Disclaimer: Once again, and rather unfortunately, Bobby and Alex are property of the lucky Dick Wolf. Not me.
Author note: I believe in fair rights for all, therefore any racism or racial remarks are in the spirit of the character, and within the story, and nothing else.
Chapter two: The mechanic
The second murder was much the same as the first. The African-American man was surprised from behind and strangled, then his body slashed apart. The difference was that this time they had a witness.
"Oh, my God! It's so awful, detectives!" The elderly woman sported huge glasses, which made her seem like some sort of eccentric insect. She clutched at her heart with spindly fingers which looked like they would break under the weight of all the gold rings on each finger.
Eames raised a cynical eyebrow at Goren, and asked the old lady, "What's your name, madam?"
"I am Agnes Katherine L'Ingrette." She sounded out each word of her name with importance.
"Do you want to tell us what happened, Ms L'Ingrette?" Eames asked.
Bobby walked over to the body. The reddish-purple asphyxiation marks on the man's neck appeared to be done with a belt.
He looked around the small brown room, but he couldn't see the belt anywhere.
The body had fallen in the doorway, and blood spatter on the wall to the left of the body indicated that the killer was standing there.
Bobby brought his face close to the wall. Then he saw something that made him give a tiny little smile.
A hair, caught in the rough sanding of the door skirting.
"Hey," he called to a crime scene tech. "Can you get this for me?"
The tech ran up and put the hair delicately in a glass tube.
Goren returned to the body.
The man was still in his work clothes; the label on his chest read 'Frederick'.
He picked up Frederick's right hand. He saw grease and a black substance that smelled like oil or possibly paint.
Mechanic? Bobby thought.
The bottoms of Frederick's shoes were covered in more black stuff, and a few grains of gravel. They were very worn.
Eames appeared in the doorway. She knew there was no point saying anything until Bobby had finished analyzing the body.
Goren gingerly pulled a wallet from the depths of Frederick's trouser pocket.
"Nothing stolen; all his credit cards are there. And about two hundred in cash," he remarked.
"So what do you think, Bobby. It's obvious it's not a robbery. Same M.O. as the Stanton woman. Do you think it's a serial killer?"
He held up a finger, "One more thing --" he rolled the victim over and checked his back. The same word. "— It's the same guy, Eames."
"What?" She asked in disbelief. She knew he was good but no one is that good. "How can you possibly know that?"
"On his back. It says 'Guess Who'. It said the same thing on Carla Stanton's back." He fell silent in thought for a second. "He...doesn't want to be seen. He uses anonymity...to get what he wants."
Eames raised an eyebrow; she was impressed. "Anything else?"
Goren looked back at the body. "Has the CS team done an F-R test?"
F-R's were friction ridges, or fingerprints. Usually in a murder like this, the perp would have left a print or two where he was hiding. Unless...
"Nope, our guy was wearing cotton gloves." She replied in an exasperated tone.
Inconspicuous. Invisible.
Walking down the street, briefcase in hand, he blended in with everyone else going to work that Friday morning.
He walked past a news stand, and the clerk glanced at him. It was subtle, and it would have meant nothing. But he didn't like that. He had to blend in. Indistinguishable. Undetectable.
Looking across the street he saw a small café. He crossed the street carefully, making sure that no one glanced at him with nothing more than disregard.
He sat down near the back of the café, pulled the menu over to him and pretended to read it.
He was spooked, bad.
After killing that nigger Frederick Kelly he had gone out by the front doors, tipped the doorman with a considerable amount and told him to keep his mouth shut.
He had then headed home to his house about ten minutes away, but it was taking him much longer than that for all the detours and backtracking he was doing.
But now he realized that he was being stupid. No one knew he was there, no one had seen him. Hell, they probably hadn't even found the Stanton woman yet, let alone started tracking him.
He allowed himself to relax, and ordered a coffee.
Sighing, he counted off people on his fingers. Stanton, Kelly...who was next?