Travis Bell has shucked his jacket. He glances at the view through the window, his attention spliced between hunched pedestrians scuttling in the rain on the streets below Pittsburgh police headquarters and the current conversation inside the squad room bullpen.
‘Respectfully, Miss Lewis, the public service broadcast won’t be a waste of time if it helps keep people informed.’
Lewis is a small, severe figure beside Clyde Horner’s gray bulk. ‘Respectfully, Chief Horner, I said the broadcast is a waste of time if it isn’t clear about the victim profile.’
The bullpen bristles with the sound of typewriters, telephone noise, and detectives – some of whom Travis has come to know personally – moving around the space, talking over the top of one another. Kristin is sitting at Detective Kowalski’s vacant desk nearby, combing through the old media reports on Huxton to find out if the cut-finger detail made it into the papers in 1979. The humid fug of cigarette smoke in the room gives Bell the sensation that he’s underwater.
They’ve been going hard for hours: meeting with Dr Friedrich to discuss the autopsy results, talking to point men like Kowalskiand Simmons about the street searches and leads, standing under umbrellas in McKees Rocks as the first responders stepped them through the most recent crime scene. Now they’re back at headquarters to talk strategy.
Horner tries again. ‘Kraus said—’
‘Kraus is wrong.’ Emma’s tone is sharp. ‘The killer targets slim, white, long-haired brunettes aged eighteen to twenty-five. It’sthatspecific. He’s not going to deviate, he’s not going to “switch up”. He’s following a victim pattern, probably for reasons evenhedoesn’t understand. A general announcement is just going to terrify every woman in Pittsburgh.’
‘She’s got a point, sir.’ Travis steps closer. He knows his height gives him an edge with Horner; it makes him look older. Having a family background in law enforcement and an understanding of procedure gives him an edge, too. ‘That broadcast goes out after the news at seven. I’m betting by midnight you’ll be following up a half-dozen reports of men getting shot at by their own wives when they come home off the late shift.’
Horner scratches his stubble. ‘Okay, look. I’ll talk to the commissioner about it. But we’ve gotta saysomethingto the general public.’
‘Then say something right.’ Emma turns to Travis. ‘What’s next?’
‘Coffee. Excuse us, sir.’ Travis nods at Horner in apology and steers Emma toward the Brewmaster station over near the wall.
Rain is sheeting down outside the windows, washing the streets gray. Pittsburgh looks miserable, and Lewis looks exhausted as she takes the mug he pours for her. ‘Thank you.’
‘Emma, you can’t win all these battles.’ He keeps his voice low as he pours his own. ‘Let me talk to the chief about it some more.’
‘Why? Because you’re a guy, and you can convince him in a manly way?’ Her tone has tipped over from sharp to caustic.
He knows where her anger’s coming from, so he stays mild. ‘Because I’m law enforcement. I know how these people work, I understand the system. Some things Horner can’t back down on, especially not here in the middle of his own squad room. And this isn’t Quantico turf – Carter’s working adjacent to the Pittsburgh FBI field office on this one, he’s here on Horner’s sufferance. We don’t want to give the local chief of detectives a reason to block us.’
She presses her lips. ‘Okay, I didn’t think of that.’
‘We’ve each got stuff we’re better at, Lewis. A diplomat you are not.’
‘I can be … less than diplomatic.’ Her expression relaxes by one degree. ‘I just want to stop this guy.’
‘That’s what we all want. That’s the goal.’
Travis sips his terrible coffee. He’s seen her like this before, and he admires it: her focus, that bulldoggish way she has. That first sight of her yesterday was a shock because she’s so unchanged. Only the little silver hoops in her ears are new. His eyes keep snagging on them, falling away.
Emma’s strong; she’s always been strong. He can’t remember ever seeing her this tense, though. This is personal to her, all her emotions hovering just under the surface of her skin. Her energy is like a hot thin wire pulled taut, waiting to snap. The anticipation of it makes him tentative around her. It’s a new feeling, and he’s uncomfortable with it.
Kristin walks up, still flicking through the loose photocopies in the folder she’s carrying. ‘My word, the media are awful, aren’t they? I knew that, of course. But some of these headlines are putrid.’
‘Find anything?’
‘The finger-cutting detail was withheld from the media by authorities in 1979, but then I had to check if it was discovered by accident.’ She consults notes she’s made on small squares of colored paper. ‘No references in any news reports that I could make out. Lots of speculation. Wedding dresses were mentioned … and details about zip ties. Some other information about the types of girls Huxton was kidnapping, that was after the fourth girl, I think. A short description of the inside of Huxton’s house – by one very tenacious and horrible tabloid reporter – when it was all over. That’s all I could find.’
Emma scoops up the forensic paperwork they received from Friedrich. ‘The pink nail polish is consistent with the other two victims. No clue about whether it’s the same polish, though.’
Travis squints. ‘You think it’s significant?’
‘I think, apart from Kristin, I’m the only female in this room, and I’m the only one who noticed the nail polish.’ Emma’s voice is dry.
‘Fair point.’ He gives her one of Kristin’s spare colored notes. ‘Write it down, we can talk to Scientific Analysis about it tomorrow.’
‘We’re flying out tonight, right?’
‘At seven-thirty. Now it’s time to go meet Carter. You done with that coffee?’
