by Andrew Grant
“Why?” Devereaux adjusted his mask.
“He was very confused when he woke up this afternoon. He didn’t know where he was, or what had happened to him. Dr. Mason told him all about how you saved his life—how you ran into the burning building, and everything—and he was totally grateful. All he could talk about was thanking you.”
He won’t be thanking me for long, if I arrest him, Devereaux thought.
“What kind of shape is Mr. Flynn in?” Lieutenant Hale adjusted her scrubs. She didn’t look happy about how short the pants were on her.
“He’s doing surprisingly well.” The nurse led the way to the main entrance to the unit and entered her code into a keypad. “He’s as strong as an ox. The main problem you’ll have is that his larynx is damaged. He’ll speak very quietly, so be ready to listen closely. And he might not be able to keep the conversation going for long. If I were you I’d try to think of all my questions up front, make sure they’re clear—he doesn’t seem like the smartest guy we’ve ever had in here; but then, we deal with a lot of meth heads, so that’s not saying much—and ask them in priority order.”
“I think—”
Lieutenant Hale was cut off by the angry screeching of an alarm. It was behind them at the nurses’ station, so it was muffled when the door hissed back into place, but was still audible.
“Code blue.” The nurse started running toward the corner of the corridor. “This is weird. We only have one patient tonight…”
Devereaux and Hale sprinted after the nurse. Garretty followed a few paces behind, wary of his injured abdomen. Around the corner an officer wearing scrubs was waiting outside Flynn’s room. He was on his feet, his chair pushed back at a crooked angle. Shock and concern were evident on his face. The glass between the room and corridor was opaque. An alarm sounded from inside the room, too, jarring and insistent.
“What happened?” Worry added a hard edge to Hale’s voice.
“I don’t know, Lieutenant.” The officer drew himself up a little straighter. “Everything was fine. Flynn was awake. I could see him through the window. Doctors and nurses were in and out all day. Everyone was calm. They were moving slow. There was no panic. Then suddenly the alarm went off. A nurse rushed in pushing a cart with all kinds of equipment on it. The window went blank. Then you guys arrived.”
One of the nurses they’d seen outside appeared and paused with her hand above the door switch. “Stay here. I’ll update you as soon as there’s news.”
All four cops peered into the room as the door slid open. They caught a glimpse of Flynn lying on the bed. A single, lightweight sheet was tangled on the floor in the corner of the room. Flynn was only wearing pajama bottoms. Much of his head was bandaged, and his face and torso were covered with angry red-purple blisters and clear shiny ointment. A nurse was leaning over the bed. She had a pair of defibrillator paddles in her hands, which were attached with curly leads to a machine on a cart.
“Clear!”
The nurse pressed the paddles onto Flynn’s chest. His body jerked into the air for a second, then flopped back down. The trace on his monitor spiked, then returned to horizontal. The door closed, ending their view. A doctor arrived, glared suspiciously at the gaggle of cops, then hurried into the room. A similar scene was visible inside for a moment. Jerk, then flop. Jerk, then flop.
Fifteen minutes later the door opened and Dr. Mason emerged, a grim expression on his face.
“This guy was a suspected murderer, right? Well, I want you to know something. That had nothing to do with what just happened in there. We did everything we possibly could to save him. Nurse Brown, who was the first to respond? She’s one of our very best. Last year, she received a special commendation from the CEO for going above and beyond her duty in saving patients’ lives. If a relative had a heart attack, she’s the one you’d want to find them. She saved a retired cop’s life just a couple of days ago. She’s absolutely distraught she couldn’t do the same thing tonight.”
Monday. Early morning.
Devereaux didn’t need an alarm clock that morning. The rays of sunshine that began to stream in through the hole in the roof shortly after dawn were more than enough to rouse him from his sleep. He remained stretched out on his battered leather couch for another five minutes after the daylight had prompted him to open his eyes, breathing in the cool, pure forest air and reveling in the perfect silence of the secluded countryside. Normally he’d have lain there for half an hour or more, but just then he was too fired up to stay still. His cabin had worked its old magic. The confusion and frustration of the previous day were gone. He was feeling calm. Focused. Ready to get down to business—closing the case on Flynn and talking to Alexandra. Telling her the news about his father. And convincing her that there was no longer any reason for them to be apart.
There were no facilities in the cabin—it had been left with just a single room after catching on fire when a moonshine still belonging to the original owner exploded decades earlier—so Devereaux needed to get back to his apartment at the City Federal to shower and change before heading over to Lieutenant Hale’s office. He grabbed his boots and his jacket, pulled the door closed behind him, fired up the Porsche, and eased it gently along the rough track that led to the paved road at the outskirts of the woods. Usually he allowed himself a few fast miles at that point before the traffic grew heavier as it approached the city, but he resisted the temptation and kept one eye on his phone. He willed it to pick up a signal. Finally one bar registered on its screen. That jumped up to three. And then a voicemail icon appeared. Alexandra had left him a message.
“Cooper? Damn, I hate to have missed you. Listen. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. About us and, you know…everything. I think we need to talk. Face-to-face. Not over the phone. So give me a call, let me know when would work for you. Or shoot me a text. Whatever’s convenient. Anyway, catch you soon. Bye.”
Devereaux pulled onto the shoulder and replayed the message. We need to talk. Words that generally don’t bode well when it comes to relationships. He knew that from bitter experience. But he wasn’t unduly discouraged. When Alexandra dumped him before, eight years ago, she just walked out. There was no warning. No discussion. So the message was actually a step forward. And more importantly, she didn’t know what he’d discovered about his father. Once she learned that he was innocent, everything would change. All he had to do was swing past Diane McKinzie’s house and get a copy of her father’s papers. He should have done that the night before, but with the shock of the revelation and the phone call about Flynn, it had gotten away from him. He’d put that right as soon as possible, then call Alexandra back and fix a time to meet.
—
“We’ve had two mornings now.” Lieutenant Hale looked at Devereaux and Agent Irvin over the ever-deepening mound of paperwork on her desk and took a long sip of coffee. “Two mornings when we haven’t had a gift-wrapped body turn up somewhere in the city. Billy Flynn was out of the game on both occasions. I think it’s safe to say that can’t be a coincidence. I think it’s safe to close the case. But I don’t want to just think. I want to know. I want some evidence that’s non-circumstantial. Even if it’s just one piece. So, Cooper. Linda. What’s left to work with?”
“I have one piece of news.” Devereaux pulled up a picture on his phone. “I just heard from Tech Services. Deborah Holt’s new car’s been found. It was at the end of a narrow, twisting track up on the Red Mountain, where teenagers typically go to make out. They need a little while to work on it, so I’m going to break Tommy out of the hospital, meet with the ME for his final word on the bodies, then head over to the workshop and see if they’ve come up with anything.”
“Was the hospital able to help us with Flynn’s prints?”
“No luck there. His hands were both too badly burned.”
“How about a photograph? It would be good if we could get a positive ID from Mrs. Goodman. Or a fence, if any of the victims’ possessions ever resurface. Did you get anything
from his mom?”
“No. Not yet, anyway. She’s reaching out to her friends and family. All her physical photos were destroyed in the fire, and she only has a few old baby pictures on her phone.”
“It’s interesting that she doesn’t have anything more up to date.” Irvin scratched her ear. “She must have gone to some trouble to scan or copy the old pictures. It would have been much easier to take a few newer ones. That suggests she doesn’t appreciate him as an adult and harks back to a time when she thought he had more potential. That in turn could contribute to him feeling unappreciated, which is certainly consistent with the profile.”
“Sounds good.” Hale took another mouthful of coffee. “In theory. Now let’s get out there and find some proof. I want this wrapped up. And then I never want to think about the Birthday Killer ever again.”
Monday. Morning.
Dr. Liam Barratt was the most cheerful person Devereaux knew, and yet he worked at the most miserable place in the city. The Jefferson County morgue. A gloomy, gray concrete structure that could easily have been mistaken for a parking garage with its sides blocked in. It was surrounded on three sides by other grim concrete buildings, and Devereaux made a point of only going there when he absolutely had to.
Barratt could have sent an assistant to open the door—being the longest-serving ME in the city has its perks—but he went down to the staff entrance himself when Devereaux buzzed the intercom.
“Cooper!” Barratt wiped his palm on the leg of his faded blue scrubs before shaking Devereaux’s hand. “It’s a pleasure, as always. But why don’t you ever stop by for coffee? Or to chat about sailboats, like you keep promising? Sometimes I think you’re only interested in me for my bodies…”
Devereaux forced a smile onto his face, then gestured to his companions. “You know Tommy, right? And this is Special Agent Linda Irvin, with the FBI. She works out of the Birmingham Field Office. This is her second case with us.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Irvin held out her hand. “I’m working on the profile of the guy who brought you those bodies. I thought it might help me to see his handiwork firsthand. I hope that’s OK.”
“Are you joking?” Barratt’s smile grew even larger. “Of course it’s OK. The bigger the audience, the happier I am. You should see me in a lecture theater. Although I am a little confused about one thing. I thought you’d caught the asshole who killed these women.”
“We have.” Irvin hitched her laptop bag higher up onto her shoulder. “We just have to make sure the case is water tight before we put it to bed. And that’s a little harder than normal. Our suspect is dead. His fingerprints are all burned off. His face is totally disfigured. And his house—which is most likely the principal crime scene—and all his possessions are incinerated. Lieutenant Hale asked for my input, so before I sign off I need to check that there are no red flags in the victimology.”
“In that case, I have two things to say.” Barratt beamed at her. “First, never let the lieutenant trick you into playing any form of racket sport with her. She’s ridiculously good at all of them. You’d be lucky to escape with your life. And second, come on inside. I’ll help you any way I can.”
—
Barratt’s rubber work boots squeaked on the tile floor as he led the way across the autopsy room. He paused at the far side, in front of a wall of square steel doors. There were twelve in all, like giant storage lockers. Which, in a macabre way, they were.
Three stainless steel dissection tables with sturdy, tubular legs were lined up along the center of the room. Their sides were raised four inches to contain their contents, and a Y-shaped channel molded into their bases led to the drain, which was covered by a heavy-duty mesh strainer.
One of the tables was empty. It was scrupulously clean, but covered in parallel scratches. They were concentrated in certain areas, like on a platter that’s used for carving a family’s Thanksgiving roast. Devereaux pictured the procedure of chopping and slicing and separating the samples, then switching them into dishes or jars full of harsh-smelling chemicals. He shivered, then his attention shifted to the hose assembly above the tables, each supported on a giant spring. That was the part that creeped him out the most. But not because he was squeamish. It was due to a strange superstition that had developed. At the end of the first autopsy he’d witnessed, he was convinced that he saw the soul of the victim being washed away down the drain along with their blood and leftover body parts.
The other two tables were occupied. The first by Deborah Holt. The second, Siobhan O’Keefe. Their bodies were covered with pale green sheets. Their eyes were closed. Their necks were supported by porcelain wedges, like tiny pillows. You could almost have believed the women were asleep, if it weren’t for the indefinable, preternatural stillness that separates the dead from the living.
Barratt gestured for the officers to gather around. Devereaux stayed as close to the door as he could. Barratt pulled back the sheets. The women’s skin was pale, almost transparent in the harsh, even light thrown by the round overhead rigs. The coarse blue thread clashed horribly with the skin where their bodies had been sewn up following the probing of their organs.
“Let me tell you their stories, since they’re in no position to do it themselves.” Barratt’s voice was quiet, almost reverential. “This makes a fascinating comparison. We have two Caucasian females of exactly the same age. Twenty-one, to the day. They could almost be twins. They’ve both given birth. Both were in generally good health. Neither smoked. Neither shows signs of drug use, or excessive alcohol intake. Then we come to the less palatable similarities. First, neither had any defensive wounds or restraint marks on her wrists or ankles.”
“That suggests a couple of possibilities.” Irvin frowned. “They could have been victims of a blitz attack, being overcome by their attacker before they had the chance to react. Or they could have known their attacker. Or trusted him for some reason.”
“Mrs. Goodman’s account of Siobhan being coerced into a vehicle makes it sound like either a threat or a trick was used,” Garretty said.
“It may be a combination of the two,” Irvin said. “A trick to get them into the vehicle and a blitz attack at the secondary crime scene when they were killed.”
“They were both assaulted, as well.” The smile had disappeared from Barratt’s face. “By someone incredibly fastidious. Not a single hair or trace of fluid was left behind. They’re the cleanest—if that’s the word—victims I’ve ever examined.”
“No trace at all?” Garretty shook his head. “We’re catching no breaks—none—in this case.”
“And of course the final, tragic similarity.” Barratt frowned. “Both were killed by manual strangulation. Though there is a significant contrast between the two cases. Look at the first vic, Ms. Holt. You can see from the marks on her neck that the attack was quick and brutal. There was no hesitation. No adjustment. Her larynx was completely crushed. But the second vic, Ms. O’Keefe, has a different story. Her end was slow. Drawn out. Can you see the overlapping marks on her neck? And the way the blood vessels in her eyes are shot across a wider area, but with less intensity? I wouldn’t be surprised if he strangled her till she lost consciousness and then revived her several times before finishing the job.”
“That’s just sick.” The expression on Garretty’s face was murderous.
“I know this is a long shot, but is there any chance of recovering a print from either of their necks?” Irvin asked. “The killer kept his fingers nice and still with Deborah. It looks like a constant contact. And she wore plenty of lotion. What do you think, Doctor?”
“There’s no chance at all. I was just coming to that. It’s my final point. The killer wore gloves. The texture is imprinted on the victims’ skin. Look closely, and you’ll see.”
“What kind of gloves were they?” Garretty leaned in close to Deborah Holt’s neck. “Leather?”
“No.” Barratt shook his head. “Synthetic. Some kind of protective work gloves, would be my
guess.”
Dear Mom,
You’ll never believe what just happened! My car just got repossessed! My damn car! I have no idea how they even found it. I knew I was a couple of payments behind—I mean, come on, who hasn’t been a little in the red, one time or another?—so I kept it locked up. Well not actually locked, because the garage technically belongs to Chorlton (Do you remember him? Nice guy. I went to high school with him. He did live in my building, but he’s in jail right now so he doesn’t exactly need full use of his parking spot) and I don’t have the key. But no one could see it, or know it was there. Except for when I had to take it out, like when Hayley wouldn’t let me drive her car. The selfish bitch. That’s probably how they got on to me. Someone saw me when she forced me to break cover one time. God, I hate selfish people. And I’m totally surrounded by them. There’s her. And Lucas. Don’t get me started on Lucas! It’s his fault I was behind on the payments in the first place. I asked him to spot me a few bucks when I lost my job—which totally wasn’t my fault, by the way. I am sick! How is it my fault if the doctors are too stupid to find out what’s wrong with me? OK, so I said “asked” but actually I begged Lucas to help me out. And you know what? He turned me down flat. Wouldn’t even consider it. After everything I’ve done for him? And after he screwed up our extra income with his idiotic overreaching, which I did warn him about? Honestly, the man’s a disgrace. And he’s rolling in cash! He has mountains of it! Because, let’s face it. It’s easy for him to make money. He’s a journeyman. Tinkering around with people’s cars. That’s not hard. Anyone could do that. But not just anyone can be an artist in their field. Not like I am.
Monday. Morning.
All of the major functions that fell under the umbrella of the Police Department’s Support Services Bureau had now been consolidated in the recently extended building on Fourth Avenue. Several had been relocated from relatively new facilities around the city. The one notable exception was the vehicle inspection unit, which was still based in the former warehouse near the airport that had been its “temporary” home for the last fifteen years.