Yet the body that lay before her, before them all, was just wrong. It wasn’t so much that the killer had dissected the woman, flaying open her chest and abdomen. Or that he had carefully teased ligament away from bone. The thing that made her force back bile was the series of little labels stuck into the vital organs.
Liver. Kidneys. Ovaries… Each word written in the victim’s own blood.
That was what made her gulp again and look away.
Around her, the crime scene was barely contained chaos, with every acronym in the book accounted for, EMTs, CSIs, MEs, FDs, PDs. Given that this was the serial killer’s sixth victim, when the call came over that another body had been found, all hands, whether they were needed or not, came on deck.
Nicole glanced to her partner, Ruben Torres, the lead detective on the case. All answered to him, which was what he wanted. What he had wanted for a long time. Their city was large enough to have its fair share of murders, but small enough that they didn’t have a Major Crimes division. Instead, the department had one detective that they turned to for their most difficult cases, the Captain’s go-to detective.
For decades, that had been Hatachi Nogamori. But after a long-overdue retirement, the door was thrown wide open, and Ruben had been the first to charge through. To Nicole’s eye, he had the skills, knowledge, and ambition to fill Hatachi’s shoes.
Now, though, with his jaw muscles rippling, Nicole wasn’t so sure that Ruben was all too enthused that he had stepped up to the plate. She knew the disgust on his face wasn’t from the gore. Even though the sun was going down, the mid-summer heat rose from the alley’s pavement, bringing with it a smell, so strong that you could taste it, of a poorly ventilated butcher’s shop, which someone had tried to clean up with formaldehyde.
The heady aroma turned Nicole’s stomach, but she was pretty sure it didn’t bother Ruben. He’d seen a tour in Iraq before the Green Zone was established. Her partner didn’t ever talk about his time in the Middle East, even to her, which pretty much convinced Nicole of exactly how grueling the tour must have been.
A flash of light cut through the dusky night.
Nicole blinked several times as the CSI photographer stepped around her and took another shot.
Ruben, too, seemed startled out of his thoughts, and grumbled, “Just make sure these pictures aren’t leaked to the press.”
The older photographer frowned, setting the heavy camera down against his potbelly. “We’re all here to do a professional job.”
Ruben bristled at the CSI’s tone. She knew her partner’s frustration. Those leaked pictures had revealed the one detail of the crime that they had been holding back…the organ labels. Now every crackpot in the city was claiming credit for the murders. It had taken days, if not weeks, to disprove their statements, sucking precious time and resources away from finding the real killer.
Before Ruben could counter the older man’s statement, Nicole pointed to the roof of an adjacent building. “Speaking of the press…”
An especially intrepid cameraman and news anchor were peeking their heads over the roof.
“Damn it!” Ruben barked, then turned on his heel toward a group of uniformed policemen. “If you are going to gawk, at least secure the perimeter!”
The cluster of blue uniforms scattered in the wake of Ruben’s anger. Which was so unlike her partner. Ruben was usually the good cop, negotiating the politics of the detective’s bullpen like a fish in clear water. Most of the men he’d just chastised were poker buddies.
Nicole stifled the instinct to lay a hand on his arm in comfort. While their relationship was no secret, she knew that the boys’ club gathered here would see her gesture as a sign of weakness. And with all of the media attention? She couldn’t risk a random cellphone snapshot of their intimacy.
This investigation had gone from a local police matter to a statewide manhunt to, now, a national cause celebre. And the longer the investigation stretched out, the more intense the media coverage became. Which wasn’t making any of this easier. It was a little hard to keep your head in the game when Nancy Grace was calling you an incompetent ham-fisted Fred Flintstone of detectives.
Nicole waved a fly away from her face. It persisted, landing momentarily on her shoulder. She tried not to think of what its tiny feet left behind on her blouse. The grit of the crime scene crept under her clothes, mixing with the sweat streaking down her back. There weren’t enough showers in the world to wash the desperation from her skin.
Ruben turned his attention from the roof to the medical examiner kneeling by the body. “Time of death?”
The ME chewed at the butt of a cold cigar and read from one of the labels. “Specimen collected at 9:52pm Central Standard Time.”
Her partner’s jaw muscles worked overtime, yet he somehow modulated his tone so as not to sound as exasperated as he clearly was. “That was her capture time. I need time of death.”
Shoving the cigar butt over to the corner of his mouth, the ME spat onto the pavement. Not exactly hygienic or conducive to maintaining a proper crime scene, but the ME was the oldest of the good ole boys. Dr. McGregor did as Dr. McGregor saw fit, and you’d best like it.
“I really don’t know why they haul my ass out here to the body,” McGregor grumbled. “When have I, or any ME ever in the history of crime scene investigations, been able to tell you anything but… ‘I’ll have to see once I get the body on the table?’”
“Anything you could tell us about the time or cause of death could be a help,” Nicole answered, as Ruben’s lips pressed down into a firm line. They both knew that the CSIs wouldn’t find any forensic clues. This killer was far too sophisticated to make a clumsy error. Their only hope to catch the killer was to jump on any lead they could get, such as time of death, and hope it opened up a new avenue of investigation.
The ME scanned the crowd then nodded to an EMT as she gathered up her gear. “You.” Nicole had met the young EMT before. She had an androgynous name, Jaime, maybe? She had been one of the first responders at the crime scene.
“Me?” the EMT squeaked out. Her eyes darted around her, obviously hoping that McGregor was talking to someone else.
“Yes, you,” he said, waving her over. Reluctantly, Jaime came over. “Now could you please tell these fine detectives when and how this victim died?”
The EMT’s eyes flickered to Nicole, then Ruben, then the ME, then even to the photographer. She found no solace from any of them. “I wouldn’t know.”
McGregor didn’t let it go. “Shocking,” he mocked. “Why don’t you just guess? Apparently Detective Torres wants something, anything. Accurate or not.”
“We get the point, Dr. McGregor,” Nicole said, trying to get the poor EMT out from under everyone’s glare and close this conversation before Ruben said something he would regret. Hell, even she was getting to the point of wanting to test if McGregor could take it as well as he dished it out.
“No,” the ME said. “No, I don’t think you do.” He turned back to the young woman. “Well? No theories? Postulations? Informed guesses?”
Surprisingly, the EMT’s shoulders squared and she kneeled next to the body. “If this killing holds up to the others, she was lured to a remote location, injected with a cocktail of paralytics, then…dissected.” The woman gulped. Nicole knew how the EMT felt as the she continued. “Cause of death will most likely prove to be a combination of severe shock and blood loss. However, The Professor has gotten better and better at keeping his victims alive during the procedure, so her time of death could be hours after her capture.”
McGregor grunted in the EMT’s general direction. “See? You don’t need me out here.”
With a groan, McGregor rose and dusted off his cover-up. Again, not very crime scene-friendly.
“So?” a voice asked. “We’re thinking suicide?”
Everyone’s head snapped around to find a man in a tuxedo, tie casually undone, walking up to the supposedly secured crime scene.
“Who the he
ll are you?” Ruben demanded, but the man just put his hands in his pockets and leaned over the body, cocking his head from side to side.
“Did she leave a note?” the man asked.
Nicole had no idea what was going on. As odd as the man was, he demanded attention, and Ruben seemed more than intent on giving it to him. Her partner nodded for a uniformed cop to frisk the tuxedo. Nicole braced for the man’s reaction, her hand straying toward her holster.
The man hardly seemed to notice, though. His hands stayed in his pants pockets as he studied the body and the cop performed the pat-down.
“Did she lose her job?” the man asked. “Her husband leave her? Is that what the trigger was?”
Even though he was making absolutely no sense, there was a smoothness to his tone that made him seem anything but wrong. The cop pulled what looked like a badge out of the man’s jacket pocket and read the name aloud, “Kent Harbinger. FBI.”
Nicole inhaled sharply as Ruben’s eyes narrowed to a slit. “FBI?” he repeated.
The cop nodded. “Looks like he’s attached to the BAU.”
Ruben went rigid next to her. Their mystery man was from the FBI’s vaunted Behavioral Analysis Unit, the most elite serial killer investigation division in the country. No, in the world. Their captain must have called in the profiler…behind Ruben’s back. The lack of confidence this showed was…well many a career had been destroyed this way.
Her partner recovered fairly quickly. Faster than she. “Perhaps, then, Special Agent Harbinger, you should read the file before you offer any advice.”
The profiler’s lips turned up in a subtle grin as his eyes took in the entire crime scene. “Oh, I’ve read the file, and the conclusions in there are nearly on par with chalking this up to a suicide.”
“We have a detailed profile already which—”
“23-35-year-old white male that has an anatomy teaching background?” The profiler sighed, shaking his head, although there didn’t seem to be anything sympathetic in Harbinger’s tone as he gestured to the body. “There’s nothing sophisticated about this killer.”
A flash of the camera went off, startling everyone but the profiler.
“A killer as amateur as the profile of him,” Harbinger concluded.
If Ruben had been on edge before, her partner was on the precipice, his toes dangling over. Nicole rushed into the void. Perhaps the situation could still be salvaged.
“We should start over,” Nicole said, putting her hand out. “I’m Detective Nicole Usher.”
The profiler accepted her hand. She found his palm cool to the touch. How she wished she’d taken a moment to wipe hers on her pant leg before shaking his. Harbinger had an average, medium strength grip, yet her palm tingled, like static electricity or the feel in the air before a lightning strike. The sensation wasn’t exactly pleasant, yet she didn’t necessarily wish it to stop. She looked up to Harbinger’s face as their hands pumped up and down together. His eyes held nothing but mischief.
Still holding her hand, he turned it over, his thumb tracing the veins just under her skin. “Large hands for a woman,” the profiler commented.
The moment shattered, Nicole jerked her hand back, then wished she hadn’t. His grin spread. Harbinger had clearly been testing her. Nicole was pretty sure that her show of insecurity earned her a failing grade.
Her partner stepped between them, shoving his hand forward to the profiler. “Detective Ruben Torres.”
Harbinger accepted the handshake then winced. “My, my, what a strong grip we have…”
Nicole frowned. Salvaging the situation might have been an overly optimistic goal.
* * *
While Kent hadn’t exaggerated the tensile strength of Torres’s handshake, the man’s physical prowess was of little concern. The detective’s palms had callouses most likely associated with a significant chunk of his day at the gym. Yet they weren’t rough. Quite the opposite, in fact. Torres must have had a manicure recently. Interesting.
Time to dig a little deeper.
“Compensating for something?” Kent asked Torres, yet his eyes slid over to watch Nicole’s reaction. The woman’s face flashed fear. How does he know about Ruben and my relationship? Kent could have easily answered that one if he wished. The two’s body language, feet pointed toward one another, the close interpersonal space, the casual contact of two people who knew each other’s bodies inside and out. Then the woman’s pupils constricted and her lips relaxed. There was his answer.
“Ah, so you are packing some heat,” Kent said, directing his attention back to Torres. The detective’s grip grew stronger. Not just packing some heat, but pretty proud of it. Again, interesting. “It must be that you just don’t know what to do with it.”
The blood vessels in Torres’s face opened, flushing his cheeks as his nostrils flared. Rage. You didn’t have to be an expert in micro-facial expressions to pick that one up.
Kent’s eyes darted to Nicole, who wouldn’t meet his stare. Interesting. Very interesting. Torres tightened his grip on Kent’s hand, as if brute force alone could stop him. Not very likely. Although he did have to give the detective a bit of credit. Most heterosexual males would have taken a swing at him already. And a Latino, at that? Keeping his rage under control while Kent dissed his equipment and his ability to satisfy his woman? Torres must have had some therapy.
Or was it the fact that everyone at the crime scene was now watching, or pretending not to watch, this little exchange? The wheels of the gurney stopped squeaking. The rustle of plastic of evidence by those that collected it, died down. The murmur of conversation reduced to a hush.
Ah, Kent always did his best work with an audience.
Unfortunately, the detective was attempting to crush a few bones in Kent’s hand. “So, quite enthusiastic…” Kent taunted, “However, not very creative.”
Okay, Torres’s shoulder flinched that time. Kent was ready to duck and throw a counterpunch, but Nicole stepped forward, putting a hand on her partner’s arm.
“He’s just testing us,” Nicole whispered. Her lips a dark pink, and not colored by lipstick or gloss. If Kent was correct, the woman was wearing Chapstick, probably SPF 30 balm. And even though she wore her dark hair back in a tight ponytail, there was a hundred-dollar haircut under there. The carefully feathered tips swished at the nape of her neck.
They were all close enough together that Torres’s Drakkar Noir aftershave blended with Nicole’s kiwi shampoo. The scents were definitely not harmonious.
“More of a matter of convenience than compatibility?” Kent asked.
He was halfway to ducking. No matter Nicole’s restraining hand, Torres was on the verge of swinging. So why not pour fuel onto the fire? Give the people something to remember?
“Come on, big guy,” Kent said with a wink. “Let’s hug it out.”
* * *
Ruben froze as the profiler drew him into a bro-hug. Should he shove him back? Punch him in the face? Anything else but allowing the bizarre gesture to play out would create a scene. Not that this little confrontation didn’t already have all eyes glued on them.
Count to ten, Ruben. Count to ten. A little hard as each heartbeat bounded in his ear.
“Detective Torres?” a voice called out, slicing through the tension. Some poor uniformed cop walked right into the middle of the scene. The kid looked around, suddenly seeming to realize he had just interrupted something above his pay grade. “Sorry…I just…”
“Yes?” Ruben answered, pushing back from the profiler, glad to be rid of the man. The patrolman stared awkwardly. Ruben nodded, trying to encourage the kid to fill the awkward space.
“Um, yeah…I just wanted to let you know that the neighborhood canvass didn’t turn up anything.”
No surprise there. None of the previous sweeps had found a single person who had seen or heard anything. “Have tomorrow morning’s shift go around to the buildings again, in case we missed anyone tonight.”
The patrolman gave
a sharp nod, which the profiler contradicted with a shake of his head.
“I wouldn’t waste my time.”
“Procedure is procedure,” Ruben stated, biting back a sharper, more curse-word-filled retort. But exploding, arguing, or otherwise engaging with Harbinger would be playing into the profiler’s hands. Instead, Ruben continued on with the patrolman. “And I want an update on the whereabouts of all of our POIs last night.”
The kid went to fulfill his orders, but Harbinger chuckled.
“Ah, Tweedledee and Tweedledum,” the profiler stated, putting his hands back into his pockets. “Kind of a metaphor for the whole case, wouldn’t you say?”
Ruben turned to find the ME and his assistant try to figure out how to put the body into the bag without disturbing the labels. You would think that by the sixth try they would have figured out that they just couldn’t do it. He ignored Harbinger’s taunt, however accurate. Ruben had an investigation to run.
“What do you mean?” Nicole asked. Ruben shot her a look but she must not have seen it, her eyes intent on the profiler.
“There is a body.” Harbinger shrugged. “There is a body bag. Ipso procedural facto, the body must go into the bag.”
The uniformed cop frowned. “What would you have them do?” Ruben shot the kid a look as well, but he, too, was focused on the profiler. “Rig up some kind of drape to keep particulates from falling into the body cavity?”
“Or…” Harbinger drawled out. “Use something that is already so conveniently body-sized? Rigid sides? A lid?” The profiler looked to Nicole then the patrolman. “A coffin?”
“Oh, yeah! Duh!” the uniform stated.
Even if Ruben hadn’t already instinctually disliked this profiler, he would have hated him by now. A coffin was such an eloquent solution to their problem. One that a dozenplus law enforcement members hadn’t thought of. If only Harbinger could solve the crime so easily.
Ruben turned to the patrolman. “Make the arrangements.”
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