thought they were a fucking expert in forensic sciences and criminal investigation.
But he also knew the media would lose interest quickly if no answers were forthcoming, and by then he would have gotten what he needed.
“All we need is that initial excitement,” Tippen said, reading his mind. “It’s not our fault if their headlines dry up.”
“That’s true.”
“Was there any sign of sexual assault?”
“Nothing obvious. No semen present.”
“That fits. There was no semen with the others.”
“A lot fits,” Kovac conceded. “But the others were obvious sexual assaults, this one . . . I don’t know.”
He sat back in his chair and looked at the wall where Tippen had put up the photographs and sketches of the supposed victims of Doc Holiday—the three dumped in the Twin Cities, and five others whose bodies had been discovered in Iowa, Illinois, Nebraska, and Wisconsin. If they decided Zombie Doe had enough in common with the other cases, she would be the ninth victim. She was already their ninth Jane Doe of the year. She was the ninth girl on two counts.
“She has a tattoo,” he said. “Some Chinese gibberish on her shoulder. Tinks took a picture.”
“That’s something. We can hit the tattoo parlors tomorrow.”
“And hope that she’s from here. If she’s one of Doc’s, Christ only knows where she came from.”
They both heaved a sigh over that prospect and took a pull on their drinks.
“She had skin and blood under her fingernails,” Kovac said.
“Enough for a DNA profile?” Tippen asked. “That would be a hell of a break.”
“Yeah. Why would we get that lucky? The guy hasn’t put a foot wrong in eight murders. Why would he be so careless with this one?”
“Because that’s what happens,” Tippen said. “That’s what always trips these guys up. They get cocky. They get careless. They think we’re too stupid to solve a case, so they get sloppy. They make mistakes.”
“He can’t manage to kill his vic with a too-short knife and a gallon of acid,” Kovac said. “She falls out of his car on the road. She’s got his DNA under her fingernails. That’s a lot of mistakes for a guy who’s gotten away with eight murders.”
“And if we say Zombie Doe is his ninth girl, we get our task force,” Tippen said, pressing the issue. “We have to leak something, get the ball rolling.”
The department had an official press person, but official press releases went through official channels, their content scrutinized and sanitized and overanalyzed by people who had little to do with the actual investigation—especially when it came to high-profile cases. A leak, on the other hand, would be exactly what they wanted it to be, just the right piece of information to hit just the right nerve. The department would be forced to respond to a public now paying attention and demanding answers.
“Who’s your best contact?”
“You know I don’t play favorites,” Kovac said. “I hate all of them equally.”
“It should be a woman,” Tippen said. “Outrage increases exponentially with the degree of personal threat. Angry women make a lot of noise. I happen to know an angry woman.”
Kovac raised an eyebrow. “Just one?
“Very funny. I happen to know the perfect young angry woman to connect us to more angry young women. I’ll make a phone call.”
“I can’t wait,” he said with a decided lack of enthusiasm. “Why do I feel like I’m going to live to regret this?”
“Because you’re a fatalist,” Tippen said, digging his cell phone out of the breast pocket of his aloha shirt. “Which isn’t a bad thing. You can’t be disappointed if your expectations are low. But in this case I say don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, my friend.”
Kovac tossed back the last of his Scotch, grimacing not at the liquor but at his distaste for dealing with reporters.
“Here’s what I know about horses,” he said. “They bite.”
8
Liska groaned aloud at the sight
But he also knew the media would lose interest quickly if no answers were forthcoming, and by then he would have gotten what he needed.
“All we need is that initial excitement,” Tippen said, reading his mind. “It’s not our fault if their headlines dry up.”
“That’s true.”
“Was there any sign of sexual assault?”
“Nothing obvious. No semen present.”
“That fits. There was no semen with the others.”
“A lot fits,” Kovac conceded. “But the others were obvious sexual assaults, this one . . . I don’t know.”
He sat back in his chair and looked at the wall where Tippen had put up the photographs and sketches of the supposed victims of Doc Holiday—the three dumped in the Twin Cities, and five others whose bodies had been discovered in Iowa, Illinois, Nebraska, and Wisconsin. If they decided Zombie Doe had enough in common with the other cases, she would be the ninth victim. She was already their ninth Jane Doe of the year. She was the ninth girl on two counts.
“She has a tattoo,” he said. “Some Chinese gibberish on her shoulder. Tinks took a picture.”
“That’s something. We can hit the tattoo parlors tomorrow.”
“And hope that she’s from here. If she’s one of Doc’s, Christ only knows where she came from.”
They both heaved a sigh over that prospect and took a pull on their drinks.
“She had skin and blood under her fingernails,” Kovac said.
“Enough for a DNA profile?” Tippen asked. “That would be a hell of a break.”
“Yeah. Why would we get that lucky? The guy hasn’t put a foot wrong in eight murders. Why would he be so careless with this one?”
“Because that’s what happens,” Tippen said. “That’s what always trips these guys up. They get cocky. They get careless. They think we’re too stupid to solve a case, so they get sloppy. They make mistakes.”
“He can’t manage to kill his vic with a too-short knife and a gallon of acid,” Kovac said. “She falls out of his car on the road. She’s got his DNA under her fingernails. That’s a lot of mistakes for a guy who’s gotten away with eight murders.”
“And if we say Zombie Doe is his ninth girl, we get our task force,” Tippen said, pressing the issue. “We have to leak something, get the ball rolling.”
The department had an official press person, but official press releases went through official channels, their content scrutinized and sanitized and overanalyzed by people who had little to do with the actual investigation—especially when it came to high-profile cases. A leak, on the other hand, would be exactly what they wanted it to be, just the right piece of information to hit just the right nerve. The department would be forced to respond to a public now paying attention and demanding answers.
“Who’s your best contact?”
“You know I don’t play favorites,” Kovac said. “I hate all of them equally.”
“It should be a woman,” Tippen said. “Outrage increases exponentially with the degree of personal threat. Angry women make a lot of noise. I happen to know an angry woman.”
Kovac raised an eyebrow. “Just one?
“Very funny. I happen to know the perfect young angry woman to connect us to more angry young women. I’ll make a phone call.”
“I can’t wait,” he said with a decided lack of enthusiasm. “Why do I feel like I’m going to live to regret this?”
“Because you’re a fatalist,” Tippen said, digging his cell phone out of the breast pocket of his aloha shirt. “Which isn’t a bad thing. You can’t be disappointed if your expectations are low. But in this case I say don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, my friend.”
Kovac tossed back the last of his Scotch, grimacing not at the liquor but at his distaste for dealing with reporters.
“Here’s what I know about horses,” he said. “They bite.”
8
Liska groaned aloud at the sight
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