Gladyss of the Hunt. Arthur Nersesian

this killer does this whole weird human sculpture thing.”

      “I remember this guy’s face pretty clearly.”

      “Well, he probably isn’t the murderer. The killer is obviously smart, or we would’ve caught him by now. And this murder officially makes him a serial killer.”

      “This is the third?”

      “The third that we know of, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there are others we don’t know about. Look at this weird shit.” He pointed to the corpse.

      “They’re all tall with blonde hair.”

      “Maybe his ex was tall?”

      “I think the reason he looks for tall gals is because of this whole structure he makes.” He pointed to the bound limbs. “He wants them nice and erect.”

      “She’s holding a card in her hand.”

      “Yeah, the last one had an expired Metrocard, and some tacky bracelet on her other wrist, too—but it really varies here.” He pointed to the poor woman’s skull. “In the first murder, he moved the head up over there, and he carved the number 9 on the vic’s forehead. The second one, he cut the number 2 on her forehead and put the head over there.” He pointed to the right.

      “It’s like some perverse work of art, isn’t it?”

      “Shit! I definitely should’ve had this joint staked out.”

      “How could you know he’d bring her here?”

      “It’s one of the only three places he could’ve brought her.”

      “Isn’t this area loaded with fleabag hotels?”

      “Not anymore. Everything’s either been zoned or priced up. Ten, fifteen years ago you could rent rooms by the trick, screw, strangle, and be out in twenty. But all the streetwalkers and car johns have moved online or up to Hunts Point.”

      “I’ve seen streetwalkers around here,” I said.

      “Yeah, you still get a few desperadoes along Lex—but all our vics are from escort services. And the hotels around here are strictly all-night affairs. Some of the rooms are three, four times the price of the girl. But aside from being one of the cheapest, this crap-ass dive is one of the last three hotels in the area that doesn’t even have a video setup in the lobby.”

      He let out a big sigh and muttered, apparently to himself. “Fuck, Bert would’ve had them all staked out—at least for a week after the last girl. Course, he had the power to authorize that and I don’t.”

      “Someone must have seen something.”

      “The clerk here said he had no recollection of the john, just the girl. We were luckier at the last scene. The clerk there clearly remembered the vic and her john.”

      The detective pulled out a creased sketch that looked eerily similar to the one I remembered of the Unabomber. He could’ve been anywhere from forty to sixty, and wore dark sunglasses and a loose hoodie.

      “How’d he pay for the room?’

      “A stolen credit card that didn’t lead anywhere.”

      “So what now?”

      “Well, now he’s going to have to leave his hunting ground—’cause we’re going to be waiting for him in all the old familiar places.”

      Looking at his wristwatch, Farrell said, “The medical examiner is still at a murder scene up in East Harlem. After he’s been here and checked out this body, you can call the morgue to come collect her. Then it’s the ME’s job. You can seal up the room.”

      “No one’s going to relieve me?”

      “You’re on a regular daytime shift, right?

      “Yes, sir.”

      “We’ll be done by the end of your shift.”

      Hopefully I could still make my evening yoga class.

      The detective snapped on a pair of latex gloves, took out his notebook, and started scribbling notes as he walked carefully around the room. Finally he took out a magnifying glass and inspected the floor.

      “This guy must’ve used a fucking drop cloth,” the detective said. “Forensics told me, but I had to see it for myself. Except for right here, there ain’t a drop of blood.”

      “Wouldn’t a lot of blood have pumped out when he decapitated her?”

      “Not when they’re already dead,” Bernie replied. “This guy drugs them, strangles them, and then beheads them. That’s a lot of time and energy.”

      “What does he slip them, roofies?”

      “Nah, you only use roofies if you want to keep them alive, and he doesn’t want to screw them. He gives them some cheap over-the-counter shit, then once they’re nodding off, he strangles them with his hands.”

      After a moment he asked, “So how long you been out of the academy?”

      “Six months.”

      “So you’re still a proby.”

      “Yes, sir,” I replied. Then I asked him back, “Do you always work on your own, sir?”

      “My squad was here earlier; they’re supposed to come back soon. I had the same partner for nearly twenty years. Bert died recently.”

      I suddenly remembered. “Oh! I might’ve found a clue.”

      I showed him the lipstick I’d found on the stairs. “It doesn’t match anything she’s wearing, but I thought it might possibly be evidence.” Still wearing his latex gloves, he carefully took the lipstick.

      “But you found this outside the room?”

      “Yes.”

      “You’re a crazy little go-getter, aren’t you? I like that.”

      He tossed the lipstick into the trash. “There’s a reason we have a crime scene. You can go crazy if you start on an endless scavenger hunt. Unless of course you find a gun. Those are always keepers.”

      “Sorry.” I’d hoped that my Kundalini had finally been turned on.

      “Most cops are fat and lazy, so you get points for trying.”

      “You said the other victims were all blondes?”

      “Yeah, why?”

      “And this girl’s pretty tall.”

      “Even without her head,” he joked.

      “So he must be calling escort services and asking for tall blondes.”

      “You figured that out, did you?”

      “I’m a tall blonde,” I said.

      “Chronou,” he read my name plate. “What are you, Greek?”

      “Yeah, why?”

      “Greeks are usually brunette.”

      “Not necessarily. If you read histories of ancient Greece, they are usually described as a blonde race.”

      “But how do I know you’re a natural blonde?” he said, sliding his unlit cigarette back into the pack.

      “Does this look like a dye job?” I said, plucking off my hat and ear warmers.

      “I don’t know how he knows,” the detective said earnestly, “but with all the vics, the carpet has always matched the drapes.”

      I wasn’t sure if he was kidding me, so I didn’t say anything. When I saw the helpful maid passing by, I introduced her to Detective Farrell without making eye contact with him.

      “You look familiar,” Farrell said. “I