Sampson and I had made our way to the third floor. There were Washington PD uniforms everywhere up there. This really was déjà vu all over again. I put on plastic gloves, and so did Sampson. I did miss working with him, and sadly, this brought it all home, the good and the bad.
We stopped outside the second door on the right just as a young black patrolman was leaving. He had his hand over his mouth, a white handkerchief wrapped over the fist. I think he was going to be sick any second.
That part doesn’t change, either.
“Hope he didn’t barf all over our crime scene,” Sampson said. “Goddamn rookies.”
Then we went inside. “Oh man,” I muttered. You see things like this over and over in Homicide, but you never get used to it, and you don’t forget the details, the sensations, the smells, the taste it leaves in your mouth.
“He called it in to us first,” I told Sampson. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Who’s he?” he asked.
“You tell me,” I said.
We walked over closer to the body that lay on the bare wooden floor. Young woman, probably still in her teens. Petite, pretty enough. Naked except for one platform hanging off the toes on her left foot. Golden ankle charm on her right foot. Her hands were tied behind her back with what looked like plastic cable. A black plastic bag had been stuffed inside her mouth.
I’d seen this kind of murder before, exactly this kind. So had Sampson.
“Prostitute.” Sampson sighed. “Patrolmen seen her around on South Capitol. Eighteen, nineteen years old, maybe even younger. So who is he?”
It looked to me as if the girl’s breasts had been sliced right off her chest. Her face had been attacked, too. A checklist of deviant behavior ran through my head, the kind of things I hadn’t thought about for a while: expressive aggression (check), sadism (check), sexualization (check), offense planning (check). Check, check, check.
“It’s Shafer, John. It’s the Weasel. He’s back in Washington. But that’s not the worst of it. I wish to hell it were.”
Chapter 40
WE KNEW A BAR that was open, so Sampson and I went for a beer after we left the slaughter scene on New Jersey Avenue. We were officially off duty, but I had my beeper clipped on. So did John. There were only two other guys drinking in the gin mill, so we pretty much had the place to ourselves.
Didn’t matter one way or the other. It was good just to be with John. I needed to talk to him. I really needed to talk to Sampson about something.
“You sure it’s Shafer?” he asked me once we had our beers and some nuts in front of us. I told him about the disturbing tape I’d seen from Sunrise Valley. But not about the other threats, or the ransom. I couldn’t, and that bothered me a lot. I’d never lied to Sampson, and this felt like a lie.
“It’s him. No doubt about it.”
“That’s messed up,” John said. “The Weasel. Why would he come back to Washington? He almost got caught here the last time.”
“Maybe that’s why. The thrill of it, the challenge.”
“Yeah, and maybe he misses us. I won’t miss him this time. Put one right between his eyes.”
I sipped my beer. “Shouldn’t you be home with Billie?” I asked.
“It’s a work night. Billie is cool with it, with my job. Her sister’s staying with us for a while, anyway. They’re both asleep by now.”
“How’s that working out? Married life? Billie’s sister at the house?”
“I like Trina, so it’s okay. Funny, things I couldn’t imagine getting used to aren’t a problem. I’m happy. First time, maybe. Floatin’ on a cloud, man.”
I grinned at Sampson. “Ain’t love grand?”
“Yes, it is. You ought to try it again sometime.”
“I’m ready,” I said, and smiled.
“You think so? I wonder about that. Are you really ready?”
“Listen, John, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”