Free GHOST_4_Kindle_V2 by Wayne Batson Page B

Is that what this is…a murder weapon?”
    I ignored the question. “How is this one different from the Rumbelow knife?”
    “It’s longer for one thing.” He went back to the mustache. “In fact, that’s the most curious aspect of this instrument. It’s so long. We have sales reps roll through here all the time. They buy us lunch or pastries and show us their new state-of-the-art equipment. I’ve seen any number of strange implements. Long, short, curved, backward—you name it. But few bladed instruments this long. I can see why some might compare it to the Ripper weapon. It’s quite old. Turn-of-the-century, maybe.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “The casing for one thing,” he said, tracing his finger along a seam in the metal. “It’s not very streamlined, is it? The housing would be completely sealed on anything made in the last forty years. But I think this is older than that. Notice the brass knob? That’s old school. Very old school.”
    “What’s it for, the knob?”
    “You ever use an X-ACTO knife?” I nodded, and he went on. “It’s like that. Turn the knob and the blade slides back into the housing.”
    “Would a surgeon need that feature?”
      He smacked his lips and shook his head. “Not likely. Not these days. We don’t need to adjust the length of the blade. We just ask for a different blade. I’m rather wondering if this instrument might be something other than surgical in nature.”
    “Like what?”
    “I’m not certain.” He gave the mustache a few more twirls. “And so…”
    “You won’t say till you’re certain.”
    “Right.” He raised an eyebrow wryly. “I might know someone who could tell me. Can I keep this photo for a few days?”
    I sighed inwardly. “If it will help.”
    “I can’t promise you much,” Shepherd said. “But I’ll look into it and get back to you with whatever I learn. What’s your cell number?”
    “I’m staying at the Destin Motel 6.”
    “They leave the light on for you?”
    Funny doctor. “I’m in room seven. Just leave a message at the desk.”
    “For?”
    “I’m sorry,” I said, feigning embarrassment. I hesitated a moment. I’d rented the room under one name and given an alias as well. Better to stick to basics. “John Spector,” I said, standing.
    He stood and offered his hand.  
    We shook and he said, “You never explained what kind of crime this was related to. Murder, I presume?”
    “The victims were all young women,” I replied. “The killer used the blade in the photo to cut their throats.”
    “It would certainly work for that.” He had what looked like an involuntary shiver. Then, he frowned.  
    “What?” I asked.
    “Well, any surgical blade would do for cutting a throat,” he said. “One this size would be harder to manipulate, a bit more ungainly. Makes me wonder. With all the sharp blades out there, why this one?”
    I sat up a little straighter in my chair. “Thank you, Doc,” I said. “That feels like a very important question.”  
    He nodded but looked uncomfortable. “You’d think that being a surgeon, I might not be bothered by something like that. But I am.” He removed his wire glasses, and his eyes looked even more owlish, owlish and sad. “You look like you’ve been at your job for a long time,” he said. “Not that you look old, Officer Spector. Just seasoned. What I mean is, after all you’ve seen, does it…does it still bother you?”
    “Yes,” I said. “It bothers me very much.”

Chapter 9

    The hotel manager, Mr. Granderson, was so startled by Deanna Rezvani that he stepped backward into the old room key cubbies.  
    “FBI?” he said, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He rubbed the back of his head, then removed his glasses and wiped sweat that instantly beaded on his forehead. “I…I don’t understand. Has something happened? Big Dave’s not going to like this.”
    “Big Dave?” Rez echoed, slipping her ID back into her suit pocket.
    “He’s regional manager.