CRIMINAL INTENTIONS: Season One Episode One: THE CARDIGANS Page 2

  Malcolm wasn’t particularly fond of procedure.

  He eyed Zarate. “Did you show up just to make sure I’d behave?” When she said nothing, he tilted his head back, closing his eyes. “You could have told me over the phone.”

  “If I’d told you over the phone, you might have refused to come.”

  He opened his eyes and flung her a foul look. “I’m not that bad.”

  “Keep telling yourself that.” Zarate turned away, her long, swinging strides taking her back toward her car. “I’m heading into the office early. Since I’m up, I’m up. Be good.”

  “When am I ever not?”

  She only snorted—then paused, glancing over her shoulder. “Oh, and Malcolm?”

  “Yes?”

  “He outranks you. Be nice.”

  And while he stared, dismayed, she smirked and strutted merrily away, lifting a hand to throw a wave over her shoulder. Malcolm exhaled heavily.

  For fuck’s sake.

  But there was a dead kid in the alleyway, and new guy or not it was Malcolm’s job to do something about it. That kid probably had a family. Friends. Someone who loved him.

  Malcolm never made promises to catch the one who’d taken that light out of someone’s life. Not when it was too easy for people to get away, cases growing colder and colder after the first forty-eight hours.

  But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try.

  He crossed the threshold into the alley and circled the pool of blood making a corona around the stumps of the vic’s legs. Still wet, wet enough to throw back colored shimmers from the rainbow lights strobing the front of the club and spilling into the alley. He doubted the body was over an hour old.

  He sank into a crouch across from the new guy. The other man glanced up, his body tensing, his expression sharp and waiting. Malcolm flipped his badge from inside his coat, held it up long enough for the man to see, then diverted his attention to the body. Up close the ligature marks on the neck were even more obvious—narrow, overlapping lines in sawed-in bands that broke the skin in multiple places, abraded raw to let blood seep out, smear, and coagulate. Malcolm fished one of a half-dozen pairs of disposable clear vinyl gloves from his coat pocket and snapped them on, then pried the victim’s right eyelids apart. Red capillaries nearly swallowed the white, burst and spreading to touch the edges of darkened blue irises. Typical conjunctivitis by strangulation.

  He frowned and reached behind the body, fishing for his back pocket delicately, careful not to dislodge the position of the corpse’s limbs. Gingerly he slid two fingers in until he found the victim’s wallet, eased it—and barely caught a phone before it fell out with the wallet, angling it into his palm with the wallet still held between two fingers. He swiped the phone screen, but it was passcode-locked; the only notification on the lock screen was a text preview from The Moms asking r u planning 2 come home for Thksgvng?

  He slid the phone gingerly back into the victim’s back pocket, then flipped the wallet open. Those vacant blue eyes grinned up at him, now bright with arrogance above a cheesy, cocky smile. Darian Park. Twenty-one. God, barely even old enough to be in this damned bar. A University of Maryland student ID card was tucked in behind his license. A wad of twenties sat untouched in the billfold section, a Chase Bank debit card in the card holder.

  Death by strangulation, removal of the limbs for either fetishistic or vengeful reasons, no financial motivation, no attempt to conceal the identity of the victim.

  Fuck. This was going to be a hard one.

  The new guy hadn’t said a word, only continuing to study the body fixedly while Malcolm studied him. Pretty, but in a sort of vicious, foxlike way. No—not foxlike. He reminded Malcolm more of a feral cat that condescended to tolerate a human presence, but the moment that human came too close he’d be off with a hiss and a flick of his tail. Something about the tension of him, the intensity of his focus, the set of his jaw…

  Yeah. He was going to be a hard one, too.

  Malcolm propped his elbows on his knees, the victim’s wallet dangling from his fingertips. “What’s your take?”

  The other man didn’t answer, at first. He leaned in, hovering over the body, and caught the victim’s jaw in gloved fingertips, carefully tipping his head to one side to get a closer view at the neck.

  Then, “This was planned,” he murmured. He had a voice like silk and cigarette smoke, smooth and dark with a certain husky raw edge underscored by a faint, fluid hint of an accent Malcolm couldn’t quite place. “They came with tools to do this. Prepared in advance.” He flicked a sharp gaze at Malcolm, eyes so black they blended with the thick fan of his lashes, before looking back to the ligature marks on the victim’s throat. “Abrasions indicate steel wire used as a garrote, from the spiral pattern.” He released the victim’s jaw and plucked at the shredded, bloody edges of his jeans, peeling them back to expose the raw stumps. “I would gather, from the ragged edges, that the lower legs were removed with a hacksaw.”

  Malcolm eyed the grisly, chewed-up mess of the victim’s legs. Blood had crusted and coagulated in black, gelatinous clumps, clinging to muscle and fatty tissue so shredded it looked like pulled pork. He could hardly see the sawed-off ends of the femurs past the mangled tissue, but when he leaned in close he observed what looked like flat-sawed ends demonstrating subtle ridging, grooves that might come from a saw.

  “Sawtooth marks,” he said, then tilted his head as something caught his eye past the smears of blood on the unbroken skin above the cuts. He squinted. Pale sky blue was visible just above where the legs cut off, fragments that looked like they’d been drawn on the skin with marker only to be half-sawn through. “Marker. The perp marked before cutting.”

  “Likely measuring. Based on the proportions of the remains, the cuts were made precisely six inches above the kneecap.”

  “Risky behavior, doing this in an alley easily visible from the street.”

  The other man’s gaze flicked over the corpse, before he stripped one glove off with a snap of latex and pulled the sleeve of his coat back to bare his wristwatch. “I will need confirmation from forensics, but I would estimate time of death between an hour and an hour and a half ago based on coagulation. The range for time of death would either raise or minimize risk, depending on if the forensic examiner determines it was before or after last call.”

  “That gives the perp a narrow safe window. So we have either an opportunist or a risk-taker.”

  “Or both.”

  Malcolm lingered on the other man. Cool and calm even when looking at a legless, mutilated body. Focused. Precisely spoken, every word measured with thought and intent behind it. Either he had more experience than that smooth, unlined face indicated, or he was prone to detachment. Detachment had its own problems, but at least Malcolm wouldn’t have to deal with someone soft, untested, breaking down at the sight of some of the gruesome things perps did to dead bodies on these streets.

  It was hard enough for Malcolm to look at them, sometimes.

  He didn’t think he had it in him to coddle someone else.

  Especially not someone who looked as young as this one did. He had to be early thirties at the latest, at least ten years Malcolm’s junior.

  He frowned, flipping the wallet open again and rifling through. “Both would indicate the victim was selected specifically, rather than the easiest available target.”

  “Which would lead one to believe the perpetrator was someone who knew his habits well enough to know he would be here near last call, and would step out for a cigarette.” That red blossom of a mouth settled into a frown. “Wallet, cards, and money untouched. He is still wearing an expensive bracelet. He was the motivator, not his belongings.”

  “So we’re looking at a premeditated murder with a specific target.”

  “It is a possibility.”

  “Other possibilities?”

  The man made a rough sound in the back of his throat. “Have you recently dealt with any other murders of gay or bisexual young men involving missing body parts?”

  Malcolm tilted his head back, flicking through the last few months of cases, flashing crime scene photos through his mind’s eye. “Yes, gay or bisexual men. Four of them. No missing body parts. They were classed as hate crimes or crimes of passion. Two, accidents.”

  “Where any others garroted?”

  “One. Another college student, if I’m remembering the right case.”

  The man stood, unfolding himself and dusting off the black jeans clinging to long legs. He snapped his other glove off and bundled it with the first, then slipped both into his coat pockets along with both hands. “I would like to see the case file.”

  Malcolm stood as well, looking at the other man—and looking up. He blinked. That…didn’t happen often. At six foot one he outstripped average height, but the new guy had a couple of inches on him.

  The man was watching him, waiting expectantly. Malcolm fought back a grimace. Behave, he told himself. “I’d like to know your name.”

  “Yoon,” he answered after an almost calculated moment of consideration.

  Malcolm fished in his pocket for one of his rolling stock of evidence bags, slotted the victim’s wallet in, and tucked it into his coat before peeling his own gloves off and offering his hand. “Khalaji.”

  Black eyes flicked down to his hand, then back up to his face. Yoon’s hands remained firmly in his coat pockets. “The case file?”

  Malcolm closed his eyes and breathed in deep.

  Be. Nice.

  “At the office,” he said, letting his hand fall and retreating a step, opening his eyes again. “I want to spend a little time with the crime scene, first.”

  He took a few more strides back, letting himself get a wider view from deeper in the alley. Yoon obligingly stepped aside, leaving Malcolm’s line of sight clear. He let his gaze unfocus, just taking in the full picture, letting it solidify before he scanned for details.

  Cigarette butt in a puddle from early evening rainfall. Probably the vic’s, from the position of the fall and proximity to the body. Barely burned down at all, not scuffed or stubbed. Mental note to have forensics bag it for DNA swabbing. Dumpster off-kilter, angle indicating movement by force. Darian Park had kicked it, Malcolm thought. There’d been no one in front of him, so when he’d kicked out, when he’d struggled, he’d hit the dumpster. There were two, small ones to either side of the rear exit door. The other was unmoved.

  The door itself was metal, once painted, now rusted down to peeling, jagged flakes, the topmost layer so corroded it curled back in dangerously sharp edges that could easily cut. Dark stains on those edges. Could be current or old bloodstains. Another check for forensics. Possibility of perp’s blood, if they’d come up behind the vic only to be slammed back against the door as Darian struggled.

  And brightly-colored scraps of thread, caught on those jagged metal edges.

  “What do you see?” Yoon asked.

  “He didn’t feel like he was in danger,” Malcolm answered, finally letting his gaze circle back to the body. “He had no reason to. Either he knew the person who killed him, or he didn’t even see it coming. There’s not a single other offensive mark on the body.” He circled the corpse, drifting closer to Yoon. “Either they were strong enough to overpower him, or small enough that they had to use guile over strength. And there’s this.” He stopped next to Yoon—and next to the club’s rear exit. “Look.”

  Yoon leaned in, peering at the threads—pastel blue, soaked in mottled reddish-black. “Not the victim’s. His shirt is not torn.”

  “Could be a lead. What do you see?”

  Yoon paused, his brows knitting, lips parting. He hesitated long moments, then said, “This feels…intimate. There was no hate here.” He sank down into a crouch once more, the crow descending, gaze locked on the victim’s legs. “I do not believe the legs were a trophy, but the killer wanted them for a reason. This is messy, but there is an aspect of…” He shook his head. “…care. That is the only word I can think of. They were careful, even if hasty.”

  Hm. Malcolm rubbed his fingers over his beard, tugging at the strands. “You think there’s a serial sexual component to it?”

  “I am not certain yet.”

  “We need to figure out before someone else crops up missing an arm or a leg.”

  Yoon flicked a cutting glance over his shoulder. “We?”

  “I’m the ranking detective in the BPD homicide unit.” Malcolm inclined his head. “Well. Was. But the Captain thinks we need to work together on this. I mostly work Central, but go wherever the Captain sends me. Apparently where she sent me, tonight, is with you.”

  Yoon studied him with a long, impenetrable look—his gaze completely unreadable, expression that closed, wary withdrawal that made Malcolm think so much of a feral cat. He wasn’t sure if Yoon was assessing how best to eviscerate him, or calculating an escape route.

  But in the end all Yoon did was nod, turning away with a brief, dispassionate, “Ah.”

  Malcolm lingered on the tight line of Yoon’s shoulders as the other man moved to the mouth of the alleyway and stood, quietly looking out. He was a single captured moment, a stillness amidst the chaos and noise, a dark ghost in the world of the living. Monochrome in his paleness and dark clothing, standing poised as if the crow would take flight—or the spirit would fade away, as dead as the boy lying blank and empty on the pavement. Haunting, Malcolm thought.

  No, he corrected as Yoon turned his head, gaze fixed somewhere across the street, the colored lights reflecting off the stark lines of his cheekbones, his jaw.

  Haunted.

  Fuck. He shouldn’t be trying to figure out his cipher of a new partner when he had a case to work. He needed coffee, focus, and a lead.

  The flash of a camera warned him forensics was here, and doing their thing. They’d want him out of the way. He followed Yoon to the mouth of the alley, but stopped as one of the forensic photographers—a short, bubbly blond woman he’d worked with before, Stenson, crack shot at crime scene analysis—edged past Yoon with her camera pressed to her eye. He leaned over, lightly touching her shoulder.

  “Bloodied material fibers on the door. Cigarette in the puddle. If you could tag and bag and send them for priority analysis…”

  “You’re lucky you’re pretty enough to ask me for favors, Mal.” She snorted and nudged him with her elbow. “Get out of my crime scene.”

  “Sweet talker. Don’t forget to get the phone to Sade. Back left pocket.”

  He pulled away and caught up with Yoon, and took a moment to just…breathe. Standing at the other man’s side, he let himself breathe, looking up at a sky turned the flat matte black of night’s darkest hour.

  “This is more than a simple hate crime,” Malcolm murmured. “But I’m not quite clear on what it is, either. Let’s leave forensics to do their work. You wanted that case file.” He glanced toward Yoon. “Did you drive?”

  “Cab,” Yoon answered tersely.

  Malcolm tossed his head toward his Camaro. “We can take my car. Come on.”

  “We have yet to interview the owner or the staff.”

  They won’t give us anything useful, Malcolm almost said. They never do. Not when they’re this rattled and confused. They’re high on adrenaline, emotion, fear. They’re afraid the person standing next to them might be the sick fuck who garroted a boy in a back alley, then sawed his legs off. Their memories are clouded and won’t settle until morning.

  He’d rather let the uniforms take names and numbers, and follow up later.

  The killer wasn’t in that crowd. They’d run off with the legs. No way they’d have had time to stash the body parts and make their way back. Witness interviews right now were a waste of time.

  But Yoon was still watching him. That same expectant look, that same coolly assessing stare. Malcolm had been right.

  Stickler for the rules.

  He sighed, then forced a smile. His mouth didn’t want to move, but he felt a faint twitch. “All right. I’ll take the owner if you take the bouncers. We can split the wait staff.” Yoon started to open his mouth, but Malcolm held up a hand to stop him. “It’s faster if we split it up.”

  Yoon’s eyes narrowed, before he nodded. “As you say,” he said, and brushed past Malcolm. Malcolm stared at his back, at the way he moved like crossed blades in motion.

  God, he hoped he solved this case fast.

  [3: A BRIDGE IN MADAGASCAR]

  SEONG-JAE YOON WROTE DOWN ONE more name—Shane Johnson—and phone number, marked down bartender, remembers serving rainbow vodka shooters to victim, and starred the entry in his notebook. He would like to return to the bartender, he thought, and ask more about who had hovered around the bar when the victim had claimed his drinks. It was possible the victim had been drugged. Rohypnol in a very small amount might not have rendered the victim unconscious, but it would have left him sluggish, pliable, and quite easy to overpower.

  But Seong-Jae would wait until the toxicology reports came back, before he pursued that avenue of thought.

  He clipped his pen into the spiral binding of his notebook and lifted his head, searching for Khalaji. What an…odd man, Seong-Jae thought, as he watched Khalaji speak with a slim young man in the uniform t-shirts of the club staff. Khalaji carried himself like an old and battle-torn wolf, grave and fierce and solemn, the last one left of his pack and yet determined to defend his territory to the death, even when he could barely stand. His crisp, neat slacks, button-down, tie, and suit coat didn’t match the impression he gave off; the wolf in sheep’s clothing, right down to the old trench of a scar starting high on his temple and snaking in a jagged line through one severe brow, skipping over his eye, picking up at the cragged line of his cheekbone to leave an indelible mark on tanned, rugged skin.

  The exhaustion of the late night was clear in the shadows beneath his eyes, in the messy tangle of a sweep of darkened silver hair that still retained a few highlights of chestnut here and there, caught up in a tie, tendrils falling into his weathered face to mingle with his grizzled beard.