happened, it became sexualized for him—and filled him with rage.”
“You really know all that from what he did?” Krieger asked. Like her smile, her tone was half challenge and half flirtation.
“There are certain constants you learn to recognize,” Lee said.
“Such as?” Krieger leaned on the windowsill so that the afternoon sun fell on her upswept hair, bringing out the gold highlights. Lee wondered whether the move was conscious or not—he still was undecided about some aspects of Elena Krieger’s personality.