Free Cold Hit by Stephen J. Cannell Page B

Divisions and have already been made. He was all set yesterday and pulled the trigger two hours ago when the new body was found. I told you this was about to happen. All that's left is to announce."
    "But I've finally got a lead--a good one." I handed her a Xerox of the Combat Medical Badge I'd made from the book.
    "What's this?"
    "Combat Medic's insignia. That's what the unsub's been carving on all the vics."
    She picked it up and looked at it, then reached into her top desk drawer for a photo of the carved symbol. She compared the two. "It's not very exact."
    "Hey, it's a very intricate badge. To get it exact, he'd have to use a tattoo needle or a pen, not a knife. It's close enough," I said. "If I'm right, this sets up a course for our investigation."
    "Look, Shane, I "
    "Lemme run it for you." She hesitated, but then nodded.
    "Somebody is killing vics who are fifty to sixty years old. That makes all our DB's Vietnam vintage guys. They're homeless and they all have this medic's symbol carved on their chests."
    "So you think the unsub was in Nam?" She leaned back in her swivel and studied me skeptically. "The mean age of serial killers is twenty-five. If you're right and the killer was in Nam, that makes this guy way over the target age."
    She was right about the mean age. But that was just a computer-generated statistic achieved by taking all of the serial killers ever caught, adding their ages and dividing that by their total number. But serial murder, like bad fashion, often defies rationale, and whe n d ealing with aberrant psychology, it's a mistake to marry computer generated facts.
    "Maybe the unsub is a slow starter," I said. "Or maybe he's the son of a medic, was abused by his father and is killing him over and over. Maybe he's a current vet who was screwed up by a medic. Maybe all the victims were medics. Maybe he's a medic himself. Shit, come on . . . I don't know what the connection is, but this mutilation is a part of his signature, and it damn sure means something. This medic thing is the first angle I've had in seven weeks that I can work.
    "I've got all the Blues the watch commander in Canoga can spare, showing this new vies picture to homeless people around the De Soto off-ramp. If I get a name, I've got my first real foothold. I can start assembling possible motives, look for witnesses." I leaned toward her. "Give me and Zack another day."
    "It's done. The FBI is sending us a profiling expert. Some ASAC from the local office named Judd Underwood. We're wheels up, babe. It's airborne."
    "Shit." I turned and headed out of the office. "Don't go away mad," she called after me.
    I looked back at her.
    "I tried to stop this," she said softly. "I really did. And Tony almost bit my head off for it. Wanta see the teeth marks?" She started to pull down her turtleneck. "Look." She exposed her beautiful neck. There were no tooth marks on her ivory skin, but hey, every defense can't be bulletproof.
    "Maybe with more people on this, we can run dow n y our Vietnam angle quicker," she said hopefully. "You know it's gonna be a huge job going through a military hospital V . A . check."
    "I don't want any help. Zack and I should have been able to do this ourselves." Then I felt the cold breath of political anticipation. "By the way, who did Tony put in charge of this cluster-fuck?"
    "Deputy Chief Michael Ramsey," she said softly, knowing I'd hate it.
    "Great White Mike?" My jaw dropped. He was the biggest asshole on the sixth floor. The guy actually kept makeup in his briefcase because he loved being on TV. "Guess we'll be having lots and lots of news conferences," I said.
    "Give the guy a chance, Shane."
    "White Mike will run this task force like a Vegas lounge act. At least, don't bullshit me."
    "Okay, no bullshit?"
    I waited.
    "You've had seven weeks. Nothing's happened. Now we're trying this."
    I left her office and headed down to Homicide Special. Crossing the squad room to my cubicle was a little like being the losing