"I'd like to say people aren't that stupid," I said.
"But you know better," he said.
"Yeah."
He sighed. "There's something else." He sounded really unhappy.
I sat up a little straighter against the headboard, forcing Nathaniel to recuddle.
"You sound like you're about to give me really bad news, Zerbrowski."
"I just don't want to have to fight with you and Dolph and the top brass all at the same time."
"What's wrong, Zerbrowski? Why am I going to be mad at you?"
"Remember, Anita, Dolph was still in charge until now."
"Just tell me." My stomach was strangely tight like I was dreading whatever he'd say."
"There was a message at the first rape scene."
"I didn't see a message."
"It was by the back door, Dolph never gave you a chance to see it. I didn't know about it until later."
"What was the message, Zerbrowski?" A lot of thoughts went through my head. Was it a message for me, about me?
"First message read, 'We nailed this one, too.'"
It took me a few seconds to get it, or think I got it. The first murder, the man nailed to his living room wall. There had been nothing to connect that death with the shape-shifter killings. Except maybe for an odd message.
"You're thinking of the first man in Wildwood," I said. "The message could mean anything, Zerbrowski."
"That's what we thought until the second rape, the one Dolph wouldn't let us call you in on."
"There was another message," I said, voice soft.
"'Nailed another one,'" he said.
"It could still be a coincidence, nailedis a euphemism for sex."
"Today's message was, 'There wasn't enough left to crucify.'"
"The maniac that's slaughtering these women is not methodical enough, or neat enough, for that first murder."
"I know," he said. "But we didn't release the nails and the fact that our first vic was crucified. Nobody but the killer would know."
"One of the killers," I said. "The man's death was a group effort." I thought of something. "Is there more than one type of sperm at the scenes?"
"Nope."
"So what, the ra**st wants us to know the crimes are connected, why?"
"Why do any of these crazy buggers want us to know anything? It amuses him, Anita."
"What background did you dig up on the first vic?"
"He's ex-military."
"You don't get that house and the indoor pool on retired military benefits."
"He was an importer. Traveled around the world and brought back stuff."
"Drugs?"
"Not that we can find."
I had another thought, a record after only two hours sleep. "Name me the countries he frequented."
"Why?" he asked.
I filled him in on what he hadn't heard through the grapevine about Heinrick.
"If the dead man frequented the same countries, it might mean something."
"A clue," Zerbrowski said. "A real live clue, I don't think I'd know what to do with one."
"You've got lots of clues, they just aren't helping."
"You noticed that, too," he said.
"If Heinrick knew the dead man, I still don't know what it means."
"Me either. Just get here as soon as you can. And don't bring any shape-shifters with you."
"I understand," I said.
"I hope so." He spoke away from the phone for a second, "I'll be right there." Then he spoke directly to me. "Hurry," he said, and he hung up. I think Dolph had taught all of us not to say good-bye.
53
I'd expected the scene to be bad, because the last scene had been bad. But I hadn't expected this. Either our ra**st murderer had moved to the bathroom for his second kill, or we had a whole new killer. I'd smelled the same hamburger smell as I walked through the house. Zerbrowski had given me little plastic booties to put over my Nikes, and handed me the box of gloves. He'd said something about the floor being messy. I'd never thought of Zerbrowski as a master of understatement.
The room was red. Red, as if someone had painted all the walls crimson, but it wasn't an even job of painting. It wasn't just red, or crimson, but scarlet, ruby, brick red where it had begun to dry, a color so dark it was almost black, but it sparked red like a dark garnet. I tried to stay cold and intellectual and look at all the shades of red, until I saw a piece of something long and thin and meaty that had been glued to the wall with the blood, like a piece of offal tossed aside by a careless butcher.
The room was suddenly hot, and I had to look away from the walls, but the floor was worse. The floor was tile, and that didn't absorb liquid. It was covered in blood, blood deep enough that it sat liquid and shining on almost the entire floor. The floor space was small, admittedly, but it was still a lot of blood for one room.
I was hugging the doorframe that led into the room. My feet in the little booties were still on the relatively clean tile of the area where the stool sat, a tiny room, with a vanity area, complete with double sink beyond. The master bedroom was beyond even that, but the bed was carefully made, untouched.
There was a small lip of marble that held the shallow lake of blood inside the final room. A tiny ledge of stone to keep the rest of the rooms clean. I was grateful for that tiny edge.
I looked at the walls again. There was a three-person, deep shower in the far corner. The glass doors were splattered with blood, and it had dried to a nice candy red shell. The shower stall wasn't covered as completely as the other walls. I wasn't sure why yet.
Most of the rest of the space in the room was taken up by a bathtub. It wasn't as large as Jean-Claude's, but it was almost as large as the one I had at my house. I liked my bathtub, but I knew it would be days before I'd be able to use it again. This scene would ruin that particular pleasure for a while.
The tub was full of pale blood. Blood the color of dark red roses left too long in the sun, faded to a shade of pink that never looked quite pink, but always as if it had meant to be a darker color. Pink bloody water filled the tub almost to the brim, like it was a cup filled up with punch. Bad thought. Bad thought.
Thinking about food or drink of any kind was a bad thing right now, a truly bad thing. I had to look away, stare back into the smaller rooms, catch a glimpse of the bed and the police still milling around the far room. None of them had volunteered to accompany me on the tour. Couldn't blame them, but I suddenly felt isolated. They were only three small rooms away, but it felt as if it were a thousand miles. As if, if I screamed now, no one would hear me.
I used the farthest doorframe to get to the vanity sink area. I leaned on the cool tile sink and ran cold water over my hand. When it was cold enough I splashed it on my face. There was no hand towel, probably it had been bagged and sent to the lab, where it would be checked for hair and fiber and stuff. I untucked my T-shirt from my jeans and wiped my face dry. I came away with a few dark stains. The remnants of last night's makeup. I looked into the wide shining mirror, glaring bright in the overhead lights. I had dark smudges of mascara and eyeliner under my eyes. Waterproof really isn't. It's more like water tough, but not proof. I used the hem of my T-shirt to dab at the black marks, and got most of it. I also ended up with black stuff on my shirt, but it didn't seem to matter.
Zerbrowski looked in at me from the doorway. "How's it going?"
I nodded, because I didn't trust myself to speak.
He grinned suddenly, and if I'd felt better I would have dreaded his next comment, but today I was too numb. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Because for anything to matter I could not have gone back into that room, and I had to go into that room. So nothing mattered. I was empty, and quiet, and there was nothing.
"Who was the girl this morning? We've got a pool going. Some people think it's your best bud Ronnie Sims. Personally, I don't think so; she's still hot for that professor guy at Wash U. I'm betting on the blond wereleopard that's always at your house. Which is it?"
I think I just blinked at him.
He frowned then and stepped into the little room. "Anita, are you okay?"
I shook my head. "No, I am not okay."
His face was all concern, and he came close enough, almost took my arm, then stopped himself. "What's wrong?"
I stayed leaning on the sink, but pointed backwards with one hand, not looking where I was pointing, not wanting to look.