Rules of Prey by John Sandford Read Free Book Online Page B

Scotch tape: Never carry a weapon after it has been used.
    “He lives by those rules,” the medical examiner said. “He didn’t even pull the knife out, much less carry it anywhere.”
    “Note looks clean.”
    “Well, not quite. Hang on a second,” the medical examiner said. He peeled off the plastic gloves he was wearing, replaced them with a thinner pair of surgeon’s gloves, opened the baggie, and slipped the note halfway out.
    “See this kind of funny half-circle under the tape?”
    “Yeah. Print?”
    “We think so, but if you look, you can see there’s no print. But it’s sharply defined. So I think—” he wiggled his fingers at Lucas—“that he was wearing surgeon’s gloves.”
    “That says doctor again.”
    “It could. It could also say nurse, or orderly, or technician. And since you can buy the things at hardware stores, it could be a hardware dealer. Whoever he is, I think he wears gloves even when he’s sitting at home making these notes.So now we know something else: he’s a smart little cocksucker.”
    “Okay. Good. Thanks, Bill.”
    The medical examiner eased the note back in the bag. “Can we take her?” he asked, tilting his head at Lewis’ body.
    “Fine with me, if homicide’s finished.” A homicide cop named Swanson was sitting at a table in the kitchen, eating a Big Mac, fries, and a malt. Lucas stepped into the doorway of the bedroom and called across to him. “I’m done. Can they take her?”
    “Take her,” Swanson said around a mouthful of fries.
    The medical examiner supervised the movement, with Swanson ambling over to watch. They pulled the bag over her head, carefully avoiding the knife, and lifted her onto a gurney.
    Like a sack of sand, Lucas thought.
    “Nothin’ under her?” asked Swanson.
    “Not a thing,” said the medical examiner. They all looked at the sheets for a moment; then the medical examiner nodded at his assistants and they pushed the gurney out the bedroom door.
    “Lab’s coming through with a vacuum. They haven’t printed the furniture yet,” Swanson said. What he meant was: Don’t touch anything. Lucas grinned. “They’ll take the sheets down for analysis.”
    “I don’t see any stains.”
    “Naw, they’re clean. I don’t think there’s any hair, either. Took a close look, but she didn’t have any broken fingernails, didn’t look like anything balled up underneath them, no skin or blood.”
    “Shit.”
    “Yeah.”
    “I want to poke around out here a little. Anything critical?”
    “There’s the potato . . .”
    “Potato?”
    “Potato in a sock. It’s out in the living room.” Lucas followed him into the living room, and Swanson used his footto point under a piano bench. There was an ordinary argyle sock with a lump in one end.
    “We think he hit her on the head with it,” Swanson said. “First cop in saw it, peeked inside, then left it for the lab.”
    “Why do you think he hit her with it?” Lucas asked.
    “Because that’s what a potato in a sock is for,” Swanson said. “Or, at least, it used to be.”
    “What?” Lucas was puzzled.
    “It’s probably before your time,” Swanson said. “It used to be, years ago, guys would go up to Loring Park to roll the queers or down Washington Avenue to roll the winos. They’d carry a potato with them. Nothing illegal about a potato. But you put one in a sock, you got a hell of a blackjack. And it’s soft, so if you’re careful, you don’t crack anybody’s skull. You don’t wind up with a dead body on your hands, everybody looking for you.”
    “So how’d the maddog know about it? He’s gay?”
    Swanson shrugged. “Could be. Or could be a cop. Lots of old street cops would know about using a potato.”
    “That doesn’t sound right,” Lucas said. “I never heard of an old serial killer. If they’re going to do it, they start young. Teens, twenties, maybe thirties.”
    Swanson looked him over carefully. “You gonna detect on this one?” he