Free Miami, It's Murder by Edna Buchanan Page A

wrong with him. That he’s diseased and dysfunctional. Maybe he’ll see a doctor or go to a clinic and we can get a line on him.”
    â€œDoes he ever wear condoms?”
    She shook her head. “These guys are smarter than they used to be, they know all about the serology work, but we still don’t see condoms much with serial-type rapists. We are seeing them more with gang bangs.” She looked quizzical.
    â€œMaybe it’s all the safe sex warnings they get in the public schools now.” I was thinking out loud. “Be nice if they warned them against committing rape too. So you’ve got DNA?”
    â€œIt’s being run.” Her pale eyes brightened at the prospect. “Eventually, every sex offender will have to provide blood for a Florida bank of DNA prints. We’ll have them on file, like fingerprints.”
    â€œWill it be national? So if we get some serial rapist from Seattle you can identify him?”
    â€œYou’ve got it. The FBI developed the software that runs the program, and it’s being shared with police crime labs.”
    â€œCan’t be soon enough,” I said.
    â€œJust pray we get the funding.”
    â€œHow has this guy been able to stalk women in these buildings without being seen by anyone else?”
    â€œWe’re still trying to figure that one out, checking personnel records, cabbies who work the area.” She ran her hand through her straw-colored hair. “We did a grid run of other crimes in the vicinity, in case he was exposing himself or pulling robberies before he turned to rape.”
    â€œHear anything from informants?”
    â€œRape is not the kind of crime guys brag about in bars,” she said, her voice sharp. “Usually if you get information from somebody, it’s not because they were told, it’s because they noticed something.”
    â€œThink he’s married?”
    She sighed. “Some of these guys are. They have a wife, kids, a sex life—the marriage may not be the best but the spouse doesn’t notice anything.”
    â€œWhat does he wear?”
    â€œT-shirt and blue jeans, nothing distinctive, except—” She caught herself and stopped. Apparently she had decided to hold something back.
    â€œWhat?”
    She shook her head. “At last, Britt, something my detectives haven’t already whispered in your ear.”
    The woman is good, I thought, and wondered how far she would have gone in the department had she been a man. “Excuse me?” I said, in what I hoped was a tone of bewildered innocence.
    The lieutenant smiled, showing her teeth. There was no humor in it. If I worked for her I would not want her to smile like that at me. I tried to guess what curious fact she might be withholding.
    â€œAnything printed on his T-shirts?”
    â€œLike his name and the firm he works for? We wish. We had one like that once. Wore a shirt with his name sewn over the pocket. The name of the plumbing company he worked for on the back.” She smiled bitterly. “A brain the size of a ball bearing and a penis to match.”
    â€œDoes he bring anything with him besides the knife?”
    â€œA couple of victims saw something like a duffel bag before he blindfolded them. He may carry the knife in that.”
    â€œWhat does he use to tie them up and blindfold them with?”
    â€œDuct tape.”
    â€œHave you been able to get prints off it?”
    Her eyes dropped again to her own hands. “The man wears latex surgical gloves, the ones with talcum inside to make them more comfortable, easier to slip on and off.”
    Somehow that detail chilled me more than all the rest. A rapist cold and calculating enough to don rubber gloves before touching his victims, like a dentist or a brain surgeon.
    â€œWhere do you think he gets them?”
    She shrugged. “He could buy or steal them from any one of a thousand places.”
    â€œDoes he say anything