Blood Memory. Greg Iles
should have read the book. It was a big deal psychologically, those teeth. But for us, the point is that Malik could be using dentures, and he could get them almost anywhere. A family member—living or dead—is one possibility. I want to go through everything you know about Malik’s family.”
“Just a minute. You couldn’t tell the bite marks were made by dentures as opposed to real teeth?”
“No.”
“What about the saliva in the wounds?”
“Again, that could still be Malik’s. But it’s more likely to belong to an accomplice, if there is one. Or the killer could even be swabbing in someone else’s saliva.”
“Where the hell would he get that?”
I shrug. “One of his patients? All we know from the saliva so far is that the DNA in it belongs to a Caucasian male.”
Sean mulls this over. “I guess all Malik needs is some spit from a guy he knows we’d never check. I can see it.” He takes a sip of coffee. “The paralyzing gunshot keeps coming back to me.”
“It’s not always paralyzing.” I shuffle through the autopsy reports of previous victims. “Call it incapacitating.”
“That’s splitting hairs. The point is, excellent marksmanship.”
“The fax you sent me said Malik served in Vietnam. As a medic, I think. Which means he probably saw action.”
“That doesn’t make him a good marksman. Especially with a handgun.”
“Does Malik have any handguns registered in his name?”
“One. A .45 automatic.”
The murders were committed with a .32-caliber pistol. “And they searched Malik’s house already?”
“Top to bottom. No other weapon found.”
“What did they find? A shrink’s house … had to be some weird stuff in there.”
Sean waves his hand as if he doesn’t want to be distracted. He’s always been more linear in his thinking than I have. “Let’s stay with the gun for now. Funny weapon for this kind of crime, you ask me.”
“More of a Saturday night special than an organized killer’s weapon.”
He nods. “Or maybe a cop’s throwdown gun.”
“Well, it obviously does the job.” I point at a photo of Colonel Frank Moreland’s naked corpse, a neat hole drilled through its forehead. “We should find out if Malik visits any shooting ranges around here. See if anyone knows how good a shot he is.”
“The task force is already on that. We need to get outside the box, Cat. Think of things they’ll miss. Like the dentures thing.”
“Are you going to tell the task force my theory about that?”
“Sure,” Sean says casually. “I’m talking to John Kaiser. He’s a good guy, for a Fed.”
“Are you going to tell him I came up with it?”
Sean freezes, his face uncertain. “Do you want me to?”
“What if I say yes?”
“If you say yes, I’ll tell him.”
I hold his gaze without blinking. “Yes.”
“Okay, then. I’ll tell him.” Sean looks sincere, but I wonder if he’ll follow through.
Colonel Moreland’s photo brings another thought to mind. In some serial murder cases, close analysis of the first murder scene ultimately breaks open the case. The reason is simple. Serial killers, like any other hobbyist, get better with practice. They’re frequently very anxious during their first murder—they may not even have meant to kill their first victim—and they make stupid mistakes. Mistakes they never repeat at later scenes. But the NOMURS killer is different.
“First-victim angle,” I say, knowing Sean will understand my shorthand.
“Yeah?”
“It’s led us nowhere.”
“Right.”
“Why?”
“The guy’s a prodigy.” Sean shakes his head with something like respect. “It’s like he walked out of nowhere onto the pitcher’s mound at Yankee Stadium and threw a no-hitter. And he’s thrown nothing but no-hitters ever since.”
“What does that tell you?”
“Either he’s killed before, or …”
“Or he knows a lot about murder,” I finish.
Sean nods. “Yeah.”
“Who would know that?”
“A cop.”
“Who else?”
“Crime-scene tech. Forensic tech. Pathologist. True-crime reader.”
“Psychiatrist,” I say softly.
Sean looks unimpressed. “Maybe. What’s your point?”
“My point is that every killer makes mistakes the first time out. Maybe not a technical mistake. Maybe it’s just his choice of victim. Why was Colonel Moreland killed first? Was he random? I don’t think so. There’s got to be a reason.”
“Kaiser’s all over that kind of thing, Cat. The task force is taking apart every victim’s family.”
“Just bear with me. Any likely suspects in Moreland’s family? He’s not from here, right? Just retired here.”
“Yeah, but he’s got a daughter living here and a son in Biloxi. Daughter is Stacey Lorio, a registered nurse.” Sean shuffles through the pile of paper on the table and comes up with a five-by-seven photo. It shows a blonde woman in her midthirties with a hard-looking face. “Thirty-six years old, divorced. Works two jobs. A private clinic and nights at Touro Infirmary.”
“Alibis for the murders?”
“Rock solid.”
“The son?”
Sean comes up with another photo, this one a wallet-size shot of a good-looking man in a blue uniform. “Frank Moreland Junior. A major in the air force. Stationed at Keesler Air Force Base. Big family man. Medals out the yinyang. His alibis are bulletproof.”
“Neither one has any connection to Malik?”
“Not that we can find.”
“Shit.” I shift in my chair and take a sip of coffee. “Okay, forget that for now. Let’s talk about Malik’s patients. Do you know yet if James Calhoun has any family members who’ve been treated by Malik?”
The hint of a smile plays across Sean’s lips. “You’re gonna love this.”
“What?”
“Malik’s still refusing to hand over that information.”
“He hasn’t given you the names of his patients yet?”
“Nope. He’s arguing doctor-patient privilege.”
“That won’t hold up in a case like this, will it?”
Sean shakes his head. “No. We can show a judge a strong likelihood that the killer is choosing his victims from Malik’s patient base. That creates a situation of imminent danger, which is a public safety issue. That should override the privilege.”
Sean knows what he’s talking about. Three years ago, he earned a law degree by going to night school. He didn’t really want to, but after being wounded in the line of duty, he let his wife persuade him that a career change was in order. Hoping to improve his marital situation—not to mention his financial