Frank lifted the clear shield over his face, grabbed a paper towel from a wall dispenser, and mopped the sweat from his head. “The victim is female, Caucasian, approximately seventeen to twenty-five years old, brunette, brown eyes, five foot six inches tall, one hundred ten pounds. Internal organs show no evidence of drug or alcohol abuse, to be confirmed by toxicology reports.”
“Scars?”
“None. She wasn’t wearing any jewelry. Nothing in her pockets except the cigarette receipt we discussed at the scene. We found fibers in the wounds on her face and numerous hairs on her body and clothing,” Frank continued. “Facial trauma was inflicted both pre- and post-mortem, with fists and a blunt instrument, possibly a baseball bat. No tissue under her fingernails. She was raped, but we didn’t find any semen. So he likely used a condom. Cause of death was asphyxia by manual strangulation.”
Frank moved to the table and positioned both of his hands over the base of the victim’s bruise-ringed throat, just below her ruined face. Hovering two inches above the body, his thumbs lined up with two dark purple circles at the base of her neck. “The hyoid bone was fractured. The bruising pattern suggests she was strangled from the front.”
Frank stepped back. He moved to a nearby sink and turned on the water with a foot pedal. “This was a very violent death, but the greatest injuries to her face were inflicted post-mortem.”
“He beat her up, raped her, strangled her, then beat her again?”
“Yes.” Frank lowered the clipboard.
Rage. Pure rage, thought Brody. “Can you tell me anything about the killer?”
“The deepest bruise on her neck is from his right thumb. He was likely right-handed. The span of his hands indicates an average to large adult male.”
Not much help. Ninety percent of humans were right-handed.
“I’ll let you know as soon as the rest of the lab tests come back.”
“Thanks.” On his way out of the suite, Brody glanced back at the corpse. A visual played in his head: a man sitting on top of this woman, punching her, wrapping his hands around her throat until she stopped breathing, then getting up and pounding her face with a bat. His gaze strayed to the photos fixed to a board next to the body, close-ups of her injuries, X-rays of her throat. Manual strangulation was a very intimate means of murder.
Did he know you?
Most murders were committed by someone who knew the victim. In this case, Brody hoped that was true. An intimate killing might be a one-time thing. If not, Scarlet Falls had a very violent and unpredictable killer on the loose.
Brody left the medical examiner and walked across the parking lot of the municipal complex to the neighboring building that housed the crime scene investigator’s offices. He paused to sniff the crisp air and clear his nose, mostly, of the foul stench that had accumulated in his nostrils in the autopsy suite. But the scent of death clung with stubborn determination. Two minutes in the morgue, and Brody swore his hair and clothes stank of decay.
The CSI unit occupied a suite of rooms on the first floor. Brody found Darcy Stevens, latent fingerprint examiner, at her desk.
He knocked on the door frame.
Darcy looked up. Though he knew her to be almost fifty, Darcy’s coffee-colored complexion was wrinkle free. She wore her hair pulled back in a painfully tight bun. Her suit and blouse were solid black to defy the dark powders intrinsic to her job. Sipping from an extra-large paper cup of coffee at her elbow, she waved him in.
“Hi, Brody.” Her voice was deep, the 900-number richness of it countered by her severe dress and hairstyle, no doubt as she intended.
Brody smiled at the picture of a wrinkled newborn tucked into the corner of her blotter. “Morning, Darcy. How’s the new grandbaby?”
Handing the photo over, she beamed. “He is eight pounds and four ounces of adorable perfection.”
“Wow, that’s a lot of hair.” Brody gave it back. “How does it feel to be a grandma?”
“Wonderful. I get to cuddle with him all I want, then go home and get a full night’s sleep.”
“Sounds perfect.”
“It is.” She slipped the picture into place. “I bet you’re here about the Jane Doe that came in yesterday?”
“I am. Have you had any luck?”
“Not yet. I scanned her prints into our regional fingerprint database, but none of the matches the computer generated were true.”
“You mean the computer isn’t going to spit her ID out as fast as on an episode of Law & Order?”
“I wish we could solve all our cases in forty-three minutes. Heck, I wish we could solve all our cases in forty-three days.” Darcy rolled her eyes. “When the regional AFIS was a bust, I moved on to the state of New York.” She stood and rounded her desk. “Let me see if the query came back with any hits.”
“You’ve been busy this morning.”
“I came in early. Frank called me last night. You know we’ll do whatever we can to determine if this woman is Chet’s daughter. Besides, whoever killed that woman needs to be locked up before he hurts someone else.”
Darcy would have taken the fingerprints herself, so she’d seen the body. With determined strides, she crossed the gray tiled floor to a row of computers on a long table pushed against the wall. Sliding into the seat, she moved the mouse. The blank screen came alive. She moved the blinking cursor to a row in a table. “We have eleven possible hits so far, and the query is still running.” She glanced up at him. “The visual comparisons will take some time. Depending on how many results that computer cranks out, I might be here all day. Want me to call you when I’m done?”
Unlike television crime dramas, where a mug shot of the suspect or a photo of the victim popped onto the screen in seconds, in real life, the ridge lines of each possible match had to be manually compared by a certified latent fingerprint examiner. The matching software erred on the side of caution and generated as many matches as possible, leaving the examiners to sift through the possibilities.
“I’d appreciate it,” he said.
“If none of these match up, I’ll try the neighboring states and the FBI.”
“Thanks, Darcy.”
“How’s Chet holding up?”
“As good as can be expected.” Brody started toward the door.
“I can’t imagine how he deals with it.”
“Me either.” Because he doesn’t.
Brody exited the building. A gray and cloudy sky hovered over the parking lot, and the wind that whipped around his neck contained the first real bite of damp New York winter. Autumn had been unusually warm, a brief but welcome stay of pleasant temperatures, but now it seemed like Mother Nature was making up for lost time.
His cell rang. Brody answered with the hands-free device on his steering wheel.
“Hi, Brody, Stella here. Have you seen Chet?”
“No, isn’t he at the station?”
“He stopped in, then said he was going to interview a witness for the drug bust you two shared last week.” Stella dropped her voice. “But that was an hour ago, and he’s not answering the radio or his cell. The chief has been looking for him. I just thought you might like to know.”
“Thanks. The interview might be taking a long time.” But these follow-up interviews consisted mostly of quick clarifying questions. None of them should take over an hour, and Chet should have checked in with the station in between stops.
He slid behind the wheel of his sedan and turned toward the station. On the way, he cruised past Chet’s place. The former cop still lived in the same house in which he and his wife had raised their only daughter. Brody pulled into the narrow driveway in front of the small Cape Cod in the center of town. He walked up to the stoop and rang the bell. Chet didn’t answer. Brody listened but the house was silent. He cupped a hand over his eyes and peered through the sidelight. The house was dark. Worried, Brody ci
rcled to the back of the house.
Where could he be at ten in the morning? He didn’t have any hobbies. Back in his car, Brody called Chet’s home number and cell phone. No answer on either line. He left a message on Chet’s voice mail saying that he didn’t have any new information and was just checking in.
He drove to the station, his thoughts consumed by the dead woman, Chet’s absence, and Hannah’s predicament.
There was nothing he could do about Chet except work the case. But maybe he might be able to help Hannah. He left a message for the cop in Vegas. He did a new search in ViCAP, the FBI’s violent crimes database, with the information provided by the medical examiner. While he was searching for similar crimes and missing women, he’d check the National Crime Information Center to see if there were any missing persons reports in Nevada for a teenage girl named Jewel.
But Brody couldn’t get the violence of the attack on Jane Doe out of his head. Darcy had put it best: the assailant had to be found before he unleashed his rage on another innocent woman.
Chapter Thirteen
Brody pulled into the driveway of the Barrett house. Pizza box in hand, he exited the vehicle. A Honda Accord parked next to his sedan, and a redheaded woman got out.
“Thanks for doing this, Kailee,” he said. “I owe you.”
“No, you don’t. I’m glad to help.” Her long red ponytail flipped as she pivoted and walked toward the front porch. Brody rang the bell, and a dog exploded into barking.
A few minutes later, the door opened. Hannah stood in the foyer, blinking at the light as if she’d just woken up.
Brody ushered Kailee into the house. “Hannah, this is Kailee. She’s a police sketch artist. She’s not here in an official capacity, but as a favor to me.”
Hannah brushed a hand through her hair, but instead of settling into place neatly, it remained stubbornly disheveled as if she’d been sleeping on it. Disheveled looked good on her, he decided. Real rather than perfect and polished. Sexy. Not many women could pull off the just-out-of-bed look.
She held out a hand to Kailee. “You worked with Carson, didn’t you?”
Kailee smiled. “Yes.”
“He talked about how nice you were.” Hannah gestured toward the kitchen. “Please come in.”
Brody set the pizza box on the island and opened the lid. “I told you I’d bring dinner.”
Hannah sniffed. “Mushrooms?”
“Of course,” Brody said.
“You seem to know all my favorite foods.” Suspicion laced Hannah’s voice.
“Must be a coincidence,” Brody lied.
She cast him a quick not-buying-it glance before opening the fridge. “I have Coke, beer, wine, and iced tea. Or I could make coffee.”
Kailee slid a sketch pad and thick pencil out of her bag. “I’d love a Coke.”
“Me, too,” Brody said.
Hannah poured three drinks and pulled plates from the kitchen cabinet. Brody opened the box, took out a slice, and folded it. He didn’t bother with the plate. Hannah ate two slices, then broke off a piece of crust for the dog.
Kailee stopped at one, then wiped her hands on a napkin. She lifted her pencil. “Why don’t we get started?”
Brody got up. “I’ll walk the dog while you work.”
Kailee did her best work if the witness was relaxed and open, two words that did not describe Hannah. The fewer people in the room the better.
He headed for the edge of the woods. They skirted the forest at a leisurely pace. The scent of wood smoke tinged the air, and Brody wondered if Grant’s fireplace was usable. The dog sniffed and snuffled along the ground. Brody was in no rush. Kailee would need some time, and maybe if he gave the dog a long walk, AnnaBelle wouldn’t wake Hannah in the middle of the night.
They looped the property twice and started back. A twig snapped. The dog’s head shot up, and her tail went rigid. She lunged into her collar. Brody two-handed the leash as the retriever went from docile to defensive in a heartbeat.
“Easy.” He pulled her back to his side, but the fur on her back was up, and a growl sounded low in her throat. AnnaBelle didn’t growl often. Something was out there. Something only the dog could sense.
And Hannah hadn’t reset the alarm when Brody went outside.
Keeping the retriever close, Brody hurried back to the house. Through the kitchen window, he could see Kailee and Hannah working together. Kailee was smiling, talking, and sketching. Hannah’s body was tense, and her brows were furrowed in concentration. The young artist had her hands full getting Hannah to relax.
Brody led the dog inside. He unsnapped the leash and locked the door.
Kailee set down her pencil and turned the pad around. “We did two drawings. Hannah has a good eye for detail.” Kailee turned the sketch pad toward him.
The first sketch was of a scroungy-looking man in his late twenties. Goatee. Thin. Mean eyes. The second sketch made Brody suck wind. Beyond the physical characteristics—young, dark hair and eyes—Kailee had captured the terror and hopelessness on the young girl’s face. Brody didn’t have to ask to know Hannah was seeing that face every time she closed her eyes. No wonder she was exhausted.
“Are you satisfied with the pictures?” he asked Hannah.
“Yes.” She nodded. “Both of these look accurate. I’m not as comfortable with my memory of the second man to attempt a sketch.” She turned to the artist. “Thank you so much, Kailee.”
“I’m glad I could help.” Kailee tore the sketches from her pad. “I need to go. I have a date.”
Brody walked her to the door. Then, considering the dog’s behavior in the woods, he escorted her all the way to her car and watched the young woman drive away. When he went back into the kitchen, Hannah was still sitting at the island, staring at the drawings. Maybe this hadn’t been a good idea.
“You should reset the alarm.”
“What did you see?” Hannah asked.
“Nothing. But the dog was agitated.”
Hannah went into the pantry, and Brody heard a few digitized beeps.
“Are you all right?” he asked. Reliving the attack had obviously been stressful, but Brody knew better than to let her suppress the images. Denial didn’t work in the long run.
She nodded. “I can’t get her out of my head. Why didn’t the Vegas detective have me do a composite image?”
He looked over her shoulder. “I talked to him this afternoon. Because of budget cuts, they’re using a computer program instead of artists. The new software is giving them problems. Composites are a crapshoot, but Kailee is unusually good.” Brody paused. “You have to take these drawings with the knowledge that your mind could be conjuring up details all on its own. It wouldn’t be your fault. It just happens. If Kailee worked with a dozen witnesses, she’d get twelve slightly different images of the same suspect. Everyone sees things from their own perspective.”
“So you’re saying these drawings might not be accurate?”
“It’s hard to say. It’s been a few days since the attack. Memory fades fast.”
“Then why did you bring Kailee here?”
“Because it’s worth a try, and sooner is better than later.” Brody also thought taking action might help Hannah. “The Vegas PD hasn’t had any luck matching the fingerprints they lifted from the rental car, but if they do, it can’t hurt to get these drawings before your memory fades further. Having both fingerprints and an eyewitness will strengthen any case.” Brody tapped on the picture of the girl. “I’ll run off a copy of this. I’m trying to identify a dead woman who also had long dark hair.” In fact, Hannah’s victim and the woman in the morgue had a few things in common. “I’ll be checking missing persons cases. You never know. I could get lucky.” His gaze shifted to the sketch of Hannah’s assailant. The girl’s eyes were full of terror, but this man was freezer cold.
Hann
ah’s gaze was full of the same terrible knowledge. “He’s going to hurt her. If he didn’t kill her already.”
“You don’t know that.”
“It was in his eyes,” she whispered. “And there was nothing I could do about it.”
Brody nodded. “I get it. Even if I identify this woman and find her killer, I can’t really help her or her family. I can’t bring her back to life, and that’s all they really want.”
“You can’t change the past, but you can give them closure.” Her eyes softened. She knew what it was like to have a family member murdered. “It helps to know that the person responsible for Lee’s death was caught. It doesn’t take away the pain, but it’s far better than having his killer on the loose.”
“I’m glad,” he said. What if the dead woman was Teresa? Brody would have to take that news to Chet. And even if the dead woman was someone else, he couldn’t bring Chet’s daughter back—she’d been lost to Chet for years—and Brody would have to tell some other family their loved one had been murdered.
“That girl in Vegas was very much alive. I have to live with the fact that she might be dead now because of me.”
“You did everything you could. You can’t blame yourself because a man chose to commit an act of violence. You were injured trying to help. Most people would have run the other way.” Brody understood. Most people sense danger and run the other way. Cops and soldiers run toward trouble. Hannah had the same spirit. It was the very quality that drew him to her.
She was silent. She wasn’t going to give herself a break. He glanced around the quiet house. Moping around these empty rooms all day couldn’t be good for her. Hannah needed action.
“What have you been doing all day?”
Her brow crinkled. “Replaced my wallet and license. I took the dog for a walk.”
“That’s it?”
She shrugged. “We napped afterward. The dog was tired.”
Not good enough, and he doubted it was the dog that was tired. She was surely still sore from the assault and accident. “Tomorrow, I’d like to take you out to dinner.”
Minutes to Kill (Scarlet Falls) Page 11