“First glance, nothing. But until I remove the stakes, I can’t process and examine like I should.”
“What’s the circle made of?” Rokov said.
Paulie squinted as he glanced through the viewfinder of his digital camera. “I think it’s salt.”
“Salt?”
“Everyday regular iodized table salt.”
Rokov squatted and studied the circle. He could sense Sinclair’s gaze. “Any thoughts, partner?”
“Assuming the substance is salt?” Her voice sounded rough with emotion.
“Sure.”
“Salt has lots of uses. Keeps bugs away. Maybe the killer didn’t want the ants on her.”
Rokov rose. “It’s also used in magic spells.”
She arched a brow. “That’s kinda far-fetched.”
“This whole scene is far-fetched. In fact, when we get the go ahead to walk around, check the corners of the room, and see if there are any bits of salt there.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“No, I’m not.”
The deep tenor of Rokov’s voice erased whatever amusement she’d allowed. “Witches. Really? I thought the Samanthas and Endoras of the world were just fiction.”
“I’m not saying this woman was a witch. But that doesn’t mean the killer didn’t believe she was a witch. He could have put salt in the corner to seal the room.”
“How would you know something like that?”
“I’ve heard tales from my grandmother.”
“She grew up in Russia.”
“Where superstition reigns.”
She opened her mouth to argue but then stopped. They’d seen a lot of crazy shit over the last eighteen months as partners.
Rokov turned to Paulie. “Any other observations?”
Paulie snapped three more pictures before he straightened. “There are ligature marks on her neck, and the underside of her hair and her collar are damp with what appears to be water.”
“Cause of death?”
“Ask the medical examiner.”
The tech was always careful not to weigh in with an opinion. His job, he’d often said when prompted for a comment, was to collect data. He left the fancy figuring up to the detectives.
“Identification?” Sinclair knelt by the body and stared into the woman’s face half cloaked by her hair.
“No ID. No jewelry. And there are red marks on the side of her neck. Looks like he got her with a stun gun several times.” Paulie knelt down and examined the hair draping her forehead. He snapped more pictures and then gently moved the hair back. “Have a look at this.”
Sinclair squatted and glanced down. “She’s been tattooed with the word Witch.” The bold letters covered most of the delicate forehead skin, still puckered red and raw from the tattoo needle. “Shit.”
Rokov’s half-baked theory had been correct, but it gave him no pleasure. “She have any other tats or markings?”
“Not on the exposed areas. But there could be other body art under the clothes.”
“I can’t imagine anyone willingly doing this to themselves,” Sinclair said. “But we’ve seen all kinds of oddities.”
Rokov glanced around the room. The flowered wallpaper was peeling off in frayed strips, and the ceiling was soiled with a dozen watermarks. All the furniture had been stripped out, and a shadow imprint on the back wall suggested there’d been a bar at one point. A thick coating of dust covered the room. “Footprints?”
“Two distinct sets,” Paulie said. “The first I identified as Barrows. He was kind enough not to trample all over the floor, which left me with clear impressions of the second set.” Paulie pointed to the window. “The best impression is over by the window, and I’ve marked it with a cone. I’ve got an electrostatic dust print collector. It will pull an impression.”
Rokov moved toward the footprints carefully to mirror Barrow’s path. “It looks like a size eleven or twelve.” He studied the grooved pattern. “Sneakers?”
“That’s my guess, but it will take time to narrow the brand.”
“The impressions are clear and defined. He walked carefully and with precision.”
Paulie shrugged. “You know I don’t make impulsive calls.”
“I’m not holding you to it,” Rokov said.
“That’s what they all say. I’ll have a report by tomorrow.”
Rokov studied the impression. “Inside back right heel looks worn. He’s favoring the foot.”
Paulie snapped more pictures. “Could be an injury or he could have had a wart at one time, and it changed the way he walks. Doesn’t mean he noticeably favors the foot now.”
“So he moved her here,” Rokov says. “Positions her, stakes her, and then moves to the window to stare at what?”
“The river. The full moon. It was a clear night last night. He stops to enjoy the full moon. Maybe he heard a sound.”
“If he’s got a thing about witches, the moon makes sense,” Rokov said. “The full moon has a lot of power in some circles. Stands to reason he’d be drawn to the moon.”
Sinclair rose. “We need to figure out who she is. I’ll head downstairs and put a call into Missing Persons and see what they have.”
“Good.” Rokov turned to Paulie. “Does she have defensive wounds? Did she fight for her life?”
“I’m going to bag her hands. Hopefully, the medical examiner will find something under her nails.”
Rokov knelt by the victim’s right hand and studied the crude stake that had pierced the flesh of her palm. It would have taken tremendous force to drive the wood through flesh. He wondered if she’d known her attacker. Most murdered women knew their killers. Lovers. Husbands. Boyfriends. Love could turn vicious instantly.
“I wanted you to see her before I pulled the stakes. If I can pull them out now, I can roll her over.”
“Need a hand?” Rokov said.
“I got it.” Paulie slid on workman’s gloves over his surgical gloves and grabbed a hold of the stake. “The floor boards are rotted.” He pulled hard, and the stake wriggled free of the floor and the victim’s palm. Carefully, he moved to the other side and repeated. Then it was on to the feet. The last stake proved stubborn and it took assistance from Rokov to free it.
Paulie laid the stakes out and photographed them. Then very carefully, he turned the body on its side. The victim’s jacket was embossed with the word Magic. He checked the jacket’s label. “Tanner’s.”
Rokov recognized the retailer. “Tanner’s is a shop in Old Town. It has a solid reputation of making custom leather jackets.”
Rokov pulled a notebook from his pocket and wrote down the detail along with the dozens of others he’d noted since he entered the room.
“Okay. You keep doing your thing here,” Rokov said. “Sinclair and I will beat the streets. Maybe somebody saw something.”
Outside, Rokov found Sinclair by the car on her radio. She looked pale but determined. “Thanks. If you get a match, give me a call.”
“No matches.”
“Not yet. But she might not have been missing twenty-four hours yet.”
“Her jacket is unique. The seller is located in Old Town. I’ll double check, but I think he opens at ten.”
“Good.” Sinclair rubbed the back of her neck. “Last night was a Monday night in late October. The streets would have been packed with tourists taking ghost tours and hitting the bars.”
“The retail shops would have been closed by ten, but the bars would have been open until twelve, one, or two.”
“Give or take a few hours, she died last night about one.”
“Yeah. There’s O’Malley’s on the corner. It’s as good a place as any to start. Maybe someone saw someone here.”
Rokov waved to Barrows, Sinclair nodded, and the detectives made their way across the parking lot. Quick strides got them across the street to O’Malley’s.
The pub was on the corner of Union and Prince in a three-level town house that had been built a hundred-plus years ago. Built of old brick, the building had a large glass window with gold lettering and green café curtains. The historic look appealed to tourists.