Savage Art (A Chilling Suspense Novel) Read Free Page B

capture whatever looked like evidence. Their expressions were varying shades of grim as they surveyed the crime scene. Outside crimes were tougher—the actual scene harder to define than inside a living room or a bar.
    Here, dispersed among the trash, might be the one clue that allowed the police to pinpoint the killer. And that same clue may have been swept away by a simple breeze, or carried off by a small animal or even a bum looking for food hours before. Thankfully, it hadn't rained—yet. With the heavy rains of this season, the scene's preservation could have been nil. Jordan should have felt lucky, but nothing about the situation felt lucky.
    "Interesting setup," Al Ting, head of the crime scene team, announced as he bent down and pulled a pair of rubber gloves from a box.
    Jordan nodded, knowing Ting meant familiar. And familiar in crime scenes was not often coincidence.
    As always, Al Ting wore a starched white shirt, buttoned to the collar, and a pair of pressed khakis.
    Raised in San Francisco's Chinatown by a couple who ran a local grocery store, Al was meticulous from head to toe. As a young kid, his chore had been to clean his parents' store, and Jordan imagined Ting must have taken the job very seriously. Thin, round, gold wire-frame glasses sat flat to his cheeks.
    Each of his lab coats was monogrammed with his initials. It was rumored he did this to prevent the other technicians from picking up his coats. But even without the monogram, it would be easy to tell if they had. Somehow Ting was the only one on the team consistently able to get the bloodstains from messy crime scenes out of his clothes. He always joked that as a Chinaman, it was his heritage to know a good cleaner.
    Al had been head of the crime scene investigations group for as long as Jordan had been on the force. While Al didn't seem to have aged a day, the fifteen years made Jordan feel at least thirty years older. Al's meticulous nature and sharp eye made him an invaluable asset. And Jordan was counting on him now more than ever.
    Al looked up and started directing. "Let's take it in a grid formation—divide it in sixths, everyone does two and then we rotate. I want each quadrant looked over twice."
    Jordan interrupted. "Also, I think we may have a partial print to the right of the body along the fence." He pointed to a small patch of mud and the corner of what looked like a tennis shoe track. "Can we get someone to cast that before we step on it?"
    Al nodded to one of the technicians. "Deborah, can you handle that one, please."
    The woman nodded and headed back to the van.
    Another technician moved around the body, a heavy camera covering his face as he recorded the body's resting spot. Al followed close behind, confirming which shots should be captured.
    Normally, it was the supervising inspector's role to direct the evidence technicians and the forensic photographer. But Ting was the best, and Jordan watched him work in silence, adding only a rare request for something Al failed to notice.
    "M.E.'s on his way," Jordan said when the photographer was done, knowing there would be nothing else to do until the medical examiner moved the body. Jordan was praying this crime was a copycat, but he wouldn't know until the evidence was documented and analyzed. Still, he sensed the girl's leg would tell him. The party hat and bandaged head could be the work of a copycat, but only the killer would know his signature.
    Just then, Jordan saw Ray Zambotti, the medical examiner, pushing through the crowd. Ray was a short, heavyset man with skin so pale it was almost blue like skim milk. He had been given the nickname "Skim" for this reason.
    Ray shook his head, the bluish-purple circles beneath his eyes more enlarged than normal.
    "Sorry for the late call."
    "The dead never sleep," Zambotti said, laughing at his own joke.
    "Right."
    Impatient, Jordan crossed his arms and waited as Ray strutted around the body, waving his arms. "Bled to death. Look how