“About that, at a guess. I don’t know for sure. It’s only about a block square, I think. One of the smaller and more tasteful of the original WTC memorials.”
She crossed the sidewalk and, drawing her weapon, moved through the stone archway that led into the green.
There were benches, a small pond. Big trees, plots of flowers, and a large bronze statue depicting firefighters raising a flag.
She moved past it, and heard the retching.
Swiveling toward the sound, she walked quickly south and saw the uniform on his hands and knees, puking into a bed of red and white flowers.
“Officer—” But she saw the bench a few feet away, and what was on it. “Deal with him,” she told Roarke and walked to the second uniform who was holding his communicator.
She had her badge up. “Dallas.”
“Officer Queeks, Lieutenant. Found her just a minute ago. I was about to call it in. We didn’t see anyone. Just her. To ascertain death, I checked her pulse. She’s still warm.”
“I want this scene secured.” She glanced back. “Is he going to do us any good?”
“He’ll be okay, Lieutenant. Rookie,” he added with a small, pained smile. “We’ve all been there.”
“Get him on his feet, Queeks. Secure the scene and do a sweep of this park. Carefully. This isn’t where he killed her. There’ll be another site. I’ll call it in.”
She drew out her communicator. “Dispatch, this is Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.”
“Acknowledged.”
“Homicide, single victim, female. Location Memorial Park, southwest sector. Contact Peabody, Detective Delia, and crime scene.”
“Acknowledged, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Dispatch out.”
“You’ll want this,” Roarke said from behind her, and offered her a field kit.
“Yeah. I need you to stay back.” She sealed up, hooked on a recorder.
He watched her approach the victim, begin to record the scene visually and verbally.
It was fascinating to watch her work, he thought again. And sometimes it was unspeakably sad.
There was pity in her eyes, and there was anger. She wouldn’t know it showed, and he doubted anyone but himself could see it. But it was there, inside her as she put a madman’s latest work on record.
She’d study the dead, he thought, and the details. She’d miss nothing. But it wouldn’t only be murder she’d see. She’d see the human. That made all the difference.
A little more slender than the others, Eve thought. Not as curvy. More delicate, and maybe just a bit younger. But still in the ballpark. Long, light brown hair—a little bit of a wave, but nearly straight. Had probably been pretty, too, though you wouldn’t know it now. Not now that her face was ruined.
The beating she’d sustained was more severe than Maplewood’s. He was enjoying that part more, she
thought. He was less able to control himself.
Punish her. What she stood for.
Destroy her. What she stood for.
Whoever this woman was, it hadn’t been her he’d killed. Whose face had he seen when he’d tightened the cord around her neck? Whose eyes had stared back at him?
When the position of the body, the visual injuries, were on record, she drew the hands apart to run prints.
“Lieutenant!” Queeks called from her right. “I think we’ve got your kill site.”
“Secure it. Block it off, Queeks. I don’t want anyone walking around on my scene.”