Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) (32 page)

“
Whoa
!
”
 
I hold up a hand.  This feels familiar, like the lecture on ecchymotioca, or suck marks.
 “I’
ve had a really long day.  Could you run that past me again
?
”

“
TIDBIT
,”
Bite Doc says, sarcastic, condescending.
 “
Use the acronym for tri-instrument dental beam identification tomography, if i
t’
s easier for you
.
”

And then he explains TIDBIT. 

Squelching another urge to strangle him, I review what h
e’
s explained to make sure
I’
ve got it.
 “
So you can actually use . . . TIDBIT to measure the ridges of the per
p’
s teeth in 3-D and prove i
t’
s him doing the biting?  With mathematical certainty
?”
I add.
 “
So our jur
y’
s convinced
?
”  

“
We could show beyond a reasonable doubt in any criminal case
,”
Bite Doc says, correcting me
,“
that your perp made these wounds, once you have him in custody, bu
t
—”

I pick up on the uncertainty in his voice, but I let it pass.
 “
Doc, how do you think h
e’
s making the feet-like patterns in our vic
s
’ skin
?
”

“
As I explained, h
e’
s making his own molds and using them to custom make grill
s
—”

“
Right
,”
I say.
 “
I get that part, but where do you think h
e’
s learning how to
make
them
?
”

Bite Doc scrapes a cauliflower ear with the scalpel. 
I’
m making him uncomfortable on purpose with my questioning.
 
His dentition and Megalo Do
n’
s do
n’
t match, and tha
t’
s good for the doc.  But the per
p’
s been using homemad
e“
grills
,”
like an orthodontic patien
t’
s retainer, that leave bite wound patterns shaped like feet in his vic
s
’ shoulders.  Someone like Bite Doc, with enough experience, could disguise his bite pattern with a custom grill. 

But Bite Doc has argued well that the perp was
n’
t trying to hide his bite, that he used the grills as sexual apparatus to get off while murdering his vics.  I get that, too, but it still does
n’
t exonerate Bite Doc.  Tha
t’
s exactly what
I’
d say if I were the perp.  Or Bite Doc. 

While fairly certain the do
c’
s dentition can disprove him as a suspect,
I’
m taking no prisoners and no chances.
 “
Continue
,”
I say, sounding like a prison guard granting an inmate permission to piss. 

“
His molds are rudimentary
,”
Bite Doc says
,“
so he is acquiring enough knowledge on his own to make them.  But since he is obviously not an expert, he mus
t—
in order to obtain materials for his mold makin
g—
know someone with connections in forensic dentistry
.
”

A little frisson of fear ripples my back. 
Someone like Alaina Colby.
 
Who does she know with a foot fetish and a penchant for violent sadistic sex?  How close is she to him?  How close is she to becoming his next victim?

“
So what is the problem with using TIDBIT to get the 3-D impressions and nail this bastard?  Can we do it like . . . yesterday
?
”

Bite Doc gives me a scornful look.
 “
I have no laser scanner
,”
he snorts.
 “
Those cost money
.
”

What the hell?  H
e’
s genuinely offended, although I ca
n’
t figure why.  H
e’
s wealthy enough to buy such a laser scanner.  Like the name Hawks, Verbote also bespeaks wealth in Cincinnati.  Old wealth.  For a second, I want to rush out and find one, but
I’
m certain commercial laser scanners are
n’
t standard shelf stock at Wal-Mart.  So far Bite Doc has
n’
t mentioned anything about me buying him a new microscope, even though
I’
ve lost that bet. 
I’
m not adding a laser scanner to his grocery list. 

“
Listen, Doc. 
I’
m going to accept for now what yo
u’
ve shown me as proof w
e’
ve got the same guy biting both women, but I need evidence that will hold up in court
.
” 

Pacing, I toss the monkey wrench
I’
ve been saving into Bite Do
c’
s theory.  I point to the photos displaying onscreen.
 “
What happens if you add flesh to the messy gray area of your bite mark picture
s—?
”

“
Renderings
,”
Bite Doc corrects
,“
the
y’
re called renderings, not pictures
.
”

“
Yeah, okay, whatever.  So if you do that to your
renderings
of the bite marks on our vic
s
’ skin, then it gets even murkier in court, does
n’
t it
?
”

Bite Doc nods slowly, hating with all his geeky heart to have to agree with me.
 “
Yes
.
”

I smile.  Maybe I do
n’
t know computers, but in a fact-sorting dog fight,
I’
m the Red fucking Baron.  Skin is elastic.  It behaves in unpredictable ways when bitten.  Any good, or even a sub-par Cincinnati criminal defense attorney, will pounce on Bite Do
c’
s evidence.  The
y’
ll get the case tossed out of court, and then Megalo Don will be back out on the street, biting and killing young women.  

“I’
ll get these to the FB
I’
s crime lab
,”
Bite Doc says, looking defeated and, also, done with me. 

I nod and glance at my watch.  1:15 a.m.  By now, DeeDe
e’
s fit to be tied.  Meyers?  H
e’
s ready to shoot me.

Bite Doc will send his photo
s—
his
rendering
s
—
along with his report to the FB
I’
s Scientific Analysis Section.  The hair and fiber division will run a check to see if any other impressions in their database match Megalo Do
n’
s.  In a few days,
I’
ll get back results.  But that might be too late for Alaina, who I now fear could be Megal
o’
s next victim.  Like Angie Miller, sh
e’
s a dancer at Oma
r’
s, and she has access to the materials Megalo needs to create his bizarre foot-shaped grills. 

“
Thanks, Doc.  While yo
u’
re at it, shoot me a file with the photo of your dentition
.
”

He frowns.
 “
Why do you want it? 
I’
ve shown you my teeth.  They do not match Megalo Do
n’
s
.
”

I give him my wicked-badass cop smile.  I appreciate Bite Do
c’
s attempt to excuse himself as the killer
I’
m after, but tha
t’
s my job.
 “
I
t’
ll help rule you out as a suspect
.
”

“
Sure, sure
,”
he says, surly.
 “
Take the rear exit out of the building
,”
he adds, and then turns his back, dismissing me.   

Outside, I sprint down the treacherous front steps of Verbote Dental to Echo Street.  Did I make the right call coming to Bite Do
c’
s first?  W
hat do I really have?
 

I’
ve got signature. 

With Do
c’
s help,
I’
ve made tentative case linkage, yet
I’
ve got zero evidence from either a crime scene or from a suspect. 

I’
ve also got no forensic evidence to identify Megalo Don as the one specific suspect in Meer
a’
s and Angie Mille
r’
s murders, or my most recent third vi
c’
s.

I’
d give my own eye-teeth for some DNA from that bastard, Megalo Don.

Lowering myself into the Buick, I start the ignition and then buckle myself in.  But even with DNA, impossible to get as long as Megalo Don wears those grills the way some perps wear condoms, catching him is going to come down to motive.  Wha
t’
s driving him?  Why is he chewing up women and dumping their bodies? 

And i
t’
ll also come down to crime scene analysis.  Why Oma
r’
s?  Why not the Brass Ass as a secondary crime scene?  Or for that matter, why not dump his vics behind the City Building? 

Finally, now that Bite Doc has positively identified both Angie Mille
r’
s and Meer
a’
s murderer as Megalo Don, I have one more question: who the hell is Meera?  

“
Maybe I shoul
d’
ve gone to the crime scene first
,”
I mumble, flooring the Buick and giving myself a mental kick.  This is no time for second guessing myself.

Chapter 29

When I promised God
I’
d do bette
r—
even quit cussin
g—
if h
e’
d save me from the thugs back at Stok
e’
s apartment, I migh
t’
ve acted hastily.  Th
e“
thug
s”
were
n’
t thugs at all.  They turned out to be college students.  One of them was Brent Treadwell, who lives in the same building with Stoke and is in Professor Levi
n’
s criminology class with me.  He was heading for campus, when he and friends caught up with me.

“
Dang, girl, remind me not to run a marathon with you
,”
Brent had said.
 “
Need a ride home? 
I’
m going your way
.
”

I’
d accepted his ride.  Nice guy, that Brent, but did I need to give away my apartment address so h
e’
d know where I live?

I did not. 
I’
d instead made him drop me off here in front of the bus stop a few blocks from my apartment. That, too, migh
t’
ve been too hasty a decision.  I look around, thinking I shoul
d’
ve let Brent drive me right up to my front doorstep.  Ther
e’
s a lone industrial-strength steel bench standing on a deserted concrete platform.  Tha
t’
s all.  Sadly, my foo
t’
s bawling like a teething baby, and two new guys have fallen in step behind me. 

What luck I have.  All I want to do is make it back to my apartment and get a shower.  I know I should
n’
t go to work tonight, but
I’
ve thought it over. 
I’
ll do it for An
g—
in her honor. 

Where are the freaki
n
’ people?
 

Dumb question.  No on
e’
s out here tonight, not anyone who does
n’
t have to be.

I hurry past the bus stop, hating my paranoia.  Two more guys ease from behind a hedge row and join the two following me.  Picking up speed, I limp the last block to my apartment building.  With the shadowy thugs on my tail, I recall Stok
e’
s warning. 
I
t’
s dark, Alaina.  Yours is a really bad neighborhood.  Remember what happened to Angie.

Screw Stoke.  This is my home turf.  Refusing to be intimidated, I pull my shiv, feeling more secure.  Knives are a Colby tradition. 
I’
m ready for a rumble if it becomes necessary.

Contemplating how
I’
m about to knife at least one of my four shadows, I recall my promise. 
I’
d promised to do better if God would get me safely out of Stok
e’
s neighborhood.  He did, but now
I’
m wondering if
I’
ve run out of prayers.  The guys following me are not friendly classmates like Brent.  Keeping my word is going to be a challenge.
 “
Fuck
,”
I mumble, breaking into a full-out run, pumping my arms and legs. 

My shadows give chase, and I hear one yell
,“
Get her
!
” 

When I arrive in front of my apartment building, I stop, shaking with rage.  Hearing my guys arrive on my heels, I turn.
 “Y’
all want a piece of this
?
”
 
I poke my chest and snarl, then hold up my shiv, hoping the
y’
ll think
I’
m crazy enough to use it, which I am under these circumstances.
 “
Well,
c’
mon.  See if you can get it
.
”

They stop, gaze at me.  These are
n’
t your average teens with acne and Gap clothes and iPhones.  I recognize them as a local knot of skinheads wh
o’
ve taken to patrolling this neighborhood, claiming it as their turf.  I hold my ground, ready to kill someone, anyone.  When I glance toward my apartment, I forget about the skinheads. 

No.  It ca
n’
t be.  It ca
n’
t be.

The big red and white Coca-Cola truc
k’
s parked by the curb.  I take a second look.  It simply ca
n’
t b
e
—

The skinheads spot the truck the same time I do.  Lucky me, its scrap metal means more to them than robbin
g—
or doing wors
e—
to me.  They can sell its steel and aluminum, and then use the money to buy dope and guns. 

“
God
dan
g
—”

I catch myself. 
I’
ve promised: no cursing.
 “
God
,”
I say, opening dialogue with this Heavenly Father Bric
k’
s always mentioning, hoping I can negotiate a way to renege on my temporary conversion
,“I’
ll
try
to do better if you make that truck disappear
.
”

“
She-it, no problem
,”
the skinhead leader says, thinking
I’
m speaking to him.
 “
We can do that for a sweet little baby doll like you. 
I’
m gonna take care of business, the
n
—”

He gyrates his hips, grabs his crotch.

“
—I’
ll be back and take care of you, little mama
.
”

“F—
uh, screw you
.
”
 
Ignoring him, I limp close and circle the truck to make sure this is the same one Stoke and I jacked last night. 
Same license plate number.
 

In the moonlight, the big Peterbil
t’
s red paint takes on a bluish glow.  I walk up front and climb up on the bumper and feel the hood, watching the skinheads start their attack on the truc
k’
s wheels.  The engine makes the usual cooling noises, like a big dog snuffing. 

I turn and scan the street, searching for Stoke.  The skinheads are all over the truck, two bellying under the frame and one removing the tags with a battery operated screwdriver, another drilling down on the wheels.  The
y’
ll strip it bare.

“
Damn you to hell, Stoke Farrel
,”
I curse, unable to help myself and hoping God does
n’
t mind if I sa
y“
dam
n”
an
d“
hell
.
” 

“
Damn you, damn you, damn you
.
” 

My shiv still at the ready just in case the skinheads decide
I’
m a more delectable morsel than the Coke truck, I sprint for my apartment building. 

Hearing the snick of the big glass and aluminum security door locking behind me when I make it, I stand in the foyer of my apartment building and watch the skinheads start dismantling the truck.  Neighborhood groups have made headway cleaning it up, but my tur
f’
s still down-at-the-heels and stinks of rotgut whiskey and urban decay and poverty.  But i
t’
s home.  I do
n’
t want to sound happy about the skinheads tearing down the truck, but I have one goa
l—
after I find and kill Stoke Farre
l—
and that is to make that truck disappear.

Limping down the steps to my basement apartment, I scour the hallway looking for Stoke.  H
e’
s the last person I want to see, yet
I’
m determined to have it out with him once and for all.  Our friendshi
p’
s becoming too much work.  I keep pushing him back, but he keeps taking things for granted, things about us that are
n’
t real.  Ang, may she rest in peace, was right.  He wants me.

I like him as a friend, but ther
e’
s no way Stoke and I are gonna tango. 
I’
m sick of fighting to make my point.  Why does
n’
t he freaki
n
’ get it?

Shivering, I ignore the stench of weed flooding the grimy hallway and burning my throat.  Even at this hour, my classmates are up smoking blunt or studying.  Gritting my teeth, I feel the shi
v’
s cold steel against my palm, so I caress the little button tha
t’
ll release the blade. . . . 

I am so very pissed. 
Wh
y’
d Stoke maul me like that back at his place?  Why would
n’
t he let me inside his apartment?  If I kill him, where can I hide the body?
 

Then I remember:
I’
ve promised God
I’
ll do better.  Does that include not murdering Stoke?

I unlock my apartment door.  The second
I’
m inside, I close my eyes and drop my shiv on the floor on top of my backpack.
 “
Yo, Rob, you home
?
”

I
t’
s obvious h
e’
s not here. 
I’
m so exhausted I do
n’
t even bother closing the door or flipping on the lights.  Standing in my apartmen
t’
s dark entry, backlit by light streaming in the open door from the overhead light in the hallway, I do what
I’
ve been doing this whole semeste
r—
my entire life.  I dance, relaxing and allowing myself the mental and physical space I need to practice my routine
I’
ve been practicing for my jump-the-line tryout video.  This is the only me time I ever get.  Like a starved woman with a glass of milk, I lap it up.

Doing a quick mental walk-through of my routine to warm up, I pick a song: 200
2’
s
Land of Forever
.  I imagine the music, and when I finally feel it playing in my head I ease into the work that is more essential to me than breathing.

My barre positions.

Standing next to my barre, a long piece of PVC I screwed into the wal
l’
s studs with lag bolts, I stand
en pointe
.  Then I stretch, ease down into a
demi-pl
ié
, letting my muscles soar up towar
d—
forever.  And then down,
pl
ié
, and up.  And down.   

I so freaki
n
’ need this, especially since I did
n’
t make it to dance class today.

Moving with 200
2’
s music, I relax and feel my breathing, the strength returning to my muscles.  My aching foot relaxes, too, becoming winged.  The release feels magical.  I am the Alaina Colby I dream of one day becomin
g—
girl on her own, girl with plans and dreams and no obstacles.  In this magical land of forever, nobody cares
I’
m from Goshen, Ohio.  Nobod
y’
s yellin
g“
off the pole
.
”
 
No police are banging at my door searching for Robin.  I
t’
s just me, the music, and my dance.

Slowly, I relax into another full
pl
ié
. 

And hold. 

I’
m ready to make my future into what I want, not what Berta told me it would never be. 

As I rise slowly and stretch, my feet locked
en pointe
, I stop.

Wh
o’
s sitting on my couch?

My heart leaps and then dives to my ankles.  The dim light filtering in from the hallway backlights a man, his face obscured in shadows.

“
Wh
o’
s there
?”
I whisper.