by Lisa Gardner
“‘You must,’ he told her.
“‘I can’t,’ she whispered.
“‘If you ever loved me,’ he said. He handed her his favorite razor, the old-fashioned kind with an ivory handle. A gift from his own daddy, he’d once told me.
“Bang, bang, bang on the front door. Open up, open up, it’s the police. Bang, bang, bang.
“And Mom slit his wrists. Two strokes each, running down, not across, because across can be stitched up by doctors. Down is a killing stroke.
“Daddy smiled at her. ‘I knew you’d do it right.’
“She dropped the razor into the water. He sank into the sea of red.
“‘I will always love you,’ Mommy whispered, then fell to the floor as the police burst into our home.
“Blood is love,” Shana intoned. “And our parents are not gone. I’m Daddy, and you’re Mom, and Mom is not love, Adeline. Mom is worse.”
“You should rest now,” I told my sister.
But she merely smiled at me.
“Blood will win out, Adeline. Blood always wins in the end, little sister mine.”
Then she grabbed my hand. For a second, I thought maybe she’d smuggled in another blade and was going to do something violent. But she just clutched my wrist. Then the drugs finished taking hold. She eased back. Sighed. Her eyes closed, and my murderous older sister fell asleep, still holding my hand.
After a long moment, I eased my fingers free. Then I lifted my hand and studied the faint white scar I’d had for as long as I could remember across the pale blue veins of my wrists. Apparently put there by my sister forty years ago.
I could nearly hear my adoptive father’s voice now in my head: Pain is . . . ?
Pain is remembering, I thought.
Pain is family.
Which explains why even an expert on pain, such as myself, turned away and walked out the door.
Chapter 8
UPON RETURNING HOME, the first thing D.D. did was call the medical examiner, Ben Whitley. Alex had had to continue on to work, so she was alone in the house, sprawled on the sofa, still wearing yoga clothes from the morning’s analysis of her own injuries.
“I have a question,” she said the moment Ben picked up.
“D.D.!” Ben’s voice boomed in her ear. The ME wasn’t necessarily the world’s most outgoing personality, but during the years he’d dated D.D.’s squad mate Neil, they’d gotten to know each other personally and, even after the breakup, had remained friends. “Heard about the avulsion fracture. Leave it to you to injure yourself in the most creative way possible.”
“I try.”
“Left arm?”
“Yes.”
“Icing? Exercising? Resting?”
“Yes. Yes. Mostly.”
“You must be losing your mind.”
“Yes!”
“Which is why you’re calling me. Let me guess, you want to know about our latest skinning victim.”
“No.”
For the first time, Ben paused. D.D. could practically hear him thinking over the phone line.
“Not the second victim,” she supplied graciously. “I figured you were just now getting to that exam.”
“Slated for later this afternoon.”
“Sounds about right. So I have a question about the first victim, Christine Ryan, as I’m assuming you’ve had more time with those remains. And given you’re a savvy medical examiner, one of the best we’ve ever had—”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“And you’ve already examined the excised skin . . .”
“True.”
“You may have some working theories on the blade used by the killer?”
“True again. Very thin, no nicks or damages to the edge. Question of the day, however, was it a knife edge, or perhaps a razor?”
“Oh.” She hadn’t thought of that. But now, considering . . . “Wouldn’t a razor be difficult to manage through such an . . . involved process? I mean, as a cutting instrument, given the thin strips, okay. But factor in the number of thin strips, and to be blunt, wouldn’t a razor become too slippery to handle?”
“Could be attached to a handle. Think of the classic straight blade used for shaving, or for that matter, a box cutter. My other thought for the day, perhaps it was a scalpel. But I’m veering away from knives. For one thing, I’ve tested dozens over the past few weeks and none provide the same results. At least in my tests, a larger, thicker blade has a tendency to pull on the skin, leading to puckering along the edges. Whereas, our subject . . . He is removing very fine, smooth-edged ribbons of tissue. Which, may I add, clearly indicates practice. Even with my own training, it took a number of tries to execute well. Of course, I was hindered in the beginning by poor weapons choices. Now that I have expanded my search to include surgical instruments, I seem to be coming closer to replicating his precise excise patterns.”
“Okay.” D.D. had to pause for a moment. She hadn’t considered that the killer might have used a scalpel and could be someone with at least basic surgical training. But given her recent brainstorm, a scalpel didn’t necessarily eliminate, and in fact . . . “I’m going to suppose,” she continued now, “that an ME of your fortitude—”
“Already buttered up. Move along, D.D. It is a busy day.”
“You tried to reassemble the skin strips. Re-create the whole.”
“Tried being the operative word.”
“You couldn’t succeed.” Her voice picked up, her heart quickening. Here it was, her middle-of-the-night stroke of brilliance: “Because it turned out, you don’t have all the pieces. Some of the ribbons of skin are missing. The killer took them with him.”
“Ding, ding, ding. Give the beautiful blond detective a prize. Tell me the truth, is it your golden ringlets that give you your edge?”
“Absolutely. How much skin is missing? Are we talking a little or a lot?”
“Say, approximately half a dozen ribbons of excised flesh. Enough a living victim would certainly notice the loss.”
Which was what she had guessed. That the skinning aspect of the murders was more than just a fetish, but also a means of providing what the killer desired most; an extremely personal memento of his crime.
She returned her attention to the phone: “Last question,” she stated to Ben. “The victim’s skin. Was it treated with anything beforehand? Meaning it possibly tested positive for some interesting chemicals? Say alcohol, or even formaldehyde?”
“You’re wondering if the killer attempted to preserve his trophy by first wiping down his victim with some sort of solution?”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“To answer your question: yes and no. The remaining skin on Christine Ryan’s torso tested positive for basic antibacterial soap. However, her arms and lower legs did not. Now, assuming the victim bathed as part of her bedtime ritual, the skin on her entire body should retain traces of the same antibacterial residue. Given that’s not the case, I think it’s safe to assume the killer himself wiped down the victim’s torso with a basic cleaning solution, most likely prior to the skinning process.”
D.D. frowned. “Like a surgeon would do? Preparing the skin for incision?”
“True surgical prep would involve ‘painting’ the incision site with an official prep solution, most of which are alcohol based. The skin on our victim was washed but definitely not treated with a prep stick.”
“So the killer made an effort to clean the target area but not sanitize it.”
“I believe so. Also, to finish answering your previous question, I didn’t find any traces of formaldehyde, so negative on a preserving agent.”
“Okay.”
“Though that doesn’t preclude the killer from attempting to preserve his trophy after the fact,” the ME continued, his voice warming to the subject. “A savv
y killer could place the strips of skin in a glass jar containing a formaldehyde solution, or even dry the strips using a salting process. Really, the choices are endless.”
“Good to know.”
“You’re the one who asked.”
“Occupational hazard. So, to recap your findings: Our killer incapacitated the victim with chloroform, then asphyxiated her via compression. Then he removed the victim’s clothing and wiped down her skin with basic antibacterial soap, before he proceeded with the main event, which involved delicately removing long strips of skin from her torso and upper thighs. A process you believe may involve a scalpel. Then the killer exited the scene, after helping himself to some of the victim’s excised skin as a particularly morbid trophy. That sound about right?”
“Couldn’t have summarized it better myself.”
D.D., still thinking out loud: “Meaning our killer has some experience with surgery and/or prep, but also is comfortable with dead bodies. In fact, given the main elements of the crime occur postmortem, may even be most comfortable with dead bodies.”
“Jeffrey Dahmer?” the ME supplied. “Wasn’t he a necrophiliac who felt compelled to keep body parts from his victims? He claimed to be seeking the perfect lover—one who could never leave him.”
“Except last I heard, our two victims didn’t show signs of sexual assault?”
“No evidence that I could determine.”
D.D. nodded to herself, then remembered to speak into the phone. “Okay, this has been most helpful.”
“You’ve identified the killer?”
“Not yet, but I have an idea of possible occupation.”
“You’re going to investigate hospitals and/or medical schools?”
“I’m going to have Neil pursue hospitals and/or medical schools. Personally, I’m going to check out funeral homes.”
The sensible thing to do would be to wait for Alex to return home after work. He could assist with proper wardrobe, then help load her into the car. But D.D. wasn’t feeling sensible. She was feeling stubborn, not to mention as resentful as hell toward her arm, shoulder, Melvin. She was a strong woman. An independent woman. And a detective on a case.
She would dress her own damn self and Melvin could stick that in his pipe and smoke it.
Melvin, of course, had other ideas.
It started when she tried to remove her scooped-neck yoga top. She went to pull the spandex top up over her healthy right shoulder and somehow twinged her left. Then there was the matter of trying to slide the shirt down her left arm, once she finally got it over her head, let alone the matter of sliding off tight-fitting black exercise pants. Definitely no reason to be using her shoulder muscles to shimmy down yoga pants, and yet her left arm burned in response and she could feel sweat starting to bead her upper lip.
It was as if the more she tried not to jostle her left side, the more every movement jarred her neck, shoulder, upper arm. She gritted her teeth, grabbed dark-gray slacks from her closet and determinedly stepped into them. Then began the painful process of yanking them up, inch by inch, with only one good hand. She finally got them slid over her hips, only to be stymied by the fastening button. She tried it four times without luck.
Oversize top, she thought wildly. Or a jacket. She’d wear a long top to cover the open waistband of her slacks; no one would be the wiser.
It made so much sense, she sat on the edge of her bed and cried.
She hated this. Hated the feeling of uselessness and impotence and sheer frustration. She blamed her body for not healing. She resented her shoulder for aching and her stupid tendon for ripping away a chunk of her own bone. What if she never healed properly? It was a rare injury; no one had been able to provide an exact prognosis. Six months from now, would she finally be able to dress herself? Hold a gun? Pick up her child?
Or would she still be here, lounging around in her husband’s clothes, relegated to telling stories of the glory days while secretly wondering about the might-have-beens? She couldn’t be washed-up. Not yet. She was too young, too dedicated, too much of a cop. There was no next chapter for her. Not when she loved this job so damn much.
Even after it had hurt her. Turned her into a shadow of her former self.
She collapsed back on her bed. Half-dressed in pants, a bra and nothing else, she stared up at the ceiling. Then she closed her eyes, tried to see what she must have seen that final night, right before being shoved down the stairs.
Melvin. Paging Melvin. I’m here, I’m ready, I want to know. Come on, Melvin. Cut a girl a break and let me remember.
Wasn’t that what Dr. Glen had said? If she would talk to her pain, directly ask Melvin to help her remember, the weak Exile would surrender. She just had to be ready for what happened next.
Melvin remained quiet. Or really, continued his normal, blah, blah, blah aching throb.
“I’m ready,” she gritted out in the silent bedroom. “I can handle it, Melvin. Come on, you pissant, groveling son of a bitch. I want to know. Tell me.”
Nothing.
“Was it the killer? Came back to relive his little fantasy, got a nasty surprise when he found me there?”
Except most killers hung out on the outskirts of their crimes. To actually pass under the crime scene tape, violate the police barricade, would expose them to risk. Next thing a killer knew, he was in jail for trespassing, not to mention subject to police interrogation. Now, maybe the perfect psychopath, the murderer who was secure in his superiority, would be attracted to such gamesmanship. But their killer? A man who attacked lone women while they slept? Incapacitated them quickly with chloroform, so even their death was a matter of simple, painless execution . . . ?
For a second, D.D. could almost picture such a man in her head. Small of stature. Low self-esteem, poor social skills, uncomfortable around authority figures, especially women. Never had a long-term relationship, probably lived in the basement of his mother’s house. Except not the browbeaten son harboring a tidal wave of suppressed rage—that killer would explode upon his victims once they were suitably restrained. This killer . . . he was quiet inside and out. But obsessive, maybe. Had to do what he had to do, so was trying to at least do it with the least amount of fuss possible. The victims never even knew what was happening.
He got in, drugged, killed, carved.
Because that was what he really cared about. Skinning. Harvesting. Collecting.
He was a collector.
D.D. thought it and knew it to be true. They were looking for a collector. The murders weren’t crimes of rage or violence, but crimes of obsession. A killer who was compelled to do what he had to do.
Or maybe, do what she had to do.
Because sexual sadist predators were almost universally male, but a collector . . . The lack of sexual assault. The use of chloroform to incapacitate the victims. Even the compression asphyxiation. What had Neil said? A person of any size could do it; it was simply a matter of pressing against the right spot for the right amount of time.
Meaning maybe they weren’t looking for a small, socially submissive male after all. But a female. A woman who wouldn’t appear as suspicious if spotted by the neighbors entering another female’s apartment late at night. A woman who, even if she was found at the crime scene after dark, could more credibly claim to be a close friend of the victim.
Could it be? When D.D. had stood in Christine Ryan’s apartment, maybe it hadn’t been a man who’d caught her off guard. But a lone female, emerging from the shadows . . .
“Melvin. Come on, Melvin! Talk to me.”
But Melvin refused to say a word.
D.D. had had enough. She sat up. Stormed across the room. Wrenched on an oversize cream-colored sweater before she could stop herself, then had to grit her teeth against the exploding pain.
“You want to complain, Melvin?” she muttered. “You want to be all pissed off? Th
en, come on. I’ll give you something to be good and mad about. Let’s go have some fun.”
Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren hammered her way down the stairs, out the door and into her car. Ready to share her pain with the world.
Chapter 9
SUPERINTENDENT KIM MCKINNON was a beautiful woman. High, sculpted cheekbones, smooth ebony skin, liquid brown eyes. The kind of woman who would be as stunning at seventy as she was at forty. She was also incredibly smart, relentlessly determined and phenomenally tough, all traits necessary to run the oldest female correctional institute still operating in the United States. Especially these days, when the MCI was facing record crowding and had just been written up for housing two hundred and fifty inmates in a space originally built for sixty-four.
The trickle-down theory of pain and punishment, the superintendent had informed me the day I’d asked her about it. Most sheriffs’ jails were jammed up themselves, meaning they no longer had the space necessary to offer the sight and sound separation required by law between male and female offenders. Their solution: ship the women to the MCI, where they became Superintendent McKinnon’s problem.
She got the bad press, the women got wedged into triple-bunked cells and the state still didn’t authorize funds for building additional housing units.
Other than that, the superintendent had a dream job, I’m sure.
Now Superintendent Beyoncé, as the inmates called her, sat on the other side of her massive gunmetal-gray desk, hands clasped before her, and regarded me soberly.
“She’s getting worse,” she stated without preamble. “This morning’s incident . . . Frankly, I’ve been expecting such an episode for days.”
“Meaning you’ve conducted extra searches of Shana’s cell, while asking your officers to be hypervigilant about her access to materials for making shanks?” I responded coolly.
Superintendent McKinnon merely gave me a look. “Come on, Adeline. You’ve walked these halls long enough. You know when it comes to an inmate like your sister, there’s very little we can do. We may be the ones in uniforms, but more often than not, she’s the one in control.”