Free Don't Look Now by Richard Montanari Page A

the back door. After some hand-to-hand combat Elliott collared the man and took him into custody as three patrol cars arrived at the scene.
    Elliott, fired up from the chase, emboldened by the act of besting the intruder, had no idea that a certain part of his anatomy was swinging in the breeze as he dragged the suspect to the patrol car – in plain view of at least thirty neighbors and six cops – his little back-up unit dangling freely from his unzipped station door.
    The nickname never went away.
    But you never said it to his face. Especially on a day like today. This day, Captain Randall Elliott had the look of a man with a ten-ton mayor on his back.
    The task-force was made up of five detectives, including Paris and Tommy Raposo. There was also Greg Ebersole and Cynthia Taggart, on loan from the Fourth. Last, last but not least – certainly not in his own opinion – there was Robert Dietricht, who seemed to be taking the news with a surprising amount of tact and team spirit. Paris wondered what he was up to.
    Five big-city detectives, combining their respective Rolodexes of informants, stool pigeons, crackheads, their networks of fringe players, cast a rather wide net, reaching far beyond the city or even the county’s borders. In all, it amounted to a few thousand people who, when push came to shove, could be pressed into action.
    In this case, push came to shove the moment the razor descended upon Karen Schallert.
    ‘We think we have a psychopath on the loose, people,’ Elliott said in his slaggy Midwest brogue, bringing the group to order. ‘Three women, nearly six months, no leads. And we’ve been averaging a half-dozen calls an hour since the
Plain Dealer
broke the story this morning. How do we tell them it’s okay to leave the house? Or that it’s okay to stop at the corner tavern for a drink?’ He turned and looked at Paris. It was Elliott’s awkward way of passing the baton.
    Paris rose, opened his portfolio. ‘Let me first brief you on what we have so far. All three women were white and in their twenties but, as you’ll see, they all looked much younger.’ He placed the crime-scene photos on the easel at the foot of the table. ‘Karen Schallert was twenty-three, Emily Reinhardt was twenty-four, Maryann Milius was twenty-two. They were all working women, no criminal records. No drugs, no gang affiliations, no intrigue.’ Paris placed the last of the photos on the easel and stepped to the side. ‘Neither Milius nor Reinhardt were seeing anyone special at the time of their deaths. Maryann Milius had an ex-boyfriend, but he has an airtighter in Phoenix the week of her murder. As far as Schallert goes, we haven’t interviewed her family yet as to the woman’s personal life.’
    ‘What about murder weapons?’ asked Cyndy Taggart.
    ‘It looks like a straight razor,’ Paris said. ‘All three had patches of skin removed, but Karen Schallert’s was the only one recovered at the scene. On it was a tattoo of a pair of roses. I spoke with Emily Reinhardt’s father and he told me she had a rose tattoo on her shoulder, which is consistent with the patch of skin that was missing.’
    ‘Were the other two patches of skin ever found?’ Dietricht asked.
    ‘No,’ Paris said. ‘What else appears to link these three murders is that the victims were all found with carefully applied make-up on their faces – powder, blush, lipstick, eye-shadow, the works. Reuben believes that in two of the cases the make-up was applied
after
the time of death. Lab’s working on a comparison study which we should have by Tuesday or Wednesday morning. The crime scenes were covered in prints and hair and fiber, along with everything else secreted in a cheap motel room, so it will be a while until it is all sorted out, if ever.’ Paris leaned against the wall. ‘All three women went out to a nightclub alone and were never seen alive again.’
    ‘It sounds like we’re going undercover,’ Greg Ebersole said.
    ‘I’m