Fuck all. That was what Forensics had gotten -- after several hours of delay -- from the physical evidence. No fluids, no fibers, no hairs, and not the smallest smudge of a print.
All that those useless, lead-assed morons had been able to tell him was that the wood splinters from the head wound were all unfinished. Oh, and the wood was probably pine.
"Great, I'll start hauling in all the DIYers, carpenters, and god-damned lumberjacks from two counties right now."
It took every fragment of Morales' will not to ball up the report and throw it in the wastebasket. Ripping it into teeny tiny fucking shreds will be far more satisfying, he thought, moving his fingers to the top of the page.
"Lieutenant!" called a voice from across the room.
"There are three lieutenants in this room right now," Morales responded. "Which of us do you want?"
The desk sergeant -- an overeager young officer with an overloud voice -- laughed nervously. "Um, you, Lieutenant Morales. We got that fax from New York -- the one you've been waiting for."
Fucking finally. "Bring it to the scanner," he told the sergeant, moving to the island of desks and equipment that comprised Homicide's computer station.
They scanned the prints into the computer and began processing them through the recognition software. "Come on, you Stone Age piece of junk." The equipment was not all that old, but Morales' patience had worn out when he had returned from lunch to find that the fuckwits from Forensics had only just started work.
"You seem pretty invested in this case, sir." The sergeant hovered by Morales' elbow.
"There's a strong chance this son of a bitch will kill again." That was, unfortunately, entirely true. "I'm not going to let that happen."
"Well, you give him Hell, Lieutenant!" The sergeant called cheerfully as he returned to his post.
"Thanks," Morales returned absently, still waiting on the software. He was reminding himself mentally that hitting the computer would not speed it up, when it finally made the ping that indicated a match. "Right, let's see who Harry Lockhart became."
He looked closely at the display. "Davis, William," he read, "former runaway... two arrests for prostitution..." A male prostitute?
"Shit." Wait, he thought, disconnected facts starting to move together in his mind. Male prostitute... killed by blunt force trauma from a piece of lumber... and Perry. "Fuck."
Morales dashed back to his desk and picked up the coroner's report. He rifled through it feverishly until he came to the photograph of the victim's face. He examined it closely, suppressing his gag reflex. There -- on the cheek, a series of small, rough wounds. He traced the shapes with his fingertip: a "J" and an "R" and a spade. Very like the device on a ring that had once been a key piece of evidence.
"Jake Riker..." Morales remembered -- could never forget -- the name, and the crime, that went with that ring... "Holy fucking shit."
If anyone could want violent, sadistic revenge on Perry van Shrike, it was former LBPD detective Jake Riker (or Jake Viper as the many officers who had disliked the man had liked to call him). After all, if it had not been for Perry, Riker would have gotten away with murder.
Morales pulled out his phone and dialed Perry's number in a frenzy. "Perry!" he began as soon as the other man picked up.
"Morales, I know who's got Harry. It's Jake Riker."
"Yes, I know. Jake Rik-- Wait. How the fuck do you know?"
"Found a witness. How do you know?"
"The victim. He was a male prostitute, killed with a two by four, with marks on his face just like the ring you took off Riker."
"Damn," Perry breathed. "Morales, I thought he went to prison. What the fuck is he doing out?"
"He was in jail until the trial two years ago, but the jury found him not guilty -- not enough evidence, apparently."
"Fuck. What happened after that?"
"The victim's family filed a wrongful death suit in civil court. Riker fled to Mexico -- or so we thought."
"Well I guess he got fucking tired of margaritas and tacos." How could Morales have forgotten how scathing Perry's sarcasm could be? "What've you got on that asswipe?"
Morales had already moved back to the computer. He held the phone with his shoulder as he typed furiously. "Shit, why is everything so fucking slow?" The database search results came up painfully slowly. "I'm sorry, Perry," Morales apologized as he surveyed the disappointing results. "No address and no associates or kin who would touch him with a ten foot pole." No, all the man's friends and family in the police force had dropped him faster than a moldy donut since the scandal had broken.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," was the eloquent reply. Then Morales heard a feminine voice on the other end. "They've got nothing," Perry answered that voice and the police detective heard an echo of Perry's earlier obscenities, followed by what sounded like someone kicking a dumpster.
Wow, I'd like to give her a go at Riker before this is all over. "I'll keep at it Perry. I'll follow every last fucking lead we got here until we find that son of a bitch."
"Keep me posted. Harmony and I will be staying in Long Beach for the night." So, Harmony was the girlfriend's name. "I'll text you her number, just in case."
"Perry, I think you should leave this to us." Morales tried to put all the unease he was feeling into his voice. "Jake Riker is an unstable man who likely blames you for destroying his life."
"You think I don't know that, Tony?" Perry's voice was equally serious and soft. "But that fucking viper has Harry." How could one name be layered with so many meanings and emotions? "And there is no fucking way in Heaven or Hell that I am leaving him there."
"Perry! You know this has gotta be a trap!"
"Oh, I'm counting on it." Morales had never heard the PI laugh like that. It fucking gave him the chills. "I'll be in touch."
"Perry, wait!" But it was too late -- the connection had already been terminated. "You be careful, asshole," he said to his phone.
Morales set his phone down on his desk, feeling disquiet curdle in his stomach and wrinkle his brows. I have to work fast. Something told him he had better find Riker before Perry did.
Perry can take care of himself. "Bastard wouldn't die even if you shot him." Morales forced a weak chuckle. No, I need to find Riker first because I don't want to have to arrest Perry for murdering the sick son of a bitch with his bare hands!
Keeping the delightfully tempting image of a dismembered, but still breathing, Jake Riker firmly in his mind, the detective called out to one of his colleagues. "Hey Johnson! How we coming on those surveillance reports?"
~to be continued~
