Detective Carson Ryder Thriller Series Books 1–3: The Hundredth Man, The Death Collectors, The Broken Souls. J. Kerley A.
that of our experts. That’s the beauty of combining PSIT with proven investigative technique: the theoretical and the practical can mix and merge; when fanciful flights are tempered by reality, they can sometimes be instructive.”
Fanciful flights tempered by reality. Zing.
Hyrum ahemed uncertainly and addressed the room at large. “We formed the PSIT to respond to the growing numbers of, well, freakish crimes. Detectives Nautilus and Ryder proved themselves in the Adrian case. That’s why Detective Ryder was promoted from the uniformed division, and why he and Detective Nautilus received extra training. Though this is the trial run of the PSIT, they deserve a modicum of latitude in investigating these murders.”
“Yes,” Harry whispered. I held my breath. Were we about to be blessed?
“I agree completely,” Squill said. “Both of the affected neighborhoods have citizens who are frightened. And vocal. Both are near downtown. We can’t have people afraid of those neighborhoods, not with the mayor’s urban revitalization plan under way.”
Hyrum listened intently, his head bobbing to the cadences of politics. Politics had structure.
Squill continued. “Which is why I welcome the PSIT’s involvement. By combining in task-force mode we’ll maximize our resources to the fullest.”
Out of nowhere the words, “task force.” I knew task force in departmental lexicon defined a rigid vertical structure perhaps overarching the procedural revisions of the PSIT. Everyone’s eyes moved to Hyrum; investigational structure was his call. He reached for a legal pad. After a few halting marks he displayed the results: a single baseball-sized circle at the top of the page. He tapped its center with his pen.
“Here’s how I want it organized: Detectives Nautilus and Ryder will lead field investigation of the cases, all information channeled their direction…”
I glanced at Harry. He raised an eyebrow. Hyrum continued tapping the page, thinking, structuring.
“Detectives Ryder and Nautilus will work with the”—he put the pad on the table and drew another circle directly below the first one. He held the pad up and tapped the second circle—“district detectives assigned to the case. Information freely shared, copies of the murder books to everyone involved…”
We were top circle! Underneath us was the investigative team we’d assemble. I was thinking Larry Twilling from Four, Ben Dupree from Two, maybe finesse Sally Hargreaves on board.
“We’re blessed,” I whispered to Harry.
Hyrum started drawing again, a final circle at the bottom of the page to indicate Command’s position as recipient of data, hands off, but kept in the loop, of course. He worked slowly, making it compass perfect, the end seamlessly joining the beginning.
“Now,” Hyrum said, nodding at his sheet, “by assigning this case task force designation, I’m putting—”
Hyrum flipped the pad upside down and tapped what was now the top circle.
“—Captain Squill in overall command of the force and its configuration, plus continuing to act as liaison to myself and the deputy chiefs. He’ll also handle media inquiries, demonstrating the task force’s, uh…”
Squill pretended to write in his own pad. “Preplanned proactive structure, Chief. I’m working up the deployment plan now.”
Hyrum finished the meeting by scribbling arcs between circles, intending to convey cooperation and flow of information. It didn’t matter, everyone had carefully noted our true position as butt-bottom on the snowman.
“Good luck, gentlemen,” Hyrum said. “And keep me posted on results.”
Tom shot me a sad smile, knowing Harry and I’d just been backed into the blades. Harry deflated with a growl. Chief Hyrum looked quizzically at Harry. “What’s that, Detective Nautilus? Did I hear you groan?”
“Sorry, Chief,” Harry said, kneading his thigh. “Cramp in my leg.”
After the meeting Harry went to check some financials on the victims. We hardly spoke; we’d been blindsided and there was not a damn thing to do about it. Having been present at Nelson’s autopsy, I was the de facto body man, and headed to the morgue for Deschamps’s procedure. I knew Dr. Davanelle was to be the prosector; I’d spoken to Vera Braden about the time of the procedure and offhandedly asked who was scheduled.
I planned to ask Ava Davanelle out. I wasn’t sure why. And had no idea how to do it.
Will Lindy was at the front door as I arrived, diddling with the lock, a screwdriver in his mouth, tiny parts scattered across the floor. I was always impressed by anyone with mechanical prowess; I relied on duct tape or super glue. If either failed, I was up the creek.
“Can’t you hire people to do that, Will? A locksmith?”
“Urn er bubdit?” he replied. “Pap chat.”
“Come again?”
He took the screwdriver from his mouth. “On our budget? Fat chance. If I save a hundred bucks here, I’ll put it toward something we actually need.”
“I thought you guys got wheelbarrows full of bucks when the place was redone. Put in the new gear, furniture, security cameras, and whatnot.”
“Government dollars,” he said, smiling. “Spend ’em or lose ’em.”
I went inside, waved to Vera, and ambled back to the autopsy suite. Be humble, be charming, be professional, I told myself. And be them all while keeping your mouth shut.
The procedure was under way as I entered, Ava Davanelle bent low over Deschamps’s groin, speaking the inscription into the air for the recording system. She knew one of the things I needed to see and nodded at a table against the wall.
I found a stack of photos taken by Chambliss, his usual excellent work. The words above Deschamps’s pubic hair were displayed beside a ruler, block lettering between three and four millimeters tall, lavender, precise. I waved the photos at Dr. Davanelle.
“Thanks,” I said, smiling her direction. “Good seeing you again, Doctor. How’s it going with—”
I caught me before she could. I winced, mouthed, Sorry, and turned back to the photos, shuffling them through my palms. There was a variety, from shots of the full inscription down to individual letters. I couldn’t fathom why anyone making a statement would choose such a hard-to-read color and write in micro-type, but it would be as logical as subtraction to the mind behind these crimes.
I sat and studied the photographs until seeing them with closed eyes. Now and then I’d shift my attention to Dr. Davanelle. Her voice was monotonic, her eyes focused on her tasks. She was gowned in blue from crown to knees. I tried to discern the shape of her calves within her beige slacks, and concluded they were slender but not skinny.
The task took three hours. It would soon determine Peter Deschamps had been murdered by some form of head trauma, the head removed by a blade similar to that used to behead Jerrold Nelson, if not the identical one. I walked over as Ava Davanelle stripped off her mask and head cover. I popped the question before she could escape.
“Would you care to do something this evening, Dr. Davanelle? Something quiet and simple? Get a bite to eat, take in a—”
The door opened and Walter Huddleston appeared. He launched a pair of scarlet flares my way, then ignored me completely. In less than a minute Deschamps was carted and rolling away. I returned my attention to Ava Davanelle, now shutting off the table’s irrigation system. Without the gentle trickling of water through pipes and across the metal table, the room was blank with silence.
“I was about to ask if…”
My