Chapter XXI

The Meat and Potatoes of Investigation

"Useless piece of junk." Sofia whacked the side of her computer monitor hard enough to cause the sunglasses she had propped on top to clatter to the desk. Sofia Curtis was no technophobe; in fact she loved her computer and was a certified Internet junkie. She just didn't like this computer. More accurately she didn't like the fact that it took half a lifetime to connect to VICAP. The city and county could repave the Strip every other day and bend over backwards to keep the Casino Tyrants happy but putting in newer servers that would allow the several thousand police officers to do their job was just out of the question this fiscal year. That was just fine. Let the whole God-forsaken city self-destruct while the LVPD computers limped along like blind lame turtles. It wasn't like they were asking for much, not even a full Casino worthy system. A few bladed server terminals with black box memory backup, and a self-sustained liquid cooling system and a fucking update from Windows-fucking-95 would suffice. She didn't want to have to go down to the Crime Lab every time she needed to check something by the national databases. Was that really so much to ask?

The familiar government seal and welcome screen finally popped up, and Sofia blew out a frustrated breath. She logged into the federal system with the LVPD ID and password that she knew by heart. Once that processed, she started to type in the specifics of the crime. The killings couldn't be considered serial, as of yet, it would take a third similar murder to qualify as such. There hadn't been a third murder in Vegas, but Sofia had a gut feeling that Vegas wasn't the first or only place to see this kind of carnage. It may or may not have started here, Sofia scowled, but it sure as hell was going to end here. She did not want to make another call like she had that morning. She rubbed her hands over her face and hair, while VICAP whirred and worked its magic. The cross-continental call that morning, from Nevada to Georgia, had been made from her department issue cell phone; it had been cheaper that way. She wished it had been anyone but her that had made it.

She had been sitting on the hood of her car in the parking lot, staring up at the dusky sky when she dialed the phone number that Bryce Luken had given her. Her watch had read six o'clock and, for a minute, she hadn't known if it was AM or PM. The case was wearing on her in the worst sort of way. She listened to the drone of the phone ringing in her ear and sighed. Brass was letting her run with the case, which made her lead, which meant that calling Preston Abernathy's wife her job. When a warm hand descended on her shoulder, she almost reached for her sidearm. She blinked open her eyes to see Sara there, kit full of evidence from the hotel room with her.

The brunette held her thumb and pinky up to her ear and mouthed 'Georgia?'

When Sofia nodded, Sara put her kit down on the ground and boosted herself up onto the unmarked Sedan's hood. Though Sara didn't say anything, Sofia was thankful for her presence, especially when the now widowed Mrs. Abernathy answered.

"Preston, is that you? Are you calling from the Hotel? Here, Jonah, talk to Daddy." When a small voice started to babble into the phone, Sofia felt her throat start to close up. The few moments of baby talk, a little boy talking to whom he thought was his father, seemed to last for hours. When the woman, Kimberly Abernathy, came back on the line, Sofia took a deep breath and, without thought of propriety or personal lines, she held out her hand, palm up, and felt the reassuring warmth of Sara's hand cover hers.

"Kimberly Abernathy? This is Detective Sofia Curtis, I'm with the Las Vegas Police Department."

There was a beat of shocked silence, and then the woman spoke again. Kim Abernathy's voice was slow and had almost a lyrical quality to it. Her words were rounded off and her vowels were soft, it was a coastal Georgia accent if Sofia had ever heard one. "What's happened?"

Sara squeezed her hand, and Sofia silently sighed. "There is no easy way to say this, Ms. Abernathy. Your husband was found this morning, murdered. I am so sorry for your loss."

Silence, but only for a moment, ruled the line. There was never a way to tell exactly how someone would react to hearing their loved one was gone. No matter what the steps of grieving said.

"You're sure it's him?"

Sofia's throat was hot and a headache was forming behind her eyes. "Yes, I'm sorry."

The rest of the conversation was a blur in her memory. She had made so many notifications, been the bearer of bad news countless times. It never got any easier. She had closed the phone about thirty minutes later and she and Sara had simply sat there. Sofia held the phone against her closed mouth, the cool plastic against her skin.

"We're going to find this guy-girl, right?"

Beside her Sara started to stand up. "Yes, we are. Now I have to get back to the lab, you gonna be okay?"

Sofia hooked her cell back on her belt and put her feet on the asphalt. "I will be when we close this case."

The problem with this case, though, was the fact that if their perp had only just now started killing, there wouldn't be a VICAP entry. Men rarely reported rape. Of course, the injuries to the penis might make them more likely to report. It wouldn't have been put into VICAP though. She knew though, in her head and in her gut that this particular rabbit hole went much deeper than anyone had thought it could. She was going to find out exactly how far. She leaned back in her threadbare chair and stretched her legs under the desk that had probably been in the bullpen since before she was born. It was dinged, scratched and dented and had seen more perps and murders than any single cop on the force. That was something of a comfort. The continuality of justice, she liked it. The revolving shield icon and the pointer turned hourglass indicated that the system was still processing her request. She linked her hands behind her head, stared at the ceiling and willed her phone not to ring.

"Hey Curtis," Son of a bitch.

She sat up, the chair squeaked in protest of her quick movement. O'Riley stood, square face set in his usual grumpy scowl, stood in the bullpen's main aisle. "Some guy's here to see you. Said he has information on the case."

Riley made a gruesome, and somewhat inaccurate chopping motion with his hand. He had a pained expression on his face, O'Riley wanted rid of the man, and fast. Since she was in no mood to hear any more comments about 'tang with teeth or any of the other hundreds of off color and down right disturbing compliments that the boys had been making, she hit the button on her monitor to turn it off. She checked her appearance in the dark screen quickly. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows and there were dark circles under her eyes, "The city's tax dollars at work, Ladies and Gents." She blew out another quick sigh, told herself not to talk to herself in front of the witness and twisted her neck to pop it. After three sharp cracks, she sighed "Send him on in."

She was a trained observer. Her mother had, out of her own hubris, started training her while she was a child. Her natural talent had been honed by her mother, then at the academy and had been fine-tuned as a CSI, and now as a detective. A quick once over of her new informant told her a number of things, but the thing that jumped out at her immediately was his walk.

He didn't walk so much as waddle; his legs spread apart, thighs not touching. She stood, mostly to take control of the situation. There would be no question about the balance of power here. This was her house and he was just visiting.

"Thank you for coming in, have a seat, Mister-"

He winced as he eased himself into the straight-backed hard metal chair by her desk, and hissed when he sat all the way down. "Bordwine, Markus Bordwine."

He was, Sofia quickly decided, the cocky type. His hair was gelled just right, his suit was silk, his hands were manicured and he was wearing a watch that cost more than her monthly salary. He probably thought of himself as a lady's man, America's answer to James Bond. She bet he was a lawyer, corporate and high paid. He was, though, nervous, very nervous. Whatever it was he had to say, it made him uncomfortable. He was sweating in the relatively cool seventy-degree room and looking around almost frantically, like a cat at a dog show. She needed to get whatever it was out of him and fast before he ran.

"You have some information for us, Mister Bordwine?"

"Yeah, uh" Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead and face, "Can we talk about this somewhere, uh, private?"

Sofia rolled her eyes, her threadbare patience wearing even thinner, "Mr. Bordwine, we are in the middle of a several murder investigations and I am very busy."

He mopped the sweat from his face with his sleeve, "With the woman who hurts men, right?"

She was in no mood for forty questions. "Kills them actually, if you haven't heard."

Bordwine licked his lips compulsively. "Heard? Not heard, Lady, I know."

Sofia kept her face blank, "I assure you that as long as you practice basic safety you'll be fine."

He had one hand held on his lap, protecting his crotch; the other was running through his perfectly styled hair over and over. "You don't get it. I've been there and done that."

She tilted her head to the side, was it possible? "Really?"

He leaned forward, as though he wanted to whisper so as not to be heard, "She had razors inside of her."

Sofia sat up straighter and looked over her shoulder. Brass's office was empty. This had moved beyond a simple question and answer session. It would have been one thing to say the woman used razors. They had withheld the device, and what it entailed from the press, though. She opened her top desk drawer and pulled out a digital voice recorder, her notebook and a Polaroid instant camera,

"Let's go inside the Captain's Office."

He waddled a step in front of her on the short walk and Sofia watched every obviously painful step.

This was the biggest break they'd had yet.

When she got the first sketch, based on the description of the killer they'd taken from Bryce Luken, Catherine had been ready to hand it off to Archie immediately. He could run it through the lab's facial recognition software and work his techno magic with it. When her fax whirred off the second sketch, this one from Detective Curtis's walk-in victim, Markus Bordwine she paused.

She'd given the Polaroids Sofia had taken of Bordwine's damaged penis to Robbins for wound-comparison. Although, Bordwine's wounds had been cared for and were partially healed, the ME had said, without a doubt, that the device had caused them. Apparently, Bordwine had a frat buddy turned Oncologist take care of his mangled penis for him.

Since both descriptions came from somewhat unreliable, and drunk, sources, she couldn't put too much faith in them. As it was, the sketches weren't a match anyway. Separately, the sketches were unremarkable, at best. She put them side-by-side and scowled down at the two faces. Luken's sketch was of a younger woman with dark hair and dark eyes. While Bordwine's sketch was of an older light haired woman with light hair and light eyes. There was also, in Bordwine's statement, no mention of date rape drugs. That struck Catherine as odd, even for this twisted case.

The faces, laying side by side, stared up at her from the layout table. The two women, real or fantasy, were pretty enough, beautiful even. Neither struck her as particularly murderous. Of course, all women were more than meets the eye, still waters and all of that. One, or maybe even both, of these women, or any woman who could put that hideous razor-lined killer tampon inside her scared the bejeezus out of Catherine. The idea of two,strike that,of three or more women with these devices made her blood run icy cold.

Two pictures, she looked at them. Outside of the hair color and some of the finer details, details that could be changed with makeups, dyes and lighting, the women did look similar. Both had high cheekbones, small, straight noses and rounded chins. It wasn't much, but add in alcohol and lust, mistakes could be made. Two slightly different stories, she had learned to weed through and pick and choose between different, sometimes completely contradictory stories to find the truth before. The truth, she had found, was often found somewhere in the middle.

It was a short trip to the AV Lab. While the high tech haven was usually Archie's domain, Catherine felt confident enough in her skills to do run one simple program. They primarily used the facial recognition program for, well, recognition. The program also had forensic anthropology applications that could, with the right person at the controls, work wonders. It could age and or alter a sketch's appearance to account for age surgery and disguises. If she wanted something like that, it would have taken hours. All she wanted to do was an easy fifteen-minute a pop mix and match six pack set. She would take the two sketches and use the computer to combine the features in random ways. They did this when a suspect was on the run, to keep the public aware of how the fugitive might look. It was also used in a more positive way, to age kidnapped and missing children's pictures.

She cleared the buffer, scanned in the sketches and set the two programs to working. One screen ran the two faces by the LVPD and National mug-shot database, trying to get a possible match. The other rapidly combining the features for her six packs photos. She would have Curtis run the six packs by the two witnesses separately, see if they could get a matching pick to work with.

The laser printer spit out a few pages and she let them sit in the tray for a minute, giving the paper a minute to cool and the ink time to dry. When she did pick them up, she flipped through the pages at the faces, only mildly interested. Each face was different, yet because each face had been drawn from the same pool of features, they were vaguely the same. Her eyes paused on the middle picture on the second row on the third print out.

It wasn't an exact match, but the resemblance was uncanny enough to give Catherine pause. The wheels and gears started to turn and she turned to yet another computer and logged in. This wasn't a complicated action, her plans were childishly simple.

She didn't believe in coincidences and this particular set of circumstances had her instincts twitching.

She entered five words in the Google search bar and hit enter. It only took seconds for thousands of hits to come back. Her instincts hadn't failed her. Catherine tightened her jaw, and spoke through gritted teeth, "Sidle."

She went out of the AV lab in a rush and because she hadn't even glanced before rushing into the corridor, she almost plowed into Nick. The mellow Texan, just returned from his short trip back home, steadied himself and offered her an affable smile. "Where's the fire, Cath?"

She didn't answer, apologize or even pause all that long. She, however, did ask one question. "Where is Sara?"

Nick simply stood for a moment, "Um, Griss chased her home a while ago, she's maxed out on overtime, again."

The last part of the sentence was said to an empty hallway because Catherine was already around the corner and gone. Not for the first time, Nick was incredibly glad that he was on Catherine's good side most of the time. He would hate to be Sara right about now.