THE HUNTED
Copyright © Alan Jacobson

From the bestselling author of False Accusations

"The Hunted is a wild page-turning ride. It's a
well put-together, well thought-out book,
one that I guarantee you will not put down." 
                                                     --NATIONAL PUBLIC RADIO 

Prologue

August

The United States Attorney stood on the courthouse steps, the hot August air oppressively still and heavy with humidity. Reporters were gathered around him, microphones and cassette recorders shoved toward his drawn face.
     "I only have a brief statement for you. At twelve-thirty this afternoon, Judge Richard Noonan held a hearing on newly discovered evidence in the Anthony Scarponi murder conviction of six years ago. The defense has secured what Judge Noonan has determined to be a credible witness who can provide evidence of Mr. Scarponi's innocence. Collaterally, the Department of Justice has failed to locate former FBI Agent Harper Payne, who was the central witness for the government in the original trial. As a result, Judge Noonan has ordered the release of Mr. Scarponi on two million dollars bail pending the scheduling of a new trial."
     A flurry of questions burst forth from the press corps. Instead of answering them, the U.S. Attorney turned and walked back up the courthouse steps. A screaming headache was beginning to take shape, and the last thing he needed was two dozen journalists asking the one question he had been asking himself repeatedly the past several days: how could this have happened?

September

The apartment was a sparsely decorated studio on the outskirts of Washington, D.C., secured by contacts he had maintained while incarcerated in the maximum security prison in Petersburg, Virginia. He had hoped the day would come when he would be out on his own again, free to roam the streets like a jaguar prowling for its next quarry.
     Anthony Scarponi knew that to have true freedom, the tiny device implanted in his buttock had to be removed. Foreign physicians would perform such a procedure without asking questions, but to find one in the United States would be time-consuming and dangerous.
     There was only one possible course of action.
     He stood with his right leg up on the edge of the bathtub, a large magnifying makeup mirror perched on a step stool beneath his buttock. A high-intensity halogen light lay on the floor, flooding his skin with enough brightness that if he looked away, he would have a temporary blind spot. His paraphernalia was laid out across the bathroom counter, within reach of his left hand: syringes filled with lidocaine hydrochloride solution, sterilized stainless steel probes, a scalpel, forceps, clamps, gauze rolls, pads, and suture kits.
     After injecting the surrounding area with anesthetic, he began by opening a long slit overlying the tiny, delicate scar line left by the surgeon's original incision. It was tedious work at first, as he had to locate the exact position of the microchip they had implanted. That it was buried toward the rear of his buttock made the probing more difficult. Though he was not supposed to know this had been done to him, he had sources. Even inside a maximum security federal prison, he had sources.
     According to his informants, a couple of guards had taken him from his cell on a Monday-and didn't return him until the following Sunday. Scarponi surmised he had been drugged, then kept sedated until he could heal. It took him a few months, but he eventually learned what they had done to him.
     An hour later, the lidocaine syringes lay empty, the last one having been injected forty minutes ago. He was now working on sheer determination, grit, and guts, using the skills of discipline his Chinese mentors had taught him. After much tedious probing and searching, he finally found the tiny device. Carefully, he extracted the foreign body, which was a quarter the size of a penny, and placed it gently into a Pyrex dish filled with saline solution.
     Ten minutes later, he tied off the last suture, packed away all evidence of his crude surgery, then chased down an ampicillin capsule and a Vicodin tablet with a glass of water. Scalpel in hand, he walked over to the rat that was laying still in its cage. It was fast asleep, the drugs he'd given it two hours ago having done their job in marked contrast to the largely ineffective lidocaine he had used on himself.
     He suddenly realized that he should have chosen a guinea pig instead of a rat. Then it would have mirrored his own situation so closely the feds couldn't help but see the irony in what he'd done. In the end, though, it didn't matter, because he wouldn't be around to feel their shock, taste their hatred.
     He removed the rodent from its tiny prison, made his incision, and did his deed. He stepped back and laughed a shrill howl, marveling at his masterpiece, intrigued by what the feds would think of his latest feat.


Chapter One


January

"I've got her tied down to the chair. I slap her. She likes it, she smiles at me. She wants more."
     Dr. Lauren Chambers swallowed hard, then leaned forward in her seat. "Who is this, Steven, who's tied down?"
     "Gina. My girlfriend. The others are unconscious."
     Lauren bit her bottom lip. This was one of the most extraordinary first sessions she had ever experienced with a patient. Steven Simpson, a forty year-old state worker, had come to her because he had lost his ability to fight off his sexual urges. But they weren't just sexual fantasies, her patient was quick to point out. "They're torture fantasies," he had said. "There's a huge difference. Haven't you been listening to me?"
     Normally, Lauren had no difficulty focusing on her patient. She was a professional, and when she walked into the office, she left her problems at the door. But today was different. She forced herself to look at this person, really see this man, who wore oversize rose-tinted glasses and a bright blue polyester shirt opened at the collar. She decided that if a dictionary publisher were searching for a defining image of the word geek, Steven would qualify. His hair was frizzy and wild, parted and combed across his head in an apparent attempt to tame it. But the effort had failed miserably, and he looked more like a mad professor than the moderately paid state worker drone that he professed to be.
     Judging by what he had just told her, she had to agree with him. These torture fantasies were not merely a benign form of sexually oriented daydreaming.
     Though in a hypnotic state, Steven smiled. "She wants more."
     "Steven," Lauren said, "you mentioned others. How many women are there?"
     "There are four. They're all strapped into chairs. I'm more intrigued by the last one, the blonde."
     "These...sessions you have with Gina and her, uh, friends. Are they just fantasy, Steven, or are they real?"
     "There's blood. She's grinning at me so I slap her again. There's too many of them, too many women. The blood is coming from her nose, it's dripping down to her chin. I smear it all over her face with my hand. She's laughing. She loves it, she wants more. She wants me to hit her again. But there's a noise from behind me. It's Cynthia. She's naked. She's calling my name."
     Lauren suddenly felt uncomfortably hot. She knew she was taking risks by placing her patient under hypnosis on his initial session. Establishing an accurate diagnosis and a trusting rapport with a patient often took the better part of two meetings. But from what she had seen in their first forty-five minutes together, Steven's case required immediate intervention.
     Although therapy could sometimes get stressful--and this one certainly qualified--she never feared for her safety. Yet something about Steven made the hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention. She pulled a couple of times on her silk blouse, attempting to flap some cool air against her moist skin, then refocused on her patient.  "So what happens next, Steven?"
     "I take Gina, right there on the chair."
     "While she's tied down?"
     "Definitely."
     "And how does Gina feel about this?"
     "She orgasms."
     Lauren paused for a second. "Does she cry out?"
     Steven licked his lips. "Oh, yes. Very loudly." He threw his head back and lifted his hands. "Owww," he groaned. "Like that."
     "Oww?" she asked. "You mean, like she's in pain? Is she in pain, Steven?"
     He smiled again. "Intense pain."
     Lauren looked down at her pad. This man routinely rapes his girlfriend. But is it fantasy or reality? She shook her head. "How does that make you feel, Steven? How does her pain make you feel?"
     "It makes me come. It makes me feel special. But not as special as tying her down. I make the ropes so tight they cut into her skin. So tight that they hurt. The ropes hurt, they hurt me."
     Lauren's head snapped up. What did he just say? "The ropes hurt you, or do they hurt her? Who's tied up, Steven? You or Gina?"
     Her patient did not answer. A tear coursed down his cheek.
     "Steven, remember. No one can hurt you here. You're completely safe. No one will judge you. You can tell me everything."
     He smeared away the tear with the swipe of a hand. "Gina. Gina is tied up."
     "Does Gina say anything to you afterwards?"
     "She's angry. She went away for a couple of days."
     Lauren sat there for a moment, trying to think of the best treatment approach to use on Steven. She knew what she had heard: her patient had clearly stated that he was tied up, which could explain many things. Was he abused as a child? Had he been tied down and tortured by one of his parents? She shuddered at the thought.
     A noise in the hallway grabbed her attention and she glanced at the large black-on-white wall clock behind her patient. She needed to bring this session to a close. But what a time to have to end it!
     She sighed deeply. She knew she could not leave him in his current state. If she could curb his overwhelming desires it might keep him in check until she had a chance to work with him further and probe deeper to reach the root cause of his psychosis. Right now, she needed an immediate, albeit temporary, measure to accomplish this. To make it work, she had to take him down deeper.
     "Steven, we're going to talk more about this next week. In the meantime, I want you to close your eyes, let your head fall back against the chair, and focus on my voice." She used a calm, melodic tone to relax him. "That's it, just let everything go. I want you to picture yourself at the ocean. The waves are effortlessly rolling up the sand and tickling the tips of your toes. The soft breeze is blowing the hair off your face. Now think about all your anger, frustration, tension...and toss it out into the ocean. Watch it float away as it bobs up and down on the waves, moving farther and farther away from you."
     Her patient's facial muscles went flaccid, causing his cheeks and mouth to droop slightly. He was now exactly where she wanted him. She had performed so many hypnotherapy sessions in graduate school that she was affectionately known as "The Underlord," a nickname she did not particularly like. Still, it was a good-hearted attempt by her colleagues to honor her exceptional hypnosis skills.
     "Each time you feel a sexual urge coming on, when you feel yourself losing control, you'll feel intense pain in your left temple. It will be an explosive headache that will last for five minutes and then subside. Do you understand what I'm saying, Steven?"
     He continued to lay back in the chair, his head extended and cocked to one side, his mouth hanging open. He smacked his lips a couple of times, swallowed, and then spoke. "Yes."
   "Good. Now, I'm going to wake you up. You won't consciously remember anything we talked about. When I snap my fingers, you will awaken refreshed and happy."
     He opened his eyes and sat up, looked around, and focused on Lauren. "What happened, doc? We were talking, and then...I don't know, you're sitting there looking at me."
     "Everything went fine, Steven. You just went into a very relaxed state for a few moments." She glanced again at the clock and rose from her chair. "Next week we'll talk some more, try some things that I think will help."
     "I feel great."
     "Good. I want you to feel great." Lauren smiled. "This was an excellent first session, Steven."
     "What about those thoughts, those fantasies?"
     "I don't think you'll have any problems with them. But you'd better carry a bottle of Excedrin with you."

Lauren followed her patient out into the hallway, where the shared receptionist sat behind the desk wearing a telephone headset. The other therapists had gathered in the area, as they all had completed their sessions at the top of the hour. Lauren ignored their burgeoning discussion and looked over at the receptionist.
     "Did my husband call?"
     "No, doctor, he didn't. Just like the last hour, and the hour before that."
     Fortunately, the bizarre case Steven presented had helped take her mind off Michael, even if only for a few minutes. Lauren looked away and headed back into her office. She stood in front of a photo on the wall, the one she had taken of Michael in their backyard a few years ago, shortly after purchasing their house.
     "Michael," she whispered, "please come home."

FALSE ACCUSATIONS

"A riveting story with a truly frightening villainess."
-JOHN SAUL


Chapter One 
Copyright © Alan Jacobson
 
December 1
11:26 P.M.
 
The dark blue car snaked around the curve, its headlights slicing like razors through the dead air. It slithered through the neighborhood, hunting for food, sniffing out its prey. With one punch, the large engine muscled up from thirty-five to sixty in less than three seconds, its hunger for speed ravenous.
     The man crossing the street caught a glimpse of the looming vehicle and twisted backwards, shoving his companion toward the sidewalk--
     But there wasn't time.
     The car's bone-crushing impact threw the woman onto its hood, then tossed her aside...while the engine yanked the man underneath its front end, swallowing him whole.
     The dark vehicle lurched slightly as its tire ran over the fallen prey. It then sped off down the street, hung a sharp left and slipped into the pitch of night.
 
 
11:59 P.M.
 
The man's torso was twisted, his head a bloody mess, with bits of brain tissue scattered around his crushed skull. The woman's body was much more intact, having slid off the side of the car's hood after being thrown up into the air by the initial impact. Her legs appeared to be broken and were bent into an unnatural position, the way a rag doll sometimes lands when a child tosses it aside after she has finished playing with it.
     Most of the available officers in the City of Sacramento that night had been diverted to the minority neighborhood of Del Morro Heights to contain an escalating battle sparked by a broad crackdown on gang-related activities. When the call came in to investigate the discovery of a possible hit-and-run several blocks away, the two officers who responded anticipated more of the same, an offshoot of the hostilities.
     But they were wrong.
 
Officer Larry Sanford slammed his car door and ran over to the woman who was lying faceup in the street; the other victim was obviously deceased. Sanford pulled a hand out of his leather glove and felt her neck for a pulse. "Shit," he said, the vapor that emanated from his mouth tailing off into the cold night air. He looked up and down the street, but saw no one. He glanced over to his partner and shook his head.
     "Dispatch, this is Unit 9," the other officer said. "We've got a Code Twenty on San Domingo Street. Notify homicide. Securing crime scene."
     "Roger, Unit Nine."
    "She's still warm," Sanford said. "Let's get this area secured." Using a roll of yellow warning tape, he established the boundaries of the crime scene while his partner blocked off the street and its adjoining arteries with traffic cones. Although out of the academy only six months, they both knew the routine: rapid response, safeguard and preserve. That is, secure the crime scene to protect all materials in the vicinity because everything in the area was considered evidence until proven otherwise. No one-not even another police officer-was to enter the crime scene until the detectives arrived. One of the most significant threats to a homicide investigation was the disruption of physical evidence: nothing in the scene was to be altered, moved, destroyed, lost, or contaminated.
     With the thermometer at 33 degrees, Sanford rolled up the fur collar on his standard-issue blue nylon jacket and shoved his gloved hands into his pockets. He sucked a mouthful of damp air into his lungs: rain was on the way. He sent his partner back to the gang-related conflict while he stood watch over the crime scene.
 
In his boxing days, Detective Bill Jennings had a flat, rock hard gut. Some thirty years later, the musculature was stretched thin by the ravages of abuse, resulting in a mass of bulging beer belly fat. Nevertheless, he carried his weight well and never hesitated to throw it around, both literally and figuratively...sometimes for the better, and sometimes for the worse.
     By the time Jennings arrived at San Domingo Street, his partner, Angela Moreno, was already there surveying the scene. Moreno, 35 years-old with short-clipped brown hair, nodded at Jennings as he approached.
     "Long time no see," he said.
     "Yeah, what, three hours?"
     "What've we got here?" he asked as they walked over to the two sprawled-out African-American bodies.
     "Looks like a hit-and-run. Got two of 'em," she said, kneeling down in front of one of the victims. "And we've got some broken glass. A headlight," she said, turning over a large fragment and looking through it.
     "Don't touch it," Jennings said, grasping her arm. "Saperstein should be here in a few minutes."
     "You called Saperstein again?"
     "He was the one on-call."
     "You haven't even looked over the scene. It's just a hit-and-run. We don't need a criminalist poking his nose all over the damn street to tell us what we already know."
     "The man single-handedly saved my career, Angela."
     Moreno waved a hand. "I read the reports, Bill. It was a clean shoot."
     "Of course it was. But a white cop had just shot and killed a black kid. The media had a juicy story and took it for a ride. And with the election and all, I was a fucking political hot potato...people were tossing me around like I had the plague or something." Jennings shook his head. "I was guilty before the body was cold. Everyone bailed out on me except Saperstein."
    "I heard all about it. Don't you think I checked you out before I took this assignment?"
     "You never told me that," he said. "You checked me out?"
     "I vaguely remembered reading something in the paper about it. Then my Vice partner started getting on my case, telling me I should look into it." She placed the glass fragment back where she had found it. "The comments you'd made back in eight-seven with Stockton PD didn't help any."
     "Yeah, well those were taken out of context."
    "You don't have to explain," Moreno said. "I checked into it."   
     Jennings stood up, his five-nine frame putting him eye to eye with his partner. "When Saperstein took the stand and started explaining that the shoot happened the way I said it did, I felt vindicated. He had all these formulas that showed I was standing where I said I was, and that the perp had turned to fire on me." He pulled a pair of crumpled leather gloves from his pocket and struggled to insert his pudgy fingers. "Without Saperstein's analysis of the physical evidence, those accusations would still be hanging over my head. So don't give me shit about using a criminalist. I'm gonna use one any time I can. And if you're smart, when you're primary, you will too."
     "But this looks like a simple hit-and-run," Moreno said.
     "I don't care. What it looks like and what it turns out to be may be two different things. I'm not taking any chances."
     With the assistance of several other officers who had just arrived on the scene, they quickly canvassed the surrounding blocks to try and ascertain if anyone had seen or heard anything relative to the murders. Thirty minutes had passed when a car drove up to the yellow police tape half a block away. Out stepped a man in his mid-forties, his hair an uncombed mess, his suit-coat creased and covering a severely wrinkled shirt.
     Stuart Saperstein exchanged pleasantries with Jennings and received a cold reception from Moreno, who was apparently silently protesting his need to be there. No doubt sensing the tension, the criminalist excused himself and began the task of documenting the scene by arranging a handful of halogen floodlights a short distance from the bodies.
     He opened his field kit and within a couple of minutes was on his hands and knees, examining each of the bodies. He measured distances and calculated angles, dictating his findings into a microcassette recorder. Steam was rising off the hot floodlights against the cold, damp December air.
    Squinting at the ruler through his reading glasses, he motioned for the identification technician who had just arrived to photograph and document the scene. "As soon as I mark this, let's get a series of shots. When you take the mid-range shot, I want to be in it."
     "You're so vain," Jennings said, leaning over his shoulder.
     "It helps for the jury to see me at the crime scene examining the physical evidence. It gives me an advantage over the defense's expert--"
     "I know, I know. Just giving you shit."
     Moreno shook her head and walked off down the block in the direction of an officer who was approaching with a man at his side.
     Saperstein stood up and faced Jennings. He tilted his head back and looked at the detective through his reading glasses, which were resting on the tip of his bulbous nose. "You look like shit."
     "Thanks. So do you."
     Saperstein smiled. "Yeah, but I always do." He motioned to Moreno, who was nearing the officer down the block. "She doesn't like me."
     "Nothing personal. She just didn't think a criminalist was needed here."
     "She's new to Homicide, huh?"
     "Transferred in from Vice three months ago."
    "Then I guess I'll have to prove her wrong. Teach her a lesson." Saperstein bent down to measure again. He was a perfectionist, and with good cause: when there were no obvious suspects, homicide detectives often relied heavily on the criminalist's interpretation of the scene. If he could accurately ascertain what had happened, he could then surmise why it happened--which could help determine the sequence and mode of death, the victim's position at the time of the deadly blow, or how many shots were fired in a gun-related homicide. Often, the physical evidence the criminalist gathered at the crime scene was enough to narrow the field of suspects, help locate the perpetrator, or obtain a confession from him.
       Jennings looked up and saw that Moreno was talking to the man the officer had brought over: a witness. As he made his way toward his partner, he rubbed his gloved hands together to bring blood and warmth to his numb fingertips.
      "What do we got?" he asked as she flipped her notepad closed.
      Moreno nodded at the man to her left. "This is Clarence Hollowes. Says he heard a big bang around eleven-thirty, ran out into the street, and saw a car leaving the scene."
     "I don't want to get involved with no po-leece," Hollowes said, jawing on a piece of gum. He was dressed in clothing that was even more wrinkled than Saperstein's. He was unshaven and his hair was peppered with gray.
     "Is that right," Jennings said. "Why not? Got something to hide?"
     "Po-leece mean trouble. That's just the way it is. You get involved, you get in trouble."
     "We're not going to cause you any trouble, are we, detective?" Jennings glanced at Moreno, who frowned at him. More fallout from having called Saperstein. He turned back to his witness. "What can you tell me about the car?"
     "Well, as I was telling this lady here, it was dark colored. A fancy one, real shiny, kind of like a Mercedes."
     "Was it like a Mercedes, or was it a Mercedes?"
     "I'm not an expert or nothing on fancy cars, but it was a Mercedes. I'm pretty sure."
     "He got a partial plate," Moreno said.
     "Oh. You saw the license plate, sir?"
     "Yeah, like I told her, I saw two numbers. A two and a C."
     "Did you get a look at the driver?"
     "Looked like a white guy. Wearing a baseball hat."
     "Did you see a logo or anything on the hat?" Jennings asked.
     He hesitated a moment. "Maybe there was something on it, I don't remember."
     "What'd the driver look like?"
     "You know, a white guy."
     "Old or young?"
     "Neither."
     "Beard?"
     "Uh, no beard, I don't think."
     "Any distinguishing marks?"
    "Just a white guy.  Didn't see his face. Drove by me real fast."
     "Did you see what color hair he had?"
     Hollowes shrugged. "Nah, too dark. Too fast."
     "What about the car? Any dents, broken lights or windows?"
     "Man, I don't know. It happened fast, you see? Bang, boom, I ran over and saw the car leaving. Then I saw them bodies in the street."
     "I'm gonna give you my card," Jennings said as he pulled a wallet out of his jacket pocket. Call me if the car comes by here again, or if any of your friends say they saw something, okay?" He looked at Moreno. "You got his address?"
     "Ain't got no address," Hollowes said. Jennings had already guessed the man was homeless--which made him very grateful for the information he had provided. In Jennings's experience, the homeless tried not to get involved, preferring to function outside of society.
     "In that case," Jennings said, "call us collect."
     Hollowes took the card and studied it.
    "Oh," Jennings said. "One last thing. Did you touch the bodies?"
     "Touch them?" he asked. Hollowes looked down at the ground. "Now why would I do something like that?"
     "You know, to get some change, a buck or two for food."
     "I just took the cash, that's all. Gotta eat, you know?"
     "Did you take anything else? It's important that we know," Jennings said.
      "You see? Talk to the po-leece, get in trouble."
     "No trouble, Mr. Hollowes. We're not gonna arrest you. It's just that we have to know if you took a wallet, or anything like that. We'd need the identification to tell us who these people are."
     "No. Just the money. There was eight bucks in his wallet, twelve in hers. They were dead. They ain't gonna miss it."
     "Did you move the bodies in any way?"
     "No. I didn't touch no dead bodies. Just took their money."
     Jennings nodded. "Thanks again for your help. We'll be in touch."
     "They good people," Hollowes said.
     "Who are?" Moreno asked.
     "Them," Hollowes said, nodding at the bodies.
     "You know who they are?"
     "Can't remember their names. They help us get a place to stay on nights like this when the cold go way down to your bones."
     "You mean they did this for the homeless, like it was their job?" Moreno asked.
     Hollowes nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
     "Is there anyone who'd want to hurt them?" Jennings asked.
     "None of us, that much I can tell you. They been good to us."
     Moreno nodded. "If there's anything else you think of, please give us a call."
     Hollowes turned to walk away. "Them rich people think they can flash them fancy cars in our neighborhood..." he said as he walked off out of range of the street light's glow and into the shadows of a nearby tree.
     "I was wondering the same thing," Jennings said to Moreno. What the hell is a white guy doing driving a Mercedes in Del Morro Heights at eleven-thirty at night?"
     "Taking a short cut?"
     "A short cut on life, you mean. The guy's lucky they didn't catch him."
     "They?"
     "The neighbors," Jennings said as they walked back toward Saperstein. "It would've made our job easier."
     "How so? We'd have three murders to write up." They exchanged a smile as Jennings fastened the top button of his overcoat.
     "You know, this could've been personal," Jennings said. "Something related to their work with the homeless."
       Moreno nodded. "Possibly."
     "Detective!" yelled an officer who was jogging down the street toward them. "We just got a call from someone with a partial plate on the car."
     "Another witness?" Moreno asked.
     "Don't know," said the man, who was heaving mouthfuls of fog into the air. "It was an anonymous call. The desk sergeant thinks it was a female voice. She said she saw a dark Mercedes sports sedan," he said, looking down at his notepad, "with a license of two, C and O or U. Couldn't see the driver's face. Driver was wearing a baseball hat, and was weaving a bit about a block away from where we found the victims."
     "Did she say where she witnessed it from?" Moreno asked.
     "No."
     "Have them run a voice print analysis on the tape. I want to know more about this caller," Jennings said. "Anonymous tips are bullshit."
     "Can't get a voice print."
     "Why the hell not?"
     "Call didn't come in on the 9-1-1 line. She called the division directly. They don't record incoming calls. She was in a real hurry to get off the line. Didn't want to get involved."
     They headed back toward the bodies as a light rain began falling.
     "So what's the story?" he asked Saperstein, who was placing a couple of plastic bags filled with specimens into a nylon duffel bag, out of the drizzle. "Hit-and-run. The car left with a broken left headlight."
     "That's it? A broken headlight?" Moreno shook her head. "I already knew that."
     Jennings, ignoring Moreno's comment, reached into the male victim's coat and removed a wallet. "What about the speed of the car?" he asked Saperstein.
     "Judging by the damage to the bodies and the tire marks down the street, the driver must've been accelerating. He came off that curve," he said, nodding to the area down the street, "and brought it up to, oh, about fifty, maybe sixty, would be my preliminary estimate, at the time of impact."
     Jennings looked over at Moreno, as if to say You wouldn't have known that. She threw him a look that had daggers attached to it.
     "What else can you tell us?" Jennings asked. He moved over to the woman's purse and began examining its contents.
   "It doesn't appear as if the windshield was broken," Saperstein said. "But I bet there'll be clothing fibers on the wipers, and probably on the bumper or fender area."
      Jennings nodded.
     "Oh, there's something else. We can probably get a partial tire print for you off the blood around the male victim."
      "What about the woman?"
     "Judging by the position of her body, it appears that she was thrown onto the hood of the car. Probably died from internal hemorrhage."
     "Are there any other tire marks in the street?"
     "Aside from the one around the male and the one down the block, none that I've seen, but I haven't had a chance to fully survey the entire roadway yet. Judging by the bloodstain patterns around the male victim, I'd expect to find some blood on the underside of the suspect's car, near the left front wheel."
     "So it doesn't look like the driver made any attempt to avoid them," Jennings said.
     Saperstein removed his glasses. "Based on what I've seen so far, I'd say he wasn't trying to get out of their way. If he had, we'd see tire marks consistent with a swerve or intense braking. No, your driver either never saw these people step off the curb, or--"
     "He meant to hit them."
     "Exactly."
     Jennings nodded, thanked him, and asked for his report as soon as possible.
     As they walked away, Moreno was the first to speak. "I still don't see his conclusions helping us much."
     "We'll see. We know more about what happened now than we did before," he said. "Maybe the fact that the guy was accelerating and there are no skid marks supports the theory that it wasn't an accident. Let's do a background check on the victims. Could be there was someone who had something to gain if either of them wound up dead. Maybe there's no homeless connection at all. Maybe one of them had a kid in a rival gang. Maybe the driver never did see them until it was too late, and it was just an accident."
     "All right, all right," she said, followed by a slight pause. "Maybe Saperstein was helpful."
     Jennings walked over to his car and spoke to the desk sergeant via radio, requesting assistance on locating the Mercedes with the partial license plate they had obtained.
     "I also need a background check on two people." He opened the victims' wallets. "An Otis Silvers, and an Imogene Pringle." He removed a small piece of paper and studied it. "Pringle was carrying around a pay stub for the Homeless Advocate Society. It's possible Silvers was with them too. See if we've got anything on this homeless group while you're at it."
     "Anything else?"
     "Yeah, which judge is on call tonight?"
     The sergeant leafed through some papers on a clipboard. "You're not gonna be happy."
     "Don't tell me it's Ferguson."
     "I hear he's a bear when he gets called in the middle of the night."
     "Just find me the owner of the car and I'll worry about the damn warrant."
     Jennings hung the mike on its receptacle in his car and turned to Moreno. She threw a hand up to her mouth to stifle a yawn.
     "Oh, c'mon, these hours can't be worse than Vice," he said.
    "No, Vice is worse. A couple all-nighters a week. But I haven't been on Vice for three months. My body's not used to it anymore."
     "Better snap out of it. It's gonna be a long night."