She had a nose, eyes, breasts, and all of her skin yesterday , Kurtz was tempted to say aloud. He did study the photos spread out on the tabletop. The murderer had been an edged-weapons freak, powerful, a full-blown psycho, but good with the blade. For all the slaughterhouse aspect of the vivisection, it had been administered efficiently. Kurtz doubted if Mrs. Richardson would have appreciated that distinction, since it looked as if the cutter had kept her alive for quite a while during the proceedings. Kurtz studied the background, trying to guess the time of the murder from the arrangement of the furniture. The furniture was exactly as he and the lady had left it. There had been no real struggleor the knife man had been big enough that the struggle had been localized to that small patch of soaked carpet just outside the dining room. Or, most likely, there had been more than one manone to hold and one to carve.
"Is that semen on her dress?" asked
Kurtz.
"Shut up," said Detective Hathaway. He stepped closer, put one hand over the microphone, and gripped Kurtz's shoulder with his other hand. Kurtz's moan was brief, but the detective kept his hand over the mike. "You're going to go all the way down for this, Kurtz. We have your name in her appointment book. We have a caller who ID'd you at the scene."
Kurtz sighed. "You know I didn't do this, Hathaway. Not my style. When I want to butcher housewives, I always use a Mac 10."
Hathaway showed his big teeth and squeezed harder. This time, Kurtz knew that it was coming and did not moan aloud, even when it seemed that his collarbones were clicking like castanets.
"Take this piece of shit out of here," said Hathaway.
On cue, two huge uniformed officers entered the room, unlocked Kurtz's cuffs, recuffed him with his hands behind his back, and led him out of the room.
One of the uniformed cops had brought a wad of paper towels to dab at the blood dripping from Kurtz's cheek and chin.
Kurtz looked down at his blue oxford-cloth shirthis only shirt. Damn .
The uniforms led him down the hall, through various green corridors, through security checkpoints, downstairs to the basement area where he was fingerprinted, searched again, and digitally photographed.
Kurtz knew the drill. With the backlog, it would probably be late the next day before they got around to arraigning him. Kurtz shook his headHathaway couldn't be serious about going for Murder One. At the arraignment, for whatever the hell he was actually going to be charged with, Kurtz could post bail and go free until his preliminary hearing.
"What are you smiling at, scumbag?" asked the cop busy trying hard to throw away the huge wad of bloody paper towels without getting any blood on his bare hands.
Kurtz assumed his normal expression. The thought of bail had amused him. Everything he had in the world was in his billfolda little less than $20. Arlene had been stretched pretty thin, what with fronting the money for the computers and office junk. No, he'd have to sit this one outfirst here at the courthouse holding pen, and then down out at the Erie County Jailuntil someone in the district attorney's office noticed that there was no case here, that Hathaway was just blowing smoke.
Well, Kurtz judged, he had gotten pretty good at sitting and waiting.
CHAPTER 13
"I unnerstand," said Doo-Rag, beginning to nod a bit, his heavy-lidded gaze becoming a bit more unfocused, but still there enough for Malcolm's purposes.
"Good," said Malcolm and patted the banger on the back.
"What I don't unnerstand, you know, what I need to axe you," said Doo-Rag, squinting through his nod, "is how come, you know, you be getting so fucking generous in your ol' age, Malcolm? You know what I mean? How come you turn over the whole D-Mosque ten bills to me and mine when we do this, you know, this pasty honky fucker for you? You hear what I'm saying?"
Malcolm opened his palms. "It's not for me, Doo. It the Block D-Mosque brothers who want him shanked. No way I can get in there after the dude, so I just pass the word to you, my man. You want to give me some of the reward, that's cool, but no way I can get myself in there after the fucker, hear me? So if your people do the job" Malcolm shrugged"fucker's dead, Mosque brothers happy, everything cool."
Doo-Rag was still frowning, working the thing through his drugged mind, but he obviously could not find a catch. "Tomorrow visiting day at County," he said. "Get in early, like ten, pass the word to Lloyd and Small Pee and Daryll, your whiteboy be dead meat before lockdown."
"He may not be transferred until day after tomorrow," Malcolm reminded him. "But probably tomorrow. Arraigned tomorrow, probably bussed tomorrow."
"Whenever," said Doo-Rag.
"You got his mug shot, my man?"
Doo-Rag patted the chest pocket of his filthy Desert Storm camouflage jacket.
"You remember his name, my man?"
"Curtis."
"Kurtz," said Malcolm, tapping Doo-Rag's nodding head right on the red do-rag. "Kurtz."
"Whatever," said Doo-Rag, shaking his head and climbing out of the SLK. He sauntered down the avenue, several of his fellow gangbangers falling into the same ambling pace with him. Doo-Rag reached into his baggy trousers, pulled out some of the crack bottles Malcolm had given him, and distributed them to his pals like candy.