Mike glanced up over his black reading glasses when Sekulovich suddenly loomed in his office doorway. The sergeant stepped closer to the desk and held out a large manila envelope. "This just came up."
"Thanks, Art," Mike nodded as he took it, immediately clocking the M.E.'s stamp on the top left corner. The sergeant left the small room, skirting the young inspector on his way in. As Mike opened the envelope, he dropped into the guest chair, tossing his notebook on the desk before patting his tie down.
"The autopsy report?" he asked, nodding at the envelope.
"Yeah," Mike muttered as he set the manila envelope on the desk, already scanning the white pages in his hand.
"Anything new?"
After a couple of silent beats as his eyes scanned the forms, Mike bobbled his head noncommittally. "Sort of…" He glanced up briefly. "Yes, it was a .44 and it's been sent to Ballistics so we'll have to wait to hear from them. And yes, Bernie was able to find traces of chloroform around her mouth."
Steve's exhale was short and sharp; that explained a lot, he thought.
Mike glanced up briefly then looked back down at the report. He frowned. "Bernie says the eyeballs were removed with surgical precision, like this guy really knew what he was doing." He raised his eyes and the green ones that met his were filled with the worry and alarm that he himself was experiencing. He looked back down at the papers in his hand, feeling a tightening in the pit of his stomach that he knew would probably not go away until this case was solved.
"The toxicology report will take another few days," he finished as he handed the report to his partner and sighed. "Well, nothing that we didn't expect." He watched as Steve quickly scanned the papers. "Let's hope Ballistics has better luck with the bullet from this vic. It'll be the first piece of concrete evidence we have."
Steve finished looking at the report and tossed it on the desk. "Well, if it is the same guy, at least he's taking time between attacks. If he waits six weeks until the next one, we have time to at least tighten the circle."
Mike leaned back and bobbled his head again. "If that's his pattern. Speaking of which, I want to send out inquiries to every police department in those ten counties I talked about, see if they have any unsolved murders involving missing eyeballs. Maybe our killer plied his trade somewhere else before bringing it here. And I want to hit the bigger centers too - L.A., Sacramento, maybe even up into Washington and Oregon… Arizona, Nevada…. You never know…?" he shrugged.
"Couldn't hurt," Steve agreed. "You want me to do that?"
"No no no," Mike answered quickly, leaning forward again and resting his forearms on the desk. He frowned as he studied his partner; he'd been well aware of the darkening circles under the young man's eyes and knew the cause. But he also knew there was nothing he could say that would ease the guilt and lessen the burden. That would have to come from inside. All he could do was be there to offer what strength and guidance he could, when and if he was asked, and not a moment before; it was a lesson he had learned the hard way over the years, when he was sometimes less then circumspect with his almost overwhelming desire to help and to heal.
"No, ah," he continued after a moment, hoping the warm smile would mask his concern, "I'll do that. But I'd like you to go through the phone book, make a list of all the ophthalmologists in town and then head down to R&I and do a little background check on all of them. You know what to look for and maybe we can narrow the list down substantially before we go pay some of them a visit."
Nodding, Steve picked up his notebook as he got to his feet. "You know that's probably going to take a couple of days, depending on how long the list is, right?"
"Oh, I know," Mike snorted with a tilt of his head. "And when we get those lists of the doctors and the vets, it's gonna take even longer." He chuckled. "It's a good thing I've got a lot of dimes; I think we're gonna be drinking a lot of coffee."
Grinning, Steve started to leave the room, turning back when Mike called his name. The older man was staring at him with a troubled frown.
Mike took a slow deep breath. "Why do you think he does it… take the eyes?" he asked softly as he exhaled.
The lingering smile disappearing, Steve sagged slightly and leaned against the doorframe. With a small shrug, he shook his head. "I don't know…" he almost whispered. "Guilt… rage… souvenir…? I don't know…"
Mike nodded slowly, pursing his lips. "I don't either… and that scares the hell out of me."
His own lips pressed into a tight line, Steve nodded. "Yeah… me too…" He pushed himself away from the doorframe, turned and walked slowly to his desk.
Mike watched him go, his brow furrowed in worry, about many things.
# # # # #
It turned out to be an extremely busy yet remarkably unproductive day. But, like any major investigation, they were laying the foundation for what that they knew was going to be a long and difficult slog. They were basically starting from scratch with nothing but an unidentified eyeless corpse.
It was just before six when Mike almost staggered from his office to plop down theatrically in his partner's guest chair. Steve looked up with an amused and expectant smile.
"All right, that's it, I'm done," the older man began with feigned effrontery. "I think I've read the equivalent of the Encyclopedia Britannica today and I'm through." He blinked exaggeratedly to emphasize his point. "How about you?"
Laughing, Steve sat back, rolling his shoulders and stifling a yawn. "Yeah, me too."
"All right… So I tell you what - let's knock it off for the night. No sense in wearing ourselves out already, we've got a long way to go on this one, I can guarantee you that. So why don't you pack up here, get into that spiffy little car of yours and head home. And I'll see you first thing tomorrow morning, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed."
Steve was staring at him with a slightly bewildered but grateful expression and Mike knew he was on the right track. "Are you sure? Don't you want to- ?"
"Sure I'm sure," Mike interrupted him. "I wouldn't have said it if I wasn't. Besides, I'm gonna get my sorry ass out of here as well. I thawed out one of Jeannie's frozen pot roast dinners and I'm dying to dig into it." His grin got a little wider. "Well, don't just sit there - get out of here!" he pretended to bellow as he stared at the younger man.
"Yes, sir!" Steve laughed, closing the open file folders on his desk and starting to put everything in neat but orderly piles as he continued to chuckle.
Still smiling, Mike got to his feet, crossed to his office and turned to lean against the frame, arms folded. When Steve finished putting the last of his pens and pads in the top drawer, the older man took a step backward deeper into the office, lifted the beige raincoat off the rack and held it out. "Don't forget this."
Grinning, Steve approached his partner, took the coat and draped it over his arm. "Thanks," he said with a nod.
"You're welcome," Mike chuckled. As the young man started across the almost empty bullpen, he called out, "Enjoy your evening!", in a suggestive singsong.
Without looking back, Steve acknowledged the entreaty with a backhanded wave as he disappeared through the anteroom door and out into the corridor.
His smile quickly disappearing, Mike sighed deeply as he crossed to his chair and dropped into it heavily. He looked at his watch. His working day wasn't over yet, not by a long shot, but he still had some time to kill.
# # # # #
Traffic was a little heavier than he was expecting. He didn't usually have to make the drive home during rush hour and he was surprised at the volume. Sighing, he resigned himself to the slow pace and let his mind wander. He snapped on the radio and slowly turned the dial, looking for a song he could tolerate, finally stopping when he heard the opening bars of "Desperado".
As the Porsche crept slowly along Montgomery towards Mission, he listened to the words like he had never heard them before. He felt his hands tightening on the steering wheel and a knot forming in the pit of his stomach.
The light at Mission turned green and the cars ahead of him began to move. He crossed the wide street, the tires rumbling over the cable car tracks, heading north towards Union and home. Then he changed his mind. He flipped on the signal, made a quick left turn onto Post and headed west.
There was a funky, usually crowded bar in the Fillmore District with good food and generous drinks that he used to frequent when he was in Vice and he hadn't been there in a long time. He needed it tonight, more than he needed a quiet evening and a good night's sleep.
# # # # #
"So you want to start a tab?" the older redhead asked with a grin as she set his second frosty glass on the coaster near his right elbow.
Steve swallowed a mouthful of club sandwich and nodded up at her with a smile. "Sure, Nancy, why not? Hey, ah, Rowdy still the man on the grill?"
Laughing, she glanced up at the window behind the bar that looked into the kitchen. "He sure is. I'll tell him you're here. It's been a long time since we've seen your face in these parts."
"Well, tell him he still makes the best club in town."
"It's the avocado. So you gonna stick around for the night?"
"I'm thinkin' about it. This place still as hoppin' as I remember?"
"Give it an hour," she chuckled. "It's gets so loud and so crowded you can't hear yourself think."
He nodded slowly. "Good. I need that."
She winked at him as she walked away.
He picked up the cold glass, tears of condensation dripping down its sides, and took a sip. He knew he should watch how much he drank but he also knew he really needed this. Besides, he could always leave his car on the street and take a cab home.
He put the glass down and leaned back in the booth. He hadn't gone out, or been with a woman, since Sydney. He was overdue for both, and he knew it. And so, it seemed, did his partner.
With a wry and grateful smile, he reached out to pick up the final quarter of his club sandwich and took a bite.
# # # # #
Mike put his dirty dishes into the sink then washed his hands, drying them on the towel hanging on the oven door. He took a last sip of coffee before dumping the rest in the sink and splashing water into the cup.
Turning off the overhead light, he crossed to the front door. He slipped into his shoes then picked up the jacket lying over the arm of couch and put it on. He grabbed the fedora from the side table and dropped it on his head before snagging the topcoat from the closet and shrugging it on. He patted the right pocket to feel for the keys then reached into the inside pocket. He took out the colour photograph of their eyeless victim, nodded to himself as he looked at it, as if confirming its existence, and put it back. Then he opened the front door, stepped out on the stoop, closed and locked the door and made the long climb down the concrete steps to the car.