Night Victims. John Lutz

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      “Stabbed all those times,” Paula said, “there should be even more blood.”

      Potter nodded approvingly at her. “There was plenty of blood. Most of it was stemmed by and then absorbed by the sheets. I had to unwind them to get to the body.”

      “Unwind?”

      “Yeah. She was wrapped tight like she was in some kind of shroud. Sheets are full of holes, too, like your partner says. She was wrapped alive, tape put over her mouth, then she was stabbed repeatedly with a narrow, sharp instrument. Few of the wounds are fatal. I’d say she bled to death, and it took her a long time.”

      “Different kinds of sex,” Bickerstaff repeated.

      “The killer wrapped her up alive?” Paula asked.

      “Wrapped her tight as a tick.”

      “Was she drugged?”

      “We’ll find that out later.”

      Paula moved closer to the body and took it all in: the blood smears, the pale flesh, the narrow slits made by knife thrusts, the eyes like dull marbles that barely reflected light, that seemed to draw light in and make it darkness. Sally Bridge’s arms were still at her sides, her legs pressed tightly together. The way Potter had unrolled her. Never in her life had she dreamed strangers would look at her this way.

      “So what are those angular marks on her flesh?” Paula asked.

      “Creases. That’s how tightly she was wrapped.”

      Bickerstaff said nothing, standing and watching with his arms crossed while Paula studied the bloodied mattress pad, still neatly held at the corners by elastic. If there’d been much of a struggle on the bed, the pad would have been pulled loose.

      “Odd she didn’t put up a fight,” Bickerstaff said. “Looks like the killer kicked open the bedroom door or slammed his shoulder against it. You’d think the noise would have woke her up and—” He was staring at something on the floor.

      “I wondered when you were going to notice,” said Harry Potter.

      Paula walked over to look where Bickerstaff was staring. There was a faint and partial bloody footprint on the carpet. The surprising thing about it was it appeared to be the back three-fourths or so of a bare foot.

      “Hard even to figure the size,” Bickerstaff said, “but it’s a right foot and almost surely a man’s.”

      “Maybe he stripped nude before the murder so he wouldn’t get blood on his clothes,” Paula said. “We need to Luminol this place, try to bring more of the footprint out. Then check the tub or shower stall drain, see if the killer cleaned up before putting his clothes back on.”

      “The way she’s wrapped up tight as a tamale,” said Harry Potter, “her killer probably would have gotten little if any blood on him. You can see near the footprint that there’s blood where some of it soaked through the sheets and ran down to the floor. But that’s the only blood I saw on the carpet.”

      “More might show up under the lights,” Paula told him.

      “Have you talked to the uniforms who took the call?” Potter asked.

      “Not yet,” Bickerstaff said.

      “One of them forced open the door. The super was supposed to repair a leaky faucet in the bathroom. He got no answer when he knocked, so he let himself in and started to work. Bathroom backs up to this room. When he wanted to see if there was an access panel in here to get to the plumbing, he found the door locked. Knocked and got no answer. Thought not much of it till the phone rang and Sally Bridge didn’t pick up. Super figured she might be in the bedroom and need some kinda help, so he pounded on the door, still got no answer, and called the cops. He’s got keys to the hall doors, but not the inside doors, so they had to break in here.”

      “You been playing detective?” Paula asked the little ME.

      “I got eyes and ears.”

      Paula glanced at Bickerstaff.

      “I’ll go talk to the super,” he said, and lumbered out of the room.

      “Crocker’s his name,” Potter said.

      “Crocker,” Bickerstaff repeated without glancing back. “Like Betty Crocker.”

      The ME stared at Paula.

      “He does that all the time,” she said, “to help his memory.” She then added, “He’s about to retire,” knowing that probably had nothing to do with Bickerstaff’s memory method.

      “Mmph,” was all Harry Potter said, nodding.

      Paula went to the window where long sheer drapes were dancing rhythmically in the summer breeze. In the room’s other window an air conditioner was humming away. Who’d open one window on a hot night, then switch on an air conditioner in another?

      “Was this window open?” she asked.

      “That’s just how I found it,” Potter said.

      Keeping her hands away from the brass handle, Paula gripped the wooden frame and lowered the window until it was almost closed. It worked smoothly and silently.

      She was about to turn away when she noticed through the inner glass that a small crescent of glass had been neatly cut from the bottom of the top window. It was centered precisely over where the lock would be if the window were closed and secure.

      “I’ll be damned,” Potter said, looking where she was staring. “The killer got in through the window.”

      “And out,” Paula said, “seeing as the door was locked and had to be forced by the cop who got the call. Unless the killer had a key and locked the bedroom door on the way out.”

      “If he had a key,” Potter said, “he probably wouldn’t have come in through the window. And anyway, he’d have no reason to lock the bedroom door behind him when he left.”

      “You oughta be a detective.”

      “So I’ve been told,” Potter said. “But not often.”

      Two white-uniformed men appeared in the doorway. EMT had arrived to remove the body. The paramedics were both hefty guys with black curly hair, and could have been brothers.

      “Okay to take that now?” one of them asked, motioning toward the dead woman.

      “If she says so,” Potter said, pointing to Paula.

      “Police photographer been here?” Paula asked.

      Potter nodded. “Left just before you arrived.”

      “She’s yours,” Paula told the paramedics.

      “What kinda accent is that?” one of them asked, as they bent to their task.

      “Cajun.”

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