by Rick Reed
“If you were one of my students, I’d throw an eraser at you,” Dr. John said, and Jack zoned back in.
“Sorry, Doc. You were saying . . . ?”
“Cause of death is hard to determine. The hyoid bone is fractured, so strangulation is possible. Removal of the head occurred postmortem.”
“She was strangled to death?” Jones asked.
Dr. John shook his head. “Although the fracture of the hyoid bone could have been accomplished after death, say by a heavy blow to the throat with a fist or some other object, I don’t see any damage to the surrounding tissue to indicate that. The hyoid’s position in the throat doesn’t make it susceptible to an easy fracture, and—look here, and here,” he said, pointing to some bruising to the left and right side, just under the jawline. “What does that look like to you?”
Jack saw two crescent-shaped contusions just under the jawbone, about three inches apart and one on each side of the throat. “Thumbnails,” he said, and Dr. John nodded appreciatively.
“That’s exactly what they are, Jack. You see, the killer grabbed her by the throat, thumbs crossed over each other, and dug into the tissue under the jaw with enough pressure to create these half-moon impressions. That would be enough pressure to crush the hyoid, definitely.”
Dr. John rolled the head onto its side. “There’s a contusion with at least a six-centimeter laceration in the center of it on the back of the head. I’ll have to look at the skull underneath to determine exactly what caused it—whether she fell, was struck with something, or, more likely, given the evidence of strangulation, her head was shoved against something hard. In any case, this would have resulted in heavy bleeding.” He stopped recording and asked Jack, “Was there a lot of blood anywhere at her house? On a door frame, or a concrete floor, possibly?”
Walker volunteered, “We didn’t see anything obvious, doc. I’ll have my guys at the house look again.”
Jack said, “We don’t know where she was killed. Her house was clean, with nothing valuable missing, no signs of a struggle or anything like you’re describing. And her car is missing. What you see there is what we have.” Jack was embarrassed that he knew so little.
Dr. John started recording again. “The cutting instrument was heavy enough to chop a head off with one blow. There is no evidence of multiple cuts.”
He turned the head so that the detectives could see the damage to tissue and bone.
“This is one cut, Jack. The blade went through the trachea just below the thyroid cartilage and then through the fifth and sixth cervical vertebrae without tearing any of the surrounding tissue or muscle.”
Dr. John said in a subdued voice, “Not an axe, because there’s not enough damage to the surrounding tissue, and in any case, that would have crushed the trachea and vertebrae. This weapon was long, razor-sharp, and wielded with enough strength to sever the head from the body in one stroke. Does that suggest anything to you?”
“I think I know what the weapon is,” Detective Jones said. “Our narcotics unit has been investigating rumors of gang drug activity in the Harrisburg area for the last several years. The gang they’re hearing about is called La Mara Salvatrucha. That’s the official name, but they are known on the street—”
“As MS-13,” Jack finished for him, and Jones nodded. Jack said, “I’ve heard about these guys. Aren’t they from El Salvador?”
“That’s where they started. Then they spread like cancer to the West and East Coasts and, according to my guys, they’ve now moved into Tennessee. That’s what, two hours southeast of here?”
“If it is MS-13, the deaths are just beginning,” Jack said.
Jones went on, “We think they’re making a move into Illinois. I’m pretty sure they were behind the first three killings because there was a big jump in the drug traffic during that time. And . . . the weapon of choice for MS-13 is the machete, and they like to take heads.” Jones paused to let that sink in.
“La Mara Salvatrucha is known for their violence. They have the other gangs running scared,” Jones said. “And there are rumors that they’re fronting for Al Qaeda. Of course, everything that goes bump in the night is tied to Al Qaeda these days. But I have to tell you, these guys scare the hell out of me!”
Liddell put his mouth to Jack’s ear and whispered, “Do you believe it’s gang-related?”
Jack shook his head. The only connection Nina could have had to MS-13 was through her work. Plus, they would have made a public display of her like their other victims. He knew that MS-13 traditionally took over drug operations, or enforced their own territory from other operations by killing everyone who opposed them, and then made a public spectacle of their kills. They were similar to terrorists in that way.
Jack couldn’t buy the idea that it was gang-related. The gang-bangers he’d talked to were all numb-nuts—in other words, they thought with their balls. He could make MS-13 possibly for the killings in Harrisburg, but they weren’t savvy enough to have cleansed Nina’s house of all evidence. That aspect was professional, like someone with a lot of police and court experience.
Dr. John picked up a scalpel. “Let’s finish this, and then we need to meet in the conference room. I have something to show you.”
Lilly, who had gloved up, held the head facedown on the table while Dr. John made a lateral incision along the base of the skull and lifted the scalp forward until it slipped over the top of the head and then over the face of the victim.
“No evidence of concussion, although we’ll have to examine the inside of the skull,” Dr. John said, and Jack could see the bruising and gash on the inside of the scalp. “So far it looks like the head was struck against something flat that caused this cut,” Dr. John continued, and pointed to the approximately three-inch vertical tear in the inside tissue. “You can see the hair is matted with blood, which is a good indicator that this was caused before she died.”
Dr. John held his hands up at shoulder level and mimed choking someone. “The killer grabbed her by the throat and struck her head against something flat and hard. A wall. Maybe a concrete floor. I’ll give Walker some of the hair to send off to the lab. Maybe there is trace evidence on it to show what she was struck against.”
Jack was already thinking ahead, and he looked at his watch.
“I get the message,” Dr. John said, and reached for the bone saw to finish the autopsy.
Twenty minutes later, the detectives and Dr. John retired to the conference room while Lilly packaged the victim’s remains and Walker took hair samples and scraped the fingernails of the hand on the arm that was recovered. The arm showed no defensive wounds, so she hadn’t tried to protect herself from her killer. Or wasn’t able to.
The detectives sat around the conference table and looked through photos Dr. John had taken of the Harrisburg victims. Four years ago, the victims were both males in their twenties, one Hispanic, the other white. Two years ago the murder victim was a black male. He spread the victim’s photos in order on the table, starting with the oldest cases. “The one thing all these victims have in common is that their heads were removed from their bodies. Can we all agree on that?”
No one objected. “Now for what is different.” He moved the three oldest Harrisburg photos in a row across the top, and slid the most recent underneath those. “The first three victims were alive when they were beheaded. The most recent victims were probably dead before it happened.”
“So there are at least two different killers?” Jack asked.
“You’re the detective,” Dr. John said. “All I can tell you is that the edges of the cuts on the most recent three are clean. A very sharp weapon was used.” He looked at Jones. “If it was a machete, the person wielding it is extremely proficient.”
He knelt down and bowed his head toward the floor. “The first three victims were probably in a kneeling position, and the first blow came from behind the neck. But the multiple cuts and the damage done to the surrounding tissue indicate that the head was hacked from the
body. I would say they were most likely alive when the first blow came because they were in a kneeling position.”
“Execution style,” Jack said.
“Exactly,” Dr. John agreed. “The last three victims, including Nina Parsons, were lying on their backs when the deed was done. I’m only guessing here, but I would say they were already dead, or so incapacitated that they didn’t move.”
“So what killed Nina?” Jack asked.
“Animals caused the damage to her face and scalp. From the size of the bite marks, I’d say it was a dog, or dogs. She probably didn’t bleed out from the head wound, but it might have rendered her unconscious. There was no evidence of a concussion or damage to the brain.”
“What about the two we found in Harrisburg this morning?” Jones asked.
Dr. John examined the close-up photos on the table. He picked up the photo of the young woman. “The eyes were cut from their sockets by something pointed, sharp, and bigger than a pocket knife. Maybe a hunting knife.”
Dr. John continued. “The pock marks in the bone around the orbits might be where the edges of the blade notched the bone when it was thrust into the eye socket.” He looked at Jack. “Can you get me some different knives to compare with the injuries?”
“I can do that,” Jones said.
“By the way, Larry,” Liddell said, “can we compare your knife? And where were you last night?”
“Piss off, Liddell,” Jansen said.
Jack wasn’t listening to the men squabble. He was thinking about what this new development should tell him. Is this the same killer? Or are the killings even related?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The sun was setting when Jack and Liddell parted ways with Detective Jones at the morgue. The temperature seemed to have dropped ten degrees. A short while later they pulled up behind Sergeant Walker’s SUV in front of 118 Village Lane. A black-and-white was parked in the driveway with the interior lights lit. Inside the car, Jack could see a uniformed officer reading a book propped against the steering wheel. The neighborhood, Jack noticed, was a virtual ghost town.
“Eat by five p.m. and in bed by dark,” Liddell remarked.
“Bigfoot, are you referring to the advanced age of the residents in this community? Shame on you.”
“I’m just saying, we haven’t seen anyone outside all day except that old lady across the way. Either we’re in the beginning of a zombie movie, or it’s an old folks’ community,” Liddell said.
Jack saw the uniformed officer’s head come up, and the book disappeared. He exited the car, carrying a clipboard up the steps, a look of boredom unmistakable. “It’s been quiet, Jack. You going in?” he asked, and held out the clipboard.
Jack signed the entry log and handed it to Liddell.
“What are you reading?” Jack asked.
“Plum Island,” the officer said. “Nelson DeMille.”
“I’m just glad it’s not one of those sissy Nicolas Sparks love stories,” Liddell quipped. “Although I can see how you could get mighty lonely sitting all by yourself.”
The officer frowned, grabbed the clipboard, and hurried away.
“Don’t look now, but your BFD just got here,” Liddell said, looking over Jack’s shoulder.
Jack gave him a quizzical look, and Liddell explained, “BFD—you know, Best Friend Detective.”
A white Chevy Caprice came down the street and parked behind their car. The Caprice was the older model that looked as worn-out as its driver. Detective Larry Jansen exited and shook the wrinkles from his coat before running a hand through his gray hair. He walked up on the porch, complaining, “You lost me in traffic, Jack. You should have told me we were coming back here. I had to call dispatch.”
Before Jack could come up with an appropriate response, Walker came outside holding latex gloves in one hand and paper shoe covers in the other. He handed these to the detectives. “I don’t know how we missed this. It was right in front of us the whole time.”
Jack raised his eyebrows. “Show us?”
“Stay on the paper,” Walker cautioned Jansen. To Jack, he said, “We’ve got blood, and plenty of it.”
Donning the protective gear, they entered the living room in a loose row, keeping their feet on the paper runner as they threaded through black Pelican cases full of crime scene equipment.
On the prior visit, Jack had spent merely a few minutes inside the house to get the layout of the place. Now he saw the living room was fully furnished. In the far corner, opposite a brick fireplace was an old-fashioned brown sectional sofa with embroidered doilies lying perfectly centered over the back cushions.
Walker took orange plastic goggles from one case and handed them out.
“It’s going to get dark in here, but keep looking at the fireplace.” Walker nodded at a tech standing in the front doorway. The tech pulled the curtains and shut the front door. The room was plunged into darkness.
“I’m going to spray a chemical called Luminol on the fireplace,” Walker explained. “The chemical reacts with the iron found in hemoglobin. It’s not an infallible test, but it is a good indicator where an assault has taken place.”
Jack heard the sound of a spray bottle being pumped, then a faint light came on. Walker was holding what looked like a cable with a light glowing on its end. As he played the light over the brick fireplace front, a white/blue vertical smear appeared at eye level and seemed to splash downward onto the hearth, where it pooled into large circular shapes.
“Is that what I think it is?” Jansen asked.
Walker switched off the light and said to one of his people, “Get the lights.” To the detectives he said, “You can take the goggles off now.”
The lights came on and Walker collected their eyewear.
“We used Hemastix to test the bright areas you saw with the goggles. The presumptive test was positive for blood, Larry. We’ll send samples to the state lab to confirm and run DNA.”
“So is it her blood or not?” Jansen asked.
Walker patiently said, “I don’t know if it’s the victim’s, but I think it is blood.”
Jansen scribbled something in his notebook.
“What do you think happened here, Tony?” Jack asked.
Walker cast a glance at Jansen and hesitated before saying, “I think she was killed here,” but stopped when he saw Jansen writing busily in his notebook. “No fingerprints—except for the victim’s,” he reluctantly added.
Understanding the reason for his hesitation, Jack said, “I’ll check with you for updates, Tony,” and then to Liddell, “I guess there’s no point in taking up Sergeant Walker’s time. If he says there’s no more evidence, that’s good enough for me. Can I see you on the porch, Larry?” Jack asked, and walked out through the front door.
Jansen came out, scowling, and asked, “Aren’t we going through the house? If not, I need to start interviewing neighbors.”
Jack saw that he would have to lay down the law. “Look. Larry, I know you were assigned to help me with this case by Captain Franklin. But . . .”
Jack knew he should probably feel guilty for what he was about to do, but he didn’t. Jansen hadn’t worked in Homicide—or even as a real detective—as far back as Jack could remember. Plus, Jansen had a bad ticker, a sick wife, and a propensity to sell information to the news media. If Jansen wasn’t kissing Double Dick’s ass, he wouldn’t even be here.
“But what, Jack? What have I done wrong?” Jansen asked.
“It’s not that you’ve done something wrong, Larry. I’m just not used to working with anyone but Bigfoot. Look, I’ve got a job for you. You okay with that?”
Color bloomed in Jansen’s face and neck. He pushed both hands in the pockets of his nicotine-stained trench coat. “I get it. You’re in charge. So, what do you want me to do, b’wana?”
Unfazed by the hostility, Jack wrote a telephone number on a slip of paper. “Go downtown and call Angelina Garcia at that number. Tell her I asked her to come in and help us out.
If she says no, call me. If she says yes, wait for her at headquarters and give her all the names we have so far. Get her started running them through the computer. When you’re done, I have another job for you.”
“Why am I going to headquarters? Can’t Angelina just go in and work on that stuff ?”
Jack was one step ahead of him. “Larry, you carry more weight as a detective than she does as a civilian employee. It’s vital that you look through all the old mug shots, fingerprints, and find connections between any of the people you have in your notes. Recruit some of the girls in Records to help you. They’ll do it for you. I know we’ve had our differences, but you’re a good detective, Larry. No one can say any different.”
When he wanted someone out of his hair, he could either order the offender to go away, or try to lose him in traffic. Jack had already tried the traffic thing and it hadn’t worked out. Besides, the downside of doing it that way was you didn’t know where that person was, or when, or where they were going to turn up.
Jack went back inside after Jansen drove away. He found Liddell and Walker talking.
“I heard you out there, you smooth-tongued devil.” Liddell said. “Do you want to call Garcia and tell her Jansen’s going to call her?”
“No, she’ll figure it out.” Jack turned his attention to Walker. “What did you want to tell us?”
“I didn’t want this on the Channel Six News,” Walker said, “but this place has been cleaned, and I mean thoroughly. Anything of evidentiary value has been destroyed. We’ve got zip. The blood we were lucky enough to find using Luminol on the fireplace has been contaminated with whatever they used to sanitize the place. Probably bleach. You can still smell it. We only have one set of unknown latent fingerprints on the inside and outside front doorknob.”
“Those will be Eric’s,” Jack said, and told Walker about getting the key from Eric.
“Why would he lie about having the key?” Walker asked, annoyed, putting the key in an evidence bag.
“Because he’s a dick,” Jack wanted to say. “He might have thought he’d be a suspect. He has the upcoming election to worry about . . . and publicity.” He didn’t say anything about Eric’s engagement to Katie, because everyone at the police department knew about his tendency to roam toward any and all stray breasts.