“He seems like he’s being helpful,” says Kincaid.
“You think so?”
“Yeah. So far.”
“I think he’s being too helpful,” says Landsman. “I think this motherfucker’s pissing all over us and callin’ it rain.”smiles. Good one, Jay.
“Well, his pal over there on the couch is the one trying to put him in, right?” says Kincaid. “And he’s definitely the one that was interested in the girl, you know? I wonder if she just pissed him off.”nods.girl isn’t saying. She’s all cut up inside a men’s room at the Lever Brothers detergent plant over on Broening Highway. Overkill on the wounds, too, which makes the murder look like something personal, like a domestic. But that would be too easy; besides, the victim’s husband is soon accounted for-he was waiting down in the parking lot, listening to the car radio, waiting for his wife to come off her shift. The plant guards had to go down there and get him after they found the body., figures Landsman, cross off the husband and go a little lower on the list. Boyfriend? Ex-boyfriend? Wanted-to-be-a-boyfriend? She’s young enough and pretty enough, married a year or so, but that doesn’t mean much; she could still be getting some on the side down at the plant. Maybe it got out of hand.
“I mean, what the fuck is she doing in the men’s room anyway?” says Kincaid. “You know what I’m sayin’?”
“Yeah,” says Landsman. “That’s what I’m thinking too, Donald.”looks again into the large interrogation room to see Chris Graul sitting across the table from Squirrel No. 1, taking more notes, running through his weak shit one more time. Graul is new to Landsman’s squad from the check and fraud unit, a replacement for Fahlteich, who has been over in the sex offense unit for a few months now. After a couple of years following kited checks around town, Graul wanted to see about homicide work; after six years in Landsman’s squad, Dick Fahlteich had seen enough murders for one career. With its nine-to-five, Monday-to-Friday routine, the rape unit was, for Fahlteich, a little like retirement with a paycheck.watches through the wire mesh window as his new detective works around the edges of the kid’s story. Graul for Fahlteich, Vernon Holley for Fred Ceruti-it had been a year of changes for his squad, but Landsman wasn’t complaining. With all that time in robbery to his credit, Holley hit the ground running and was now handling murders on his own. Graul was a good find, too, though Landsman understood that since Graul was tight with Lieutenant Stanton from their time together in narcotics, the new detective would probably jump to the other shift at the first opportunity. Still, if that happened after Graul had proved himself, Landsman would be able to ask Stanton for a good detective in trade., victims, detectives-the players kept changing, yet the machine still managed to sputter and lurch forward. In fact, D’Addario’s troops had steadily improved their clearance rate and were now virtually even with the other shift. The unit as a whole was posting a rate of 72 percent, just above the national average for murder clearance. All the complaints about the rate earlier in the year, all that hysteria about the overtime cap and the Northwest murders and the Latonya Wallace case refusing to drop-all of it didn’t mean much at year’s end. Somehow, the numbers always manage to be there come December.Landsman is a big part of the story: His squad’s rate is above 75 percent, the highest for D’Addario’s shift. Nolan’s squad and McLarney’s men had both gone through hot streaks earlier in the fall; now Landsman’s crew was finishing the year with one closed case after another., for two months they could do no wrong. Dunnigan began it by putting down that drug ambush from Johnston Square, and Pellegrini followed with a manslaughter case from up on the Alameda, an accidental shooting in which some idiot killed a fourteen-year-old while doing tricks with his new semiautomatic. Then Holley, Requer and Dunnigan tag-teamed a pair of domestics and a week later, Requer followed with a hard-fought clearance on a drug murder in the Gold and Etting marketplace. Over the next month, everyone in the squad put down at least one more case, clearing each file within a day or two. With that much luck following the squad around, a little of the stuff even rubbed off on Pellegrini, who picked up the phone one winter evening and was treated to a second consecutive accidental shooting death. Fate itself seemed to feel obliged to offer an apology., if he has time, Landsman can saunter over to his section of the board and stare contentedly at a thick block of black ink. Twelve closed cases in a row, and this one-this bizarre stabbing inside a Broening Highway factory while three hundred employees worked the evening shift-well, he isn’t going to allow such a sillyass case to end his streak. A girl gets killed inside a factory during working hours and it comes up a whodunit? No fucking way, thinks Landsman. There’s a dunker in here somewhere; all I have to do is find it.at the Lever Brothers plant earlier that night, Graul and Kincaid were ushered to the second floor of the main building to find the body of Ernestine Haskins, the thirty-year-old cafeteria manager, lying dead in a nearby men’s room. A series of wounds riddled the torso, but the most lethal cut had slashed the jugular. The blouse and brassiere were pulled up, suggesting sex as a motive, just as blood spatter on a bathroom stall partition and defense wounds to the hands suggested a brief struggle. The weapon, probably a long kitchen blade, was missing.cafeteria had closed after serving dinner, although the area wasn’t locked and it was accessible to anyone in the building. Just before the discovery of the murder, Haskins and two male employees were cleaning up and preparing to leave; for that reason alone the cafeteria employees deserved some special attention. One had discovered the body, the other had been with Haskins in the kitchen only minutes earlier.for the factory shift to end, the two detectives processed the scene, walked the length of the cafeteria and checked the rest of the second floor, looking for a blood trail or anything else out of the ordinary. At the shift change shortly before midnight, Kincaid walked down to the plant’s outer gate to watch the entire workforce sign out at the security gate and parade past him. He looked every male employee directly in the face, then down at the worker’s shoes and pants cuffs, hoping for a few telltale specks of reddish brown., Graul acted on a tip provided by one of the cafeteria employees in an initial interview at the scene. Asked if Ernestine Haskins had any boyfriends or suitors at the plant, the employee offered the name of one man who, sure enough, happened to be on shift at that moment. Summoned by security guards, the man appeared in the cafeteria and expressed no immediate surprise at being informed of the murder. That alone didn’t mean much: word of the killing had raced through the plant even before the detectives’ arrival. More intriguing, however, was his willingness to admit that he had been interested in Ernestine Haskins. He knew she was married; still, she had seemed a little more than friendly and he thought she might go for something.and Graul gave the man’s clothes a close inspection but found no stains or tears. His hands were clean and uncut, his face unscratched. Even so, he would have had time to clean up before the body was found. A radio car was called; the suitor and both cafeteria employees were sent downtown.more than two hours at the crime scene, the two detectives drove back to the office. Landsman had deposited the three arrivals in separate rooms, where in Landsman’s considered opinion they had all displayed rodent-like behavior.No. 1, the cafeteria employee who had given Graul the tip about the woman’s suitor, remained solicitous of the investigators and continued to suggest all kinds of motives that could have inspired the man to murder. The second cafeteria worker, Squirrel No. 2, seemed to know damn little about the murder of his boss other than that it happened. And Squirrel No. 3, the plant employee who had lusted for Ernestine, was now strangely indifferent to her violent death, as if it were just something else that happened at work that day.spent an hour or so traveling between the offices and interrogation rooms, balancing one story against another, Landsman has already formed some opinions. Squirrel No. 2 in the large interrogation room? Brain-dead, thinks Landsman. Maybe brain-dead and guilty. Squirrel No. 1 in the small interrogation room? Too fucking helpful. Color him helpful and guilty. And Squirrel No. 3, waiting in the fishbowl, is an asshole, probably a guilty asshole at that., three hours into the investigation, Landsman watches Kincaid return to the room where Graul is still listening patiently to lies. It’s into early morning now, and Landsman has so far been the very picture of earnest patience. No shouting. No wild rant. No twisted homicide humor amid the chaos of criminal investigation.’s restraint comes in small part because this is Graul’s second case and Landsman is trying hard not to crowd a new detective, and in larger part because Ernestine Haskins-like Latonya Wallace-appears to be a real victim. And whatever else two decades in the department have done to Landsman, they have at least taught him that difference between a killing and a murder. It’s one thing, after all, for a detective to cut up with the uniforms when they’re gathered around some dead yo; it’s another entirely to behave that way when the case involves a young wife with her blouse pulled up, her throat slit open and her husband waiting in the company lot. Even for Landsman, certain things remain decidedly unfunny. Likewise, despite his reputation, he does understand that there are moments when a rant does more harm than good. For hours, he lets Graul and Kincaid lead the charge, waiting until they’ve run out of fresh questions before beginning his own pursuit. Only in the earliest hours of the morning, when the cafeteria company officials call the homicide unit to reveal that the day’s receipts are missing from the kitchen strongbox-only then does Landsman revert to form.
“What the fuck is this bullshit I’ve been listening to?” he mutters, storming back down the hall.No. 1 looks up in dismay as Landsman bursts into the small interrogation room.
“Hey, what the hell are you telling us?”
“What?”
“This is a robbery.”
“What is?”
“This fucking murder. The cashbox is missing.”employee shakes his head. Not me, he assures Landsman, though you might want to talk to that other boy who works in the kitchen. He was always talking about stealing that money. He tried to talk me into it.takes that in, pivots, then charges past the large interrogation room, where the dead girl’s suitor-now suddenly forgotten-is banging on the door, asking to go to the bathroom.
“Hey officer…”
“One minute,” yells Landsman, turning the corner into the fishbowl, where the second cafeteria employee has been sitting between interviews.
“You,” he tells Squirrel No. 2. “Get up.”man follows Landsman back down the corridor and into the small interrogation room, now vacant because Graul has returned the first employee to the fishbowl through the main office. Musical witnesses.
“What happened to the money?” says Landsman, full of menace.
“What money?”question. Landsman jumps in the face of Squirrel No. 2, railing on about how much they know about the robbery, about how serious a crime this is, about how they’ve already heard about how he wanted to steal that strongbox, about how Ernestine Haskins discovered the theft and confronted the thief in the men’s room and was killed for the trouble.
“I didn’t take the money.”
“That’s not what your friend says.”man looks around the room for comfort. Kincaid and Graul stare back, impassive.
“What are you, stupid?” asks Landsman. “He put you in.”
“What?”
“He’s telling us you killed her.”
“I… what?”the fuck, thinks Landsman. Do we need some kind of visual aid in here? Slowly, painfully, Squirrel No. 2 catches on.
“He’s telling you that?”
“Sure is,” says Kincaid.
“He’s the one did it,” says the man angrily. “He’s the one.”, thinks Landsman, storming back down the hall. I can live with this. After all, a stone whodunit has just been reduced to a simple either-or proposition. Now there’s nothing better for a detective to do than put Squirrels No. 1 and 2 into the same cage.turning the corner into the aquarium, Landsman comes up too quickly on the Number One Squirrel, arriving just as the man is stuffing wad after wad of greenbacks inside the lining of his fellow employee’s winter jacket.
“WHAT… WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”young man freezes, his hand caught very deep inside one very big cookie jar.
“WHAT THE FUCK… GIMME THAT!” sputters Landsman, grabbing the guy by the arm and tossing him out into the corridor.jacket lining is fat with fives and tens and twenties; the rest of the money is still in the man’s own jacket pockets. He looks at Landsman sheepishly as Graul and Kincaid come running, having heard the commotion.shakes his head, amazed. “While we’re in there talking to one guy, this goofy motherfucker is sitting here on the couch stuffing the money into the other guy’s coat. I just walked in, and he’s shoving the fucking money into the lining like this…”
“Just now?” says Kincaid.
“Yeah, I walk up and he’s shoving bills into the lining.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“Yeah,” says Landsman, laughing for the first time all night. “Can you believe it?”later, after the guilty man has confessed to murder in his fashion (“I had the knife to her throat, but I didn’t cut her. She must have moved or something”), Landsman sits in the main office and dissects the case as Graul types his warrant.
“All that bullshit he was telling us about this guy and that guy,” Landsman tells Kincaid. “I should have jumped on that earlier.”so, and maybe there’s a lesson in that. When you’re working murders, preparation and patience and subtlety take you only so far; sometimes anything more than the usual amount of conscientious precision becomes its own crippling burden. Witness Tom Pellegrini, who spends the night of Ernestine Haskins’s murder as he has spent so many others in the last two months-searching for a rational approach to that which is unapproachable, for scientific exactitude in places where nothing is ever exact. The method to Landsman’s madness is a hard, tight logic formed in a crucible of impulse and sudden anger. Pellegrini’s madness, on the other hand, takes the form of an obsessively rational pursuit of the Answer.the annex office, Pellegrini’s desk is adorned with a dozen or so milestones from this lonely, quixotic campaign. Reading material on new interrogation techniques, résumés of professional interviewers and private companies that specialize in criminal interrogative planning, paperback books on subliminal messages and body language, even a few reports from a meeting with a psychic that Pellegrini arranged in the hope that extrasensory investigative techniques would yield more than the usual strategies-all of that has now joined the paper storm of the Latonya Wallace case file.Pellegrini’s mind, the other side of the argument holds sway: Instinct is not enough; emotion defies precision. Twice they had the Fish Man closeted in one of these soundproof boxes, twice they chose to rely on their own talents and instincts, twice he went home in a Central District radio car. Yet without a confession, Pellegrini knows, there is nothing left for this murder investigation. The witnesses will never come forward, or they never existed to begin with. The crime scene will never be found. The physical evidence will never be recovered.his last chance at the Fish Man, the primary detective in the Latonya Wallace case places all hope in reason and science. Landsman can break twenty more suspects as he broke the killer of Ernestine Haskins and it won’t matter to Pellegrini. He has read and he has studied and he has carefully reviewed the previous interrogations of his best suspect. And in his heart of hearts, he believes that there ought to be some certainty to the thing, some method by which the confession of a guilty man can be derived from an algebra that the Baltimore detectives have not yet learned.yet, a month ago, back when Pellegrini was chewing on the second of those two accidental shootings, Landsman proved again that cautious rationality was often useless to a detective. On that occasion, too, Landsman had held back for a time, waiting quietly in the wings while his detective listened to three witnesses offer separate explanations for a rowhouse shooting that left a Lumbee Indian teenager dead. They were drinking beer and playing video games in the living room, the witnesses claimed. All of a sudden there was a knock on the apartment door. And then a hand coming through the open door. And then a gun in the hand. And then a single, unexplained gunshot.had the two teenagers repeat their stories over and over, watching each witness for subliminal indications of deceit, the way the interrogation manuals teach you. He noticed that one guy’s eyes broke right when he answered; according to the textbook, he was probably lying. Another guy backed up when Pellegrini got close to him; by the book, an introvert, a witness who can’t be pressured too quickly.his sergeant in tow, Pellegrini worked through the kids’ stories for more than an hour, catching a few contradictions and pursuing them to a few obvious lies. It was patient and it was methodical. It was also getting them nowhere.after midnight, Landsman finally decided he’d had enough. He dragged a fat, pimply-faced white kid into his office, slammed the door hard and wheeled around in a rage, knocking his desk lamp to the floor. The fluorescent bulb shattered against the linoleum and the kid covered himself, waiting for a rain of blows that never came.
“I’M DONE FUCKING AROUND WITH YOU!”kid looked at the wall, terrified.
“YOU HEAR ME? I’M DONE FUCKING AROUND. WHO SHOT HIM?”
“I don’t know. We couldn’t see-”
“YOU’RE LYING! DON’T LIE TO ME!”
“No…”
“GODDAMN YOU! I’M WARNING YOU!”
“Don’t hit me.”the aquarium, the fat boy’s friend and the third witness, a black teenager from the Southeast projects, could hear everything. And when the Landsman blitzkrieg came rolling down the hall, the black kid’s worst fear owned him. The detective grabbed the kid, tossed him into the admin lieutenant’s office and began spitting out profanity. It was all over in thirty seconds.to his own office a few minutes later, Landsman confronted the fat kid again. “You’re done lying. Your buddy just gave you up.”the fat kid simply nodded, almost relieved. “I didn’t mean to shoot Jimmy. The gun just went off in my hand. I swear, it just went off.”smiled grimly.
“You broke your lamp,” said the fat kid.
“Yeah,” said Landsman, leaving the room. “How ’bout that?”, in the annex office, Pellegrini greeted his sergeant with a smile and a look that suggested regret. “Thanks, Sarge.”shrugged and smiled.
“You know,” said Pellegrini, “I’d still be talking to them if you hadn’t done that.”
“Fuck it, Tom, you’d have done the same thing eventually,” Landsman told him. “You were getting there.”Pellegrini said nothing, uncertain. Then and now, Landsman teaches a truth that is a contradiction, an unnerving counterweight to Pellegrini’s methodical pursuit of empirical answers. Landsman’s lesson says that science, deliberation and precision are not enough. Whether he likes it or not, a good detective eventually has to pull the trigger.’s greetings from the Baltimore homicide unit, where a Styrofoam Santa Claus is taped to the annex office door, its visage marred by a deep, bloody, close-range gunshot wound carved into the old saint’s forehead. The wound track was created with a penknife, the blood with a red felt-tipped pen, but the message is clear: Yo, Santa. This is Baltimore. Watch your back.the metal bulkhead walls of the main office, Kim and Linda and the other sixth-floor secretaries have applied a few lonely strips of red and gold trim, some cardboard reindeer and a few candy canes. In the northeast corner of the office stands the unit’s tree, sparingly decorated this year but otherwise unmarked by the cynical displays of holidays past. A few years back, some of the detectives retrieved a few morgue photos from the files-mostly shots of dead drug dealers and contract killers, a few of whom had beat out murder charges of their own. With some careful cutting, the detectives liberated the bullet-riddled bodies from the photo background and, overcome by the Yule spirit, pasted hand-drawn wings on the shoulders of the dead. In a way it was touching: Hard-core players like Squeaky Jordan and Abraham Partlow looked positively angelic hanging from those polyurethane branches.the decorations that began as sincere gestures seem small and defeated in this place, where phrases such as “peace on earth” and “goodwill towardmen” have no apparent connection to the work at hand. Onthe anniversary of their savior’s birth, the men who work homicides are decidedly unsaved, stuck as they are in the usual rotation of shootings and cuttings and overdose cases. Still, the holiday will be acknowledged if not celebrated by the squads working the four-to-twelve and overnight on Christmas Eve. What the hell, this much irony ought to be marked in some meaningful way.year ago, there wasn’t much Christmas mayhem at all, a shooting or two on the west side. But two years ago, the phone lines were all lit up, and the year before that was also a hellacious piece of work, with two domestic homicides and a serious shooting that kept Nolan’s squad running until the light of day. On that Christmas, the early relief arrived to find Nolan’s men suffering from a strange holiday fever, acting out a series of holiday homicides in the main office.
“Bitch,” yelled Nolan, pointing his finger at Hollingsworth. “You got me the same thing last year… BANG!”
“You bastard, I already got a toaster,” said Hollingsworth, turning his finger on Requer. “POW!”
“Oh yeah?” says Requer, firing a round in Nolan’s direction. “Well, you burned the stuffing again this year.”little dramas weren’t all that farfetched, either: On a legendary Christmas shift back in the early 1970s, a father killed his son in a dark meat-light meat argument at the family dinner table, plunging the carving knife into the kid’s chest to assure himself of the first crack at the serving plate., the captain always remembers to have a respectable deli spread brought up for the night crew. True, also, that the Christmas shift is the one night of the year when a detective can pull a bottle out of his desk without worrying about being caught by a roving duty officer. Even so, the holiday shift in homicide remains the most depressing duty imaginable. And as luck would have it this year, the three-week shift change for D’Addario’s men falls on the morning of December 25. Landsman and McLarney will work their squads on the Christmas Eve four-to-twelve shift, followed by Nolan’s men on midnight, followed by McLarney’s men again for the Christmas dayshift relief.one is happy about the schedule, but Dave Brown, for one, has found a way around its rigors. He always makes a point of putting in early for vacation on the holidays, and this year, with a one-year-old daughter and fervent dreams of domestic bliss, he plans to be nowhere near headquarters on Christmas morning. Naturally, this absurd notion of Brown’s becomes yet another item on Donald Worden’s list of things for which the younger detective requires abuse, to wit:
. Brown hasn’t done shit with the Carol Wright case, which is still nothing more than a questionable death by automobile.
. He has just finished five weeks of medical for a leg operation at Hopkins, a procedure allegedly made necessary by some sort of mysterious nerve damage or muscle spasms that any real man would ignore after a second beer.
. His abilities as a homicide detective have yet to be truly tested.
. He won’t be around to drive to Pikesville for garlic bagels on the Sunday dayshift, since that happens to be Christmas Day.
. Worse, he now has the nerve to be off on holiday while the rest of his squad has to work both ends of a shift change.
. He’s a piece of shit to begin with., with his remarkable memory, has no need to write down this healthy little list. Instead, he keeps it on the tip of his tongue, so as to better reacquaint the younger man with the essential facts of life.
“Brown, you are a piece of shit,” Worden declared on the elevator one evening a week ago. “As long as I’ve been on, do you know how many days I missed on medical?”
“Yes, you miserable bastard, I know,” answered Brown, his voice rising. “You’ve never missed one lousy, stinking day for medical. You only told me about a thousand times, you…”
“Not one day,” said Worden, smiling.
“Not one day,” said Brown in falsetto imitation. “Give me a fuckin’ break already, will you?”
“But your leg hurt a little so you-”
“It was a serious medical condition,” yelled Brown, losing all patience. “There was an operation-a dangerous, life-threatening operation…”only smiled. He had the poor boy right where he wanted him; in fact, he’d had him there for weeks. Worden had become so utterly insufferable that the day after the encounter on the elevator, the Carol Wright folder suddenly and magically returned from the oblivion of the file cabinets to occupy a more prominent place on David Brown’s desk.
“It has nothing to do with Worden,” Brown insisted at the time. “This case has bothered the shit out of me for months and I always planned to come back on it as soon as I came off medical.”so. But now, from the other side of the coffee room, Worden watches with a measure of personal satisfaction as the younger detective spends another day reacquainting himself with the dead billy girl on the gravel lot.picks through the pieces of the file, reacclimating himself to the office reports, scene photos, follow-ups and BPI shots of a dozen suspects who never panned out. Once again he reads the witness statements from Helen’s Hollywood Bar, the woozy statements of drunks who wanted to believe that the killer was driving a Lotus custom through the streets of Baltimore. Once again he glances through the reports from all those random car stops of black sports cars and compacts in the southern districts of the city.is nothing worse than a billy murder, thinks Brown, contradicting any earlier assessments. I hate billies: They talk when they’re not supposed to, they fuck up your investigation, they waste your time by prattling on about everything they know. Fuck this case, he tells himself. Gimme a drug murder in the projects where nobody saw a thing, he muses. Gimme something I can work with.rereads the various descriptions of the suspect provided by bar patrons, the contradictory statements about hair length and style and eye color and everything else. He lines up the ident photos collected from every old lead and looks for anything that comes close to matching, but without better descriptions it’s hopeless. Not only that, but the ident photos all seem disturbingly similar. Every billy boy seems to stare out at the camera with one of those oh-so-this-is-my-mug-shot expressions; every one seems to sport tattoos, bad teeth and a tanktop shirt so dirty it could stand up on its own.at this piece of work, thinks Brown, pulling one photo from the pile-a billy if ever there was one. The kid is an obvious motorhead, his shag of jet black hair parted in the middle and running halfway down to his ass. He’s got fucked-up teeth-big surprise there-and weird blond eyebrows. Christ, the kid’s got an expression so vacant that it qualifies as probable cause for a drug warrant…. He’s got blond eyebrows. Blond as can be, thinks Brown, stunned.detective holds the ident photo close, his eyes bouncing back and forth between the kid’s hair and eyebrows. Black, blond. Black, blond. Gimme a fucking break here; they’re right there in the photograph, plain as day. How the hell did I miss that the first time? he wonders, searching for the report that was once stapled to the photo.enough, the kid’s name came from a car stop over by Pigtown, a follow-up by a Southern District officer on that lookout they had teletyped to patrol back in August. Brown finds the report and remembers it immediately: The guy was driving a black Mustang with a sunroof. Not exactly a T-top, not exactly a Lotus. But it was in the ballpark. A Mustang could have those low-to-the-ground performance tires, just as the traffic man had described. But the first time Brown read the report he had discounted it. The district officer stated unequivocally that the driver of the car had dark hair, and the one thing every witness agreed on was that Carol Wright’s companion was blond. Only a week ago, after reopening the file, did he bother to ask the ident section to send him photos of the long shots like this one. And only now was he noticing the mismatched eyebrows.
“Donald, look at this.”steps over, expecting something lame.
“This photo is from an arrest a couple weeks after my murder. Check out his eyebrows.”older detective scans the ident photo and raises an eyebrow of his own. Why in hell would a blond billy boy dye his hair black? You might go the other way, but blond to black? How often does a kid do that?good catch, Worden admits to himself. A helluva good catch.the four-month delay, there isn’t a lot of hope for recovering any physical evidence, and it will be after the holidays before Brown and Worden get back on the street to chase this one. But when they do pluck the kid from his girlfriend’s house in Pigtown on a January morning, Jimmy Lee Shrout’s hair will be dyed red and he will act as though he’s been waiting for them since August. The battered Mustang, found in front of the girlfriend’s house that same day, will be towed to the Fallsway garage, where Worden is waiting with a lab tech. With the car up on a jack, the detective and tech begin by pulling greasy debris from the bottom, and for the first ten minutes or so they find dirt and shards of paper and pieces of leaves, until the lab tech is scoffing at the idea that anything will be left on the undercarriage after all this time.
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