“I was hoping we could keep it under wraps for a while longer, but you’re right. What a fucking mess.”
Contreras clasped his hand on Wexler’s shoulder. “We’ll get him. His rage is out of control, and he’ll start getting sloppy. Anchondo said they found some hair and fibers on our John Doe. If we’re lucky, there may be more forensics in this case than the last four.”
“The key is the neighborhood,” Onofrio said. “What was the name of the apartment building where the last victim was found?”
“Madera Crossing,” the sheriff replied.
“Then we need to go back there and interview the residents again.”
Contreras nodded. “I agree. I guarantee some of the tenants know or saw something or someone. I feel it in my gut.” And after sixteen years as a homicide detective, he’d learned to listen to his instincts.
“We better get a move on.” Onofrio tossed a set of keys in the air and caught them with one hand. “I’m driving.”
Contreras laughed, gave the sheriff a chin lift, and walked toward the car.