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

mean he blends into the woodwork. He either belongs there or looks like he belongs there.”
    â€œMaybe he does.”
    â€œLike a security guard?”
    â€œWe’ve looked at some of them.”
    â€œWhat about recently paroled sex offenders? Or maybe one of the service companies hires prisoners on work release.”
    â€œWe’re checking; no lack of them either.”
    â€œWhat about the composite? The victims agree it looks like him?”
    â€œPretty much.”
    I scribbled furiously in my notebook. This was the first official confirmation that a police artist drawing had been done.
    â€œWhat about the psychological profile?”
    â€œNot for release to the media.”
    Yes! I thought. They’ve got one! “Why not?” I complained. “Half a million readers. Somebody out there might recognize him and drop a dime.”
    â€œDon’t ask me, ask the lieutenant.”
    â€œWhere does he carry the knife? Is it in a sheath?”
    â€œSome kind of bag—like a gym bag or carryon.”
    â€œThat must be where he puts the money and jewelry he takes from his victims.” We had reported that the women were also robbed. “You think he’s a rapist who robs, or a robber who rapes when he has the chance?”
    â€œA rapist. A lot of guys take jewelry to convince themselves they’re really robbers, not rapists, but the loot is strictly secondary with this guy. And that fits in with the other stuff he takes.”
    â€œWhat other stuff?”
    â€œWe ain’t saying.”
    â€œWhat do you mean? What other stuff? What else does he take?” No answer. I would have to coax the information out of him, bit by bit. “Harry?”
    His chair creaked as he changed position. “Yeah?”
    â€œHe takes their underwear?”
    â€œUmmm, not exactly.”
    â€œShoe fetish?”
    â€œNah. Let’s just say he takes selected items of their clothing.”
    â€œWhat for? Think he masturbates on them later, while he relives the rapes?”
    â€œWon’t know till we can ask him. Let’s just say the man likes souvenirs. But don’t you print that, Britt! You hear?” His stress level rose, infusing his weary voice with new energy. “He reads that, he’ll dump the evidence, and we need to catch him with it.”
    â€œHe knows what he took, Harry. Reading it would be no surprise to him.”
    â€œYeah, but he don’t know for sure that we know.”
    I sighed. My neck felt stiff and my head began to ache again. “What about his accent?”
    â€œThe two Spanish-speaking victims say he sounds Cuban.”
    â€œIs he circumcised?” American-born Cubans usually are, those born in Cuba are not.
    â€œNope.”
    â€œThink he’s a Marielito?”
    â€œPossible. Won’t know till we catch him.”
    â€œTattoos?”
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œWhere are they? What are they?”
    â€œBritt.” His tone was exasperated. “The lieutenant finds out I’m talking to you, I’ll wind up on the Squat Team for sure.”
    â€œSWAT?” I said hopefully.
    â€œNope, you heard me. Squat!”
    Mules arrived in Miami from Colombia, Bolivia, or Peru, their intestines and stomachs packed with cocaine-filled condoms. If they fit a certain profile—one clue was a Colombian peasant in a three-piece suit—Customs pulled them out of line to be X-rayed at County Hospital. Smugglers had a choice: immediate surgery or a powerful laxative. Most elected the latter. Their bodily functions were monitored by cops assigned to recover the drugs—the Squat Team. Police work is not all guns and glory.
    â€œThey wouldn’t do that to you, Harry.” I hoped he could not sense my grin. “You’re too good a detective.”
    â€œYeah, catch me talking to you? The lieutenant would freak, go on another goddamn rampage, and I wind up watching some—”
    â€œWhat