A Cook in Time Read Online Free Page A

missing-person report had been filed. A thorough search of the park hadn’t turned up any clothes or identification. Fingerprint searches were being made of the SFPD, National Crime Index, California DOJ, and INS files. It could take weeks for a reading to come in unless the victim had gotten a driver’s license recently or had an arrest record.
    Paavo had read over the crime scene unit’s preliminary report twice. Not only had the body been drained of blood, but it had been washed clean. Dried soap residue had been found on the hair and in the ear canals—since the fleshy parts of the ears themselves had been removed. The assumption was that the victim had been bathed, then wrapped in plastic sheeting of some kind and transported to the park. Not a single stray fiber or hair had been left behind. Paavo had never dealt with a Mr. Clean or Molly Maid as killer before.
    The autopsy would be held at one o’clock the next afternoon. Normally, it would take a couple of days, or longer, before the coroner’s office found time to do an autopsy for some John Doe. But it had taken no work at all to convince the assistant coroner to move the case up on the schedule after she saw the victim. Adetermination as to the cause of death would help give some idea of the type of killer they were dealing with. Since no defensive wounds were observed on the body, it was fairly certain the killer hadn’t stepped up to the victim and started carving. The victim had to have been subdued, maybe even dead, before the mutilations began. The question, therefore, remained: How was he killed?
    So far, the only clues Paavo had to work with were the bizarre style of mutilation, the number 7 on the man’s chest, and the mysterious goggles. He’d commissioned a couple of uniforms to get military gear catalogues and manuals for him to go through. If they didn’t give him answers about the goggles, he’d get the techies in the crime lab to see what they could come up with. Morinaga owed him one after that sick joke about the vic’s liver being gone.
    The second message was also from Angie, sounding a little anxious. He’d spent so many years without anyone caring where he was, it was still hard for him to realize that Angie not only cared but worried about him. The novelty of knowing her—loving her—still hadn’t worn off. It was a good feeling.
    He definitely needed to give her a call. Looking at the kitchen clock, he was astonished to see that it was nearly two in the morning. He dumped the whole can of food into Here’s bowl and broke it up with a fork.
    His message machine was still clicking and whirring. Two hang-ups followed Angie’s calls. Probably just people trying to sell him something. He didn’t have time for any long-winded messages, anyway. He had come home to shower, catch a few hours of sleep, and change clothes. Then back to work. He knew the hours right after a murder occurred were the most likely to result in the crime’s being solved.
    But something more than his usual need to find the killer was at play in this case. He centered his thoughts on the steady hand needed for the pristine cuts of the mutilation, the ability to wash off a body after inflicting such devastation on it, the pure absence of emotion in a murderer of that sort.
    He rubbed his eyes, impatient with the fatigue that had forced him and Yosh to leave the bureau to get some sleep. The callousness of the murder preyed upon him. Some of his past cases had involved deaths from rage or passion against the victim. This one had an almost ritualistic tinge to it. And rituals had a way of repeating themselves, over and over.
    He put the cat’s bowl on the floor just as the next message began.
    It was nothing but static. Loud, ugly static. Hercules went over to his food and began to eat.
    The static abruptly stopped and a few quick tones sounded over the recorder, then a loud, high-pitched squeal.