Washington, nodding, looked at him in deep thought.
“There is imagery from Franklin Park,” Payne went on, “and Melanie Baker, the mother of the little girl who was grabbed, gave a solid description of the doer, including the tattoo on his neck.” He paused, tapped on the screen of his phone, then held it up to show Washington. “Here’s the clearest shot we have of him. This and another were just minutes ago sent out in a Wanted flyer. Because both victims were killed with sharp blades and so close together in time and location, it has to be the same doer. Doc Mitchell should be able to find evidence that links the wounds to the same weapon.”
“A weapon that, for all we know, could well be in the muck at the bottom of the Delaware River by now,” Washington said, turning to the phone.
He studied the image. It showed the large man walking alone among the holiday crowd. He was heavyset, with a puffy round light brown face framed by a ragged mop of dreadlocks that drooped down to his shoulders.
“His eyes are empty, just dark holes staring out,” Washington said. “Vacuous and cold, devoid of life. Even as he’s about to commit a heinous act.”
“These thugs have no respect for life. No way it’s his first murder.”
Payne then flipped to the other image, a barely in focus close-up of the suspect’s face and neck framed by the sweatshirt hood.
“Check out those tats,” Payne said. “The picture’s not sharp but you can see that he inked an inverted heart on his cheek under his left eye, and an inverted peace symbol under his right eye, and ‘Family’ written in gothic lettering across the front of his neck, which Melanie Baker didn’t miss seeing.”
“An upside-down heart?”
Payne nodded. “A bright red one, about the size of a cherry, outlined in black.”
Washington thought about that, then said, “The peace symbol is meant to be a dove’s claw within a circle, so when inverted it stands for death. And the inverted heart stands for hate or for no love.”
“And that ‘Family’ inked across his throat. A gangbanger embracing his fellow thugs as family. Touching, huh?” He tapped his chest. “Warms the ol’ heart . . . or cuts it like a knife.”
“Someone will recognize this miscreant, especially those body markings.”
Payne raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, but as we know, the trick will be getting that someone to admit recognizing him.”
He then turned to the window and pointed to Franklin Park.
“We were able to follow his tracks back to where he entered the park there at Race, and using images from our surveillance cameras outside the Roundhouse, we know he came this way down Race. Now we’ve got guys going store to store looking for more camera footage and possible witnesses that could help us backtrack his path. Maybe—hell, forget maybe, my gut says doubtless—all the way back to LOVE Park.”
Washington nodded, then held up his index finger in a Hold one gesture. He reached inside his suit jacket and produced a vibrating cell phone with its screen glowing. He checked the caller ID and then answered the phone: “Jason Washington . . .” then, glancing at Payne, said, “Yes, sir, he’s aware of the death threats,” and after a moment added, “Will do. Okay, on my way.”
Washington looked at Payne as he broke off the call.
“That was our boss, as I anticipated, so I’ll have to pass on seeing the casino images for now. And I’m to tell you: ‘Captain Quaire says not to let down your guard—take the death threats seriously.’ That comes from me, too.”
Payne met his eyes. “Got it.”
Washington’s big hand squeezed Payne’s shoulder.
“Be careful. And let me know if anything interesting comes up, Matthew.”
Payne glanced down at the protesters. “Like if I get whacked?”
Washington saw that he was smirking.
“I said interesting. Not expected.”
[ THREE ]
Office of the Chief Executive Adviser to the Mayor
City Hall, 1 Penn Square, Philadelphia
Saturday, December 15, 2:06 P.M.
“Ed, we have to shut this Cross down now,” James Finley said. “It’s not just that it’s the bad news of the murders. What he’s doing—and I hate to agree with Carlucci because, if he heard me, it would encourage him to go on TV, which itself would be a PR disaster—is possibly, if not probably, ince