by Trisha Wolfe
7
Warning
Avery
I’m no detective, but I have enough conviction to make up for what I lack in the sleuthing department. After I uploaded the pic I took of the victim’s thigh at the crime scene, I initiated an online image scan, determined to match the brand.
So far, nothing remotely close. It’s not as if there’s a criminal social network where victims’ pics are traded like baseball cards. Not on the Internet I can access at work, anyway. I’ll have to dive deeper later, once I’m at home and on my own personal interface. But as it is, Quinn will probably have more luck searching the police databases than I will on the darknet.
At least I was able to confirm that the partial brand on the first vic is in fact the same design branded on the second. That links the two victims together. There’s a connection there, but of what…I have no idea.
Once I forwarded the sketch to Quinn, I sent the interns home. Needing this space to myself to conduct my experiment. I could go home, but I feel safer in the same building as Quinn—even if this lab is now tainted.
I groan and close my laptop, angry with myself for letting Quinn effect me. Doesn’t he realize this is all I have? That if he shuts me out, I’ll go crazy just sitting at home, watching reruns. There’re only so many episodes of Grey’s Anatomy a pathologist can watch before you start questioning your sanity.
And I can’t do that again. I can’t sit back and wait, wondering what the next step is. This time, I’m calling the shots. I’m not sure what happens now, but I know my part: getting to the bottom of the altered cocktail. That’s one area where I know exactly what I’m doing.
I hurriedly change clothes; trading out my field pants for the black maxi skirt I wore in to work, then slip on my lab coat, ready to move ahead with the comparison testing.
As I distribute samples of the ambrein compound into two dishes, I can’t stop thinking about how Quinn pulled the same shit with Sadie. It’s like he’s on some misogynistic kick with the women in his department. Hell, I’m not even in his department, and yet he feels he has control over my career. Control freak.
I push away from my desk, frustrated. And immediately, remorse seizes my mood. Quinn is a lot of things—a stubborn control freak being at the top of the list—but he’s not sexist, and he’s not on my case because he thinks I can’t handle the job. I get it. If I were in his position, I’d have sent any lab tech home instantly.
Especially if that tech started coming on to me…
Mortified, I bury my face in my hands. What the hell is wrong with me?
He must think I’ve lost it. That I’ve officially lost my freaking mind. If he didn’t have a good reason to have me removed from this case before, I just gave him one.
A bang sounds from the main lab, and I flinch.
The body. Right.
Completely lost in thought, I forgot Carson sent notice that they were wrapping up at the crime scene and vic number two was on her way here. I stand and smooth my palms down my lab coat before exiting my office. As soon as I see the two transfer crewmembers wheeling the stretcher through the double doors, I stop short.
“Where’s Derik?” I ask.
Neither answers as they continue to push the stretcher toward the middle of the lab. I take a step back. Their gaze is aimed at the floor, their faces hidden behind the bill of their baseball hats, and something just isn’t…right.
I’ve been overly paranoid since returning to work. Which I assumed was normal. I was bound and gagged and tortured in this very room…before I was stolen away by the monster. I had to rationalize my fears before I could even step foot back inside the lab. But after the discovery of the ambrein, that paranoia feels amplified.
Why did I think I could ever be here alone?
I slip a hand inside my coat pocket and wrap sweaty fingers around the Mace clipped to my key ring. The one Quinn gave me—a first day back on the job present. At the time, I didn’t appreciate the reminder. But now, I’m thankful. Paranoid or not, I’m prepared.
One of the crewmembers looks up and smiles. “Derik called in sick today. We’re filling in.” He unhooks a clipboard from the stretcher and holds it out to me.
With a shaky exhale, I release the Mace. I can’t live in fear.
Accepting the clipboard, I sign my name on the paperwork. When I glance up to hand it back, the guy’s smile morphs into a sneer. There’s only a second for panic to set in before something covers my face.
Fight-or-flight adrenaline surges, and it’s fight that kicks in first. Pen still gripped in my fist, I thrust downward and connect with the man’s thigh behind me. An angry growl roars in the shell of my ear, my eardrum crackling with the force of it.
“The bitch stabbed me!”
The black bag covering my head cinches tight around my neck. My hands go to my throat. I try to pry my fingers between the bag and my neck before fear grips my senses. Arms surround me, and I’m lifted in the air.
I hit the floor hard, releasing a strangled cry as pain bites into my back.
Pressure bears down on me as one of the men straddles my chest. My air supply is pinched off, my hands pulled over my head. The Mace long forgotten.
“Someone wants a word with you, bitch,” the guy on top of me says.
The material molds to my open mouth as I gulp in hot breaths. I blink rapidly, struggling to get a visual of my attackers through the cloth, but the pitch black only terrifies me more every time I open my eyes.
I squeeze them closed, focus on the sounds.
The swing of the double doors, then heavy footfalls. Slow, deliberate. Somehow that measured patience—as if this person has all the time in the world—scares me the most.
My muscles tense as I thrash against his hold on my arms. It’s useless—but I’m not giving up. Not this time.
“Hello, Doctor Johnson.”
The man’s voice booms, deep and calm. I don’t recognize it.
“I apologize for this less than cordial meeting, but my time is precious. And I’m running short on it.”
I work words past the burn choking my throat. “What do you want?”
“Seeing how I’m here, taking a great risk to meet with you when I could’ve just snatched you from anywhere, I gather you can imagine. You’re quite intelligent, Miss Johnson.”
I try to shake my head, but my stretched arms interfere with any movement. “I can’t imagine. Who are you?”
He chuckles. “You had little qualms about fabricating evidence for a mutual acquaintance’s unfortunate death.” A beat. “So, I come to you now with the same request. Well, request isn’t quite right. Demand is more appropriate.”
The weight crushing my chest is suddenly gone as I’m yanked upright. I hear a pop in my shoulder, and blinding white pain shoots across my blacked-out vision.
“Gently, please. Doctor Johnson mustn’t be harmed,” the man instructs his thugs.
Shoulder throbbing, I’m guided toward a table where I’m forcefully seated on a stool. “I can’t just change my findings like that. It has to be supported by the evidence. It has to be believable.” It’s like someone else is speaking through me; or the fright has vanished. At one point with Wells, I no longer shook when he made threats.
I’m not accepting my fate—just the opposite. But pleading for my life, begging not to be harmed…it doesn’t work. These men will do what they’ve come here to do, regardless. My only power is in keeping my mind sharp.
With what wits I have, I try not to flinch when something is set on the table before me.
“My associate is going to remove the bag now,” the man says. “Don’t make the mistake of turning around, Miss Johnson.” I feel him brush against my back, then his hand clasps my neck. I recoil, my breaths coming faster. His finger skims my lips through the material. “I, unlike our mutual friend, take no pleasure in the suffering of women,” he whispers near my ear. “Your death will be quick.”
I believe him.
I nod my
answer.
The bag is yanked away, and I blink my vision clear. My head trembles, matching the quake rolling through my body as I strain to keep from turning my head.
“Locate the reports on the recently deceased and conclude that the first woman, our dear Miss Beloff, you deem an accident. And then do the same for Miss Carter.”
I look down at the table. My laptop. “I haven’t even performed the autopsy on the second victim yet,” I say, assuming Miss Carter is who has just been brought in.
“That’s why I’ve made this special trip. I’m here to fill in the gaps and help you. I’m giving you the information you need. Both deaths were an accident.” He tsks. “Such a shame, too. I assure you, it was not my desire for them to die. Quite the opposite.”
Anger lashes through me like a whip. “The severe beating Marcy Beloff took would suggest otherwise.”
My head is wrenched back as he grips a fistful of my hair. His fingers dig at my scalp…and as his nails break skin, I pray he’s leaving behind DNA.
“I hope there’s not going to be a problem with my request.” His hot words sting the side of my face. “Because if pleasantries don’t persuade your cooperation, then I assure you, I have other ways.”
His hand tightens in my hair, preventing me from turning in either direction, as his body draws closer. “Maybe you’re damaged, Miss Johnson. Could it be that after our friend Wells treated you so abhorrently, you now only respond to violence?”
The press of something hard and heavy touches my leg.
My whole body freezes. The air in my lungs, the tremble of my limbs stops—I’m petrified.
I don’t like guns. I’ve worked within the criminal justice field for years and, up until recently, have never had the need for one. Even after I was held captive by a sadistic serial killer, I was never tempted to own a gun.
The cold steel of the barrel assaults my skin as the gun digs under the hem of my skirt. It inches higher, dragging my skirt with it, and I find my voice. “Please…don’t.”
The weapon comes to a stop at my inner thigh. “I don’t revel in suffering, Miss Johnson,” he says. “But I’ve had to do many tasteless things in my past. And it’s just like riding a bike; you don’t forget.”
Within the same moment I swallow my yelp, the barrel is lodged beneath my underwear and bites into the tender flesh of my core. My whole body comes alive with an uncontrollable tremor. Hysteria pulls me under, sucking my mind into a black undertow, void of this abstract reality.
“Stay with me, Avery,” he orders, my name sounding too intimate. He holds the gun steady just inside me, a violation of an even more intimate nature as he issues another command. “Now type.”
I place a shaky hand on top of my laptop. A thousand questions rush me through the fear. All of which I’m sure will end my life if I’m given the answers. Do I want to know how this man knows about Wells—the monstrous things he did to me; how I forged his COD report—badly enough to die for?
I crack the laptop. Log in to my interface and open the reports. As I type, the barrel of the gun ensures I make no other movement. I finish editing the cause of death for the first victim, citing that further tests prove the damage she sustained to her liver was determined to be accidental. Then, barely finding my voice, I ask, “How did Miss Carter die?”
I use her name instead of thinking of her as a numbered victim, hoping that enforcing the fact she was a person will nudge the humanity in this man.
“Once you autopsied her, you’d have discovered a common denominator between the two women.” His voice is low, too close, and I don’t mistake his use of the past tense. I still my breathing, the feel of the gun more threatening with every breath. “We’re calling it Trifecta. You know it better as your ambrein cocktail, but our batch has far more kick.”
I wince. “They died because of me?”
His laugh is dark and disturbing. “No, Miss Johnson. Ease your mind. We’ve got our own cooks, who did a fine job of improving your mix, though we did need it for the base. That was essential. However, as you can see, we’ve run into some minor…setbacks.”
Death is a minor setback? “You can’t just use people like lab rats,” I say, disgust evident in my tone.
He chuckles again, and the weight of the gun assaults me. “See? You are smart. You’re putting the pieces together. But you’re not in a position to pass judgment, Miss Johnson.” The pressure increases between my thighs, and my stomach pitches with nausea. I stare at the laptop screen, trying to glimpse his reflection. The only thing I can make out is the crest on his necktie: the initials AK.
“Complete Miss Carter’s report stating she overdosed on painkillers. You’ll find opioids in her system. A suicide or accident, if you will. Whichever you believe is more likely in these circumstances.”
I swallow hard as I type my notes into the report. This won’t matter. The reports can be overridden. Not by me…I won’t make it out of this alive—I know this. But Quinn won’t accept my findings. There are too many other factors linking these two deaths together. The brand on the victims’ thighs, for one. He’ll question the reports. He won’t let it go. And once I’m found dead…
Quinn won’t stop until he has the truth.
I run my finger over the base of the laptop; a message to Quinn. Because I believe he won’t give up.
As I log the last statement, the man beside me sighs. And the gun is suddenly removed. As the steel leaves my body, I slump forward and gasp in full breaths. With trembling hands, I grip my skirt, clinging to it as I force it down my legs.
“Thank you for being so cooperative, Doctor Johnson,” he says as he backs away. “Now, it’d be wise for your cooperation to continue as we move on to the next phase.”
I close my eyes, wrapping my arms around my stomach as I shrink onto the stool. “I’ve done all I can do. I can’t help you any further.”
Hands clamp my arms and I’m hauled backward. Before the scream makes it past my throat, tape is slapped over my mouth. The bag swiftly covers my face once again. I struggle against the brutes, but my hands are pulled behind my back and my wrists fastened with a zip tie before I raise a fist.
One of them yanks my hair, snapping my head back. I feel the intense presence of the man slink near me. “I thought you’d continue your great deducing skills, Miss Johnson,” he says close to my ear, his hand brushing my cheek through the cloth and making me shiver. “Of course you can help me further. And you will.”
My only prayer as I’m dragged from the lab is that Quinn checks the surveillance in time. That these assholes don’t have the skills Wells did to pull off a clean abduction—that they’ve made a mistake. But as I’m thrown into the back of the transport van, I know my prayer is useless.
These men are nothing like Wells. Wells was the parasite feasting on the bottom rung. And these men… They are the monsters at the top of the food chain.
8
Pursue
Quinn
“Contact me right away if you get a hit on anything close to a match,” I tell the tech analyst.
He starts the search, hitting the precinct and national databases at the same time. With any luck, we’ll find other working girls carrying the same brand. Preferably alive. Not that questioning a pro has ever produced much in the way of aiding in any investigation, but it could give us a clue as to what we’re dealing with.
I save a new copy of the scanned image Avery texted to my phone. My thumbs hover over the onscreen keyboard. I type out “thank you” and hit Send before I close out the text.
What else can I say? Thanks for the blue balls? Thanks for making me feel like the shittiest man alive?
Better to let this one simmer.
I’m aware that I’m avoiding the bigger issue between us, but being married to a pissed off woman has taught me when to tuck balls and duck. There’s nothing I can say to Avery that won’t come out wrong, come back to bite me. She needs more time…and I need to solve this case before another g
irl winds up dead in my city.
The thought of announcing another serial killing spree to the media turns my stomach. But one more body, and that’s what we’ll have.
My next logical course is to get the dirt on Maddox. Find out his connection to the first vic. I need an ID on the second girl to establish a link to both vics through Maddox, then I’ll have enough to bring him in for questioning.
No reason to spook the lawyer until I can build a case showing he’s good for this. Sadie would advise not to focus on one lead, to look at more than one perp. Which is what I should be doing, but I just feel this one in my gut. If Maddox isn’t our guy, then he damn well knows who is. He’s connected to this somehow.
As I grab the printouts I made of Maddox’s past cases off my desk, my phone beeps.
I look down at the screen: 503 – white van – last seen Arl Blvd
Why am I getting pinged with an auto theft? I put a call in to Carson. He picks up on the first ring. “Where are you?”
Static from the radio crackles in the background. “I’m in pursuit. Two unis radioed in an attack on the bus from the crime scene. It was hijacked.”
A cold blast of fear slaps my face. “And the driver?”
“He’s alive, but doesn’t know much. He reported two perps.”
“Do you have eyes on the bus?” I ask, my feet already taking me out of my office.
“Negative. It went off the grid. I know it’s not my call, but I was in the vicinity. I figured our vic’s on that bus.”
“Good call, Carson.” I point to two unis as I make my way through the bullpen. “That stolen transport van; I want all updates as soon as they come in,” I say to them. Then to Carson: “Keep me posted.”
“What are you thinking?” he asks, catching me off-guard before I hang up.
I blow out a tense breath. Ever since Avery’s confession, I’ve been racking my brain on how to use the information she has while still keeping her safe. I know damn well that some petty car thief didn’t steal that transport van. But why try to hide evidence now? Why not burn the body or toss it into the river beforehand?