Silent Reckoning

“You know that’s my case, too,” I said the instant Barlow stopped and shifted his attention back to me. “Shameka is my witness and Johnson is my perp. It’s my job to help find him.” It was the least I could do after what Shameka had gone through.

Those analyzing blue eyes studied me a moment before he spoke. Barlow did that a lot. He liked to mull over what he wanted to say before he opened his mouth. Saved him the taste of shoe leather quite frequently, I reasoned. I should take a page from that book. But then, I had pretty much acquired a taste for the stuff. Why change now?

We’re going to get Johnson. He’s made. Every cop in the city wants him. This one— he glanced toward the victim and the crime-scene techs circling around her—is going to be different. If it’s connected to those old murders, I don’t want the killer to get away this time. I want your keen eye on this one, Merri. I need my best and freshest on it.

Okay. He’d earned himself some major points with that monologue. Still, I couldn’t help thinking he was only doing this to get me off the Johnson case. It seemed like every time I got close to nabbing a perp he hustled me out of harm’s way. This turn of events sounded suspiciously like that. Johnson had seen me just as clearly as I’d seen him. He would likely want revenge for those who set him up, and it wouldn’t take a scientist to figure out I’d been part of a sting. I knew how guys like him thought. He was going down, he had nothing to lose. That put me in the line of fire right along with Shameka.

Irritation niggled at me. I’ll bet if I checked the roster I would find that a unit had been stationed outside my house since the op to take down Johnson went sour. Part of me understood that was a reasonable move, but another part, the side that worried my hearing impairment would be considered first and foremost even before my skill level, didn’t like the idea that he thought I couldn’t take care of myself.

“I guess I should be flattered,” I said, allowing him to hear the skepticism I felt. “I’m assuming I’m lead.” I had seniority over Patterson so that should have been a given, but I wanted the point clarified.

You’re lead. Patterson will fall in line.

Maybe he would and maybe he wouldn’t, but either way this investigation would be conducted my way.

“I’ll let you bring him up to speed,” I offered charitably. He was here, might as well make himself useful. I had a crime scene to analyze. “You know more about the old cases than I do.”

Barlow held my gaze for a few pulse-pounding seconds and I was certain he wanted to say something more, but he didn’t. That’s when I walked away. If he could let it go, so could I.

After slipping on shoe covers and latex gloves, I moved beyond the yellow tape that visually declared the boundaries of the scene.

The shrubbery appeared undisturbed. The path was decorative gravel, which basically ensured there wouldn’t be any usable pedestrian or vehicle tracks.

Like the first victim, Miss Wells was nude. The bruising around the ligature marks on her wrists and ankles indicated she had been forcibly restrained. The additional bruising apparent on her thighs suggested rape or some seriously rough sexual activity but the M.E. would confirm that conclusion once the body was in his territory at the lab.

Her eyes were open, a frozen mask of terror on her face, also like the previous victim. Makeup had been applied to the point of appearing grotesque and clownish. The tiara sat atop her head as if it had been carefully placed there after her body was dumped. Probably had been.

Any jewelry she had worn had been removed, either for the purpose of financial gain or as mementoes of the deed. Dropping into a crouch I leaned closer and peered at her fingers. She’d worn something on her right ring finger. Maybe a high-school ring, judging by the width of the tan line. Any other personal items, including clothing, she’d had in her possession at the time of death wouldn’t be found if this murder followed the same MO—modus operandi—as the Harrison murder.

There was no way to know just yet whether the guy collected the items or disposed of them, either to prevent the possibility of leaving evidence behind or for cold hard cash since nothing had been recovered. I had to operate under the assumption that this case wasn’t related to any other…until something proved otherwise. The similarities to the old cases were becoming glaringly more obvious.

For example, the last victim, Reba Harrison. Though she had been repeatedly and savagely raped, not a single speck of semen, not one body hair, not even a trace of saliva that didn’t belong to the victim had been recovered from her body. It was as if a phantom had carried out the horrific crime.

Considering the hours the perp took to do the job, it was outright amazing he didn’t leave behind so much as a molecule of evidence, physical or biological.

The tech working on the other side of the body looked up abruptly. I did the same. Patterson stood behind me and had apparently spoken.

Time for him to understand the situation.

“I should explain something to you,” I said as I pushed to my feet. I moved a few feet away from the body and the nosy tech still doing his job. Patterson followed somewhat reluctantly.

Yeah?

“I’m deaf, Detective Patterson.” I didn’t call him Ray as he’d insisted I should do when we first met. “There’s no magic hearing aid. I can’t hear anything you say. The only way I know what you want to tell me is if I’m looking at your face. I read lips. When you have something to tell me you need to make me aware that you intend to speak. Especially if my back is turned to you.”

He didn’t bother hiding the fact that he was put off by the nuisance.

Gotcha. He shoved his gloved hands into his pockets. I’ll get the hang of it.

It was going to be a long day.

I glanced at Barlow and caught him watching us. I shivered in spite of myself. He shouldn’t even be here. But then, this case had just taken a turn for the worse. A single, random act of violence was one thing, but an encore performance down to the last detail made everyone in law enforcement nervous. Especially when it smacked of a past investigation, one still unsolved and marring Metro’s record.

There was work to do. What-ifs weren’t my concern right now, this latest victim was. I turned to my new partner. His attention was riveted to the victim. I wished I could read his mind.

Whatever Barlow’s motivation for teaming me up with this guy, I was reasonably sure I had gotten the short end of the stick.

Dr. Ammon, the M.E., agreed to push Miss Wells to the front of the autopsy line considering it was possible that we had a serial killer, one who may have lain dormant for four years, at work.

Patterson and I left the crime scene shortly after the body and headed to the lab to view the preliminary procedure. Since we had arrived at the scene in different vehicles, we left it that way.

We suited up, gloves, shoe covers and gown, before entering the exam room.

Dr. Ammon, a man of Middle-Eastern decent, stood about three inches shorter than me. Not a large man by any stretch of the imagination. Fifty or fifty-five. Wore a shiny gold band on his left ring finger. Pictures of half a dozen kids graced his desk.

The thick glasses he wore indicated he was likely blind as a bat without them. He was known for his close attention to detail. Ammon didn’t miss anything. I was glad he was the one on call today.

Extensive sexual assault, he noted aloud for the purposes of the audio tape. I didn’t hear him, of course, but I read the words on his lips. I call it assault because the activity was so savage, he clarified with a glance over his glasses at me.

Dr. Ammon shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he studied the victim’s ankles. The ligature marks appear the same size and depth as on the previous victim, indicating a similar material was used for restraint. Perhaps a nylon cord. I appreciated that he always looked at me when he spoke. Not everyone thought to do that, forcing me to remind them.

“No semen this time?” I asked. I was hoping the perp had made a mistake this go-round. If this victim turned out as clean as Reba Harrison, this case would only get more frustrating.

Ammon glanced at his assistant who was peering into a microscope at specimens. The assistant said something, but I could only see his profile so I missed it entirely. My gaze shifted back to Ammon who shook his head. No semen as of yet.

Damn.

I noticed Patterson looking away as Ammon thoroughly examined the victim’s pubic area. Maybe the guy had a conscience after all, or at least limits on his comfort zone. Even I felt like an interloper as that part of the examination proceeded. I felt sorry for the victim. No matter that she was dead, this business was humiliating.

The M.E. lifted a number of hairs and placed them on a slide. Anticipation surged past my softer emotions. All we needed was one break. One piece of evidence we could use to nail the bastard, assuming we figured out who he was. That sounds dumb, but there’s nothing worse than catching a perp, knowing in your gut he’s the one and not being able to prove it in a court of law.

Ammon moved to the table where his assistant worked and slipped the slide into another microscope.

I surveyed the victim’s body once more. She looked different under the harsh lights of the lab. The marbling of her cold skin gave her a blue-gray hue. She’d definitely taken good care of herself. Worked out daily, I’d bet. The breasts were store-bought. An incision beneath each one gave away her secret. She had probably taken out all the stops to make her dream of fame and fortune happen.

My gaze shifted up to my partner, who stood on the other side of the examining table. He shook his head and looked at me. Another starlet bites the dust.

God, I hated those kinds of labels. The case from four years ago had been called the Starlet Murders. I hoped like hell that if we discovered these two recent murders were committed by the same perp, we would change that.

Patterson’s head turned toward the M.E., alerting me that the doc was saying something.

…got lucky. I have a couple of hairs that don’t belong with this body.

But they could be someone else’s. Not necessarily the perp’s. That possibility hampered the enthusiasm I wanted so much to feel.

“She could have picked them up at the scene or during an encounter of some sort prior to her final one with the perp,” I proposed.

Ammon shrugged. Possibly, but there’s always a chance one or both could belong to the killer or killers, considering they don’t match. I have hair samples from three different individuals here.