O'Neal shook his head. "Nothing yet."
"Anyone check the restrooms on the floors above and below?"
"No, sir. Not yet."
Slack as well as dumb. Gabriel shook his head, took off his plastic glove and dumped it in the nearby bin. Then he headed downstairs. Sam was waiting in the foyer of the twenty-first floor.
"What did you find?" he said, the moment he saw her.
"A few spots of blood splattered across the mirror. A blood stained sweater wrapped in plastic and stuffed deep into the trash can." She led the way along the corridor. Her movements were still slow, but becoming steadier.
He could only shake his head in amazement. She shouldn't even be alive, for Christ's sake, and here she was, walking and talking almost normally. Whatever race she was, it was a damn strong one.
"So our murderer came down here to clean up?"
"It would appear so." She pushed open the bathroom door.
The trash can's cabinet door stood ajar. The plastic bag was easy enough to see, wedged about halfway down. Her viaphone sat on the nearby bench, light flashing to indicate record mode.
He put on fresh gloves, reached into the bin and grabbed the plastic bag, holding it by two fingers in an effort not to foul whatever prints might be available. Blood smeared the plastic inside and out.
"Military green," she murmured. "Available in any disposal store."
"Yes. But I found a medallion upstairs near the victim's hand. The insignia belongs to Hopeworth."
She raised an eyebrow. "Any hope of getting them to trace who it might have belonged to?"
"Depends how helpful Hopeworth feels like being."
"If they won't cooperate, why not just do a search through the computers?"
"We would, except it happens to be the one place SIU hasn't got full access."
Surprise flitted across her face. "Really? Why's that?"
"Don't know." He got out his viaphone and called O'Neal, instructing the young detective to bring the crime kit down. Then he glanced back at her. "Where are the blood spots?"
She pointed to an arc of five microscopic spots. Maybe the murderer had flicked her hair, spraying droplets across the mirror. But how had Sam spotted them? He could barely see them, and his hawk-sharpened senses were more attuned to things like this.
"The murderer is desperate." She stared at the spots, her expression becoming distant once again. "She knows we're closing in. She needs to get it finished. Needs to fulfill promises made."
Her voice was as distant as her expression. He'd seen this type of thing before — the SIU employed several psychics who could read the emotions that lingered in otherwise empty rooms. But Sam had been tested repeatedly for psychic gifts, and she had repeatedly come up negative. Until she reached SIU halls, where she'd registered as a neutral — a feat that should have been impossible.
Finley had said it suggested her abilities were so strong that she was able to void all tests done on her.
"What promises?" He kept his voice soft, not wanting to jar her out of her trancelike state.
"To the dead." She hesitated, frowning lightly. "To her twin sister."
Emma Pierce was listed as an only child. But she was also adopted. It might be worth checking back to see if a mistake had been made. "Why is she killing these people?"
"They should not exist."
Her breathing was becoming too shallow, too quick. As much as he needed the insights, he couldn't let her continue. Not after she'd barely escaped death.
"Sam." He touched her arm lightly, and she jumped.
Her gaze leapt to his, her expression confused, and just a touch frightened. "What happened?"