Bloodletting

by Michael McBride

  Always.

  The two agents made their way down the dusty trail to the tent and entered without acknowledging the pair of officers milling beside the flaps, obviously out of their league.

  Hawthorne stood at the lip of the excavation, and studied the spread of vile-smelling blankets and the body beside them. One of the ERT investigators spared him a glance before she resumed capping a series of test tubes.

  "You boys are late for the dance," she said, inserting the tubes into an insulated carrier. "This debutante's card is already full."

  Hawthorne wasn't in the mood. He held up his badge. "Hawthorne." He nodded to the shorter, wiry man to his right, who displayed his as well.

  "Locke," the other agent said, removing his glasses to reveal eyebrows that flared like brown flames over eyes that appeared solid black.

  "Manning," she said, resuming her work. "You missed your friends."

  Hawthorne looked to his left, where another woman was using putty to flesh out the plaster cast of a face, then back to Manning.

  "I need you to do me a favor," he said.

  "Why don't I just stop doing my job and do yours instead?"

  "I need to know if she was infected with any viruses."

  "That's an absurd request."

  "We'll see."

  "Without blood we won't be able to establish--"

  "I assume you're familiar with the PCR method."

  "Polymerase Chain Reaction?"

  "Viable strands of DNA have already been isolated."

  "In case you haven't noticed, this wasn't the work of a virus."

  "Are you saying you can't do it?"

  "Of course I can, but I don't see how it's relevant. PCR amplifies and replicates sections of DNA. This girl has been dead so long that the only living viruses will be the same you'll find in the soil, and these conditions certainly aren't the most conducive to the growth of microorganisms. The only way PCR would be of significant benefit is if a retrovirus had inserted its genetic code into hers, entirely altering her DNA. If you aren't looking for a specific virus, you're asking for a miracle."

  "No," Hawthorne said. "I'm expecting a miracle."

  With that, he turned and strode out of the tent with Locke at his heels. They were just in time to see a pair of white vans with satellite dishes on the roofs pull up to the distant barricade. One was marked by a giant four, the other a nine. Two more vehicles glinted under the sun way off on the horizon.

  "Looks like the circus has come to town," Locke said.

  "It was only a matter of time."

  They crossed the plain and were soon in the car, skirting the roadblock to return to the highway. Cameramen were already filming the hairspray-crowned reporters using the police cruisers and blockade as a backdrop. A dark-skinned man with a cowboy hat and a bolo tie stood beside a woman in a skirt suit, who yammered into her microphone before tilting it to his mouth.

  Turning west on the windswept road, they left a cloud of dust to descend upon the camera crews, who had no clue they were prodding a hornet's nest. And if Hawthorne had his way, they never would.

  IX

  Flagstaff, Arizona

  Carver weaved through the traffic on I-40 at ninety miles an hour, the magnetic cherry on the roof clinging for dear life. Wolfe had been relegated to the passenger seat, his tightly pursed lips and white-knuckled grip on the door handle the only outward signs of his discomfort. The call had come in fifteen minutes ago, lifted from police dispatch broadband. Code 459, suspected burglary at the Vista View Inn on the edge of Flagstaff. Until then, Carver had been desperately trying to find out where Ellie was staying.

  The facial reconstruction Marshall had generated could have been a photograph of Ellie. Same cheekbones, same chin, same nose. Everything was identical but the eyes, as there had been no way of predicting the precise color of the mummy's irises without them. The corpse obviously couldn't be Ellie, but what were the chances of a woman digging up the remains of someone who could have passed for her twin. Carver had no idea what it meant, but he didn't believe in coincidence. Someone had gone to an extraordinary amount of trouble to preserve the deceased in the exact fashion that would nearly guarantee Ellie's presence at its disinterment. Possibly as much as a decade ago. That kind of foresight and planning was staggering. Ellie had to know something about the killer on more than a superficial level. Worse still, the killer had to know her intimately as well.

  Twirling blue and red lights highlighted the face of the old motel before he even saw the sign. Two police cruisers were parked at angles to one of the rooms near the end of the line. Carver shot off the highway onto the shoulder. Gravel fired up into the wheel wells before the tires grabbed asphalt again on the off-ramp and screamed into the small parking lot. Slamming the brakes, he threw the car into park and leapt out the door.

  "I'm driving from now on," Wolfe said, reaching across the console and plucking the keys from the ignition.

  Carver ran between the two cruisers toward the open doorway to room number eight. One of the officers was inspecting the external lock and the integrity of the trim. Ellie crossed the room beyond.

  "Hey!" the cop said as Carver bulled past him.

  "Pax!" Ellie cried, wrapping her arms around him.

  "Are you all right?" Carver asked. He scanned the room over her shoulder. Another uniformed officer stood by the head of the bed with a notepad, staring down at a small object on the pillow.

  "Yeah," Ellie said, releasing him and taking a self-conscious step in reverse. Her expression of relief at his arrival changed to something Carver couldn't quite read. Suspicion maybe? "What's going on here?"

  Carver walked toward the bed. The officer opened his mouth to protest, but Carver silenced him with his badge. He smelled the object right away, a stench with which he had recently become thoroughly acquainted, and recognized what it was a moment later.

  "A tapir," he said. A few minutes online via the Wi-Fi connection in his new phone earlier had taught him precious little about the tapir. All he knew with any certainty was that it was essentially a giant black pig with a blunted prehensile snout reminiscent of the barrels of a sawed-off shotgun. It was an endangered species indigenous to Central and South America, but outside its habitat, he could see no direct correlation. Why was this particular animal significant? "How did it get here?"

  "It was under the covers, right where it is now, when I got out of the shower."

  "No sign of forced entry," the officer said.

  "Could it have been there before you arrived?" Carver asked. "Who all knew you were staying here?"

  "I guess it's possible it was already here when I rented the room, but I can't imagine how. And the only person who knows I'm staying here is Emil Mondragon. Even I didn't know I was going to stay here tonight until we nearly passed it on the highway and I asked Emil to drop me off."

  Carver turned to the officer. "Have you spoken with Dr. Mondragon?"

  "There's no answer at his home phone, but I left a message to call when he got in."

  "Have you put out an APB?"

  The officer, Vargas as his name badge identified him, looked incredulous. "Considering there's no damage or theft, and no one physically harmed Miss Archer here..." His voice trailed off and he offered Ellie an apologetic half-smile.

  Carver understood Vargas's insinuation: case closed.

  "Do you think Mondragon might have done this?" Carver asked.

  "He never even got out of his car. I was the one who pressured him into dropping me off here. And I don't know why he would even consider doing something like this unless..."

  "Unless what?"

  "He did extend the offer to stay with him and seemed rather disappointed that I didn't take him up on it."

  "Why would that--?" A brick of comprehension struck Carver. A spurned advance wasn't a good enough reason, though. None of this was getting them anywhere. Obviously, the figurine was an integral piece of the puzzle, but it was secondary to figuring out where Ellie
fit into the case.

  The officer passed Ellie his business card, on the back of which he had written the case number and his personal extension. "If you need anything at all, please don't hesitate to call," he said. He looked at Carver, nodded, and joined his partner outside the door. "But it looks like everything's under control here."

  Wolfe entered the motel room once the officers were in their cars and followed his nose to the pillow. He drew his pen from his pocket and rolled the tapir over and over. Bits of crusted bodily fluids flaked off onto the fabric. He said nothing, but his face didn't betray even a hint of surprise.

  "What do you think?" Carver prodded.

  "We should be going," Wolfe finally said.

  "Where?" Elliot asked.

  Wolfe turned to Carver. "Anywhere but here."

  What did he know that he wasn't sharing?

  "We should talk to the good professor," Carver said. "And Ellie and I have some things to discuss on the way."

  Wolfe grabbed Elliot's bags and headed for the door while Carver carefully inverted the pillowcase to wrap the foul carving inside without touching it.

  "Pax," Ellie said softly, taking him by the arm.

  He paused and turned to face her.

  "What's really going on here?"

  "I'm hoping you can help me figure it out," he said, leading her out into the parking lot, one hand holding the pillowcase, the other beneath his jacket on the grip of his Beretta.

  Wolfe closed the trunk and climbed into the driver's seat. Carver opened the back door for Ellie and slid in beside her.

  "There's something I need to show you," he said. He wedged the pillowcase beneath the seat in front of him and retrieved his cell phone from his jacket. "I had a friend of mine run the pictures I took of the corpse through a facial reconstruction program."

  "No answer on Mondragon's home phone or cell," Wolfe said. "GPS confirms his car's at his home address."

  Carver brought up the picture and passed it to Ellie. "This is what the computer produced."

  She covered her mouth to stifle a startled gasp.

  X

  Rocky Mountain Regional Computer Forensics Laboratory

  Centennial, Colorado

  Marshall couldn't stop thinking about the Schwartz case. Granted, Carver had already been reassigned and the case was now unofficially closed pending the autopsy and other final details, yet he still found it nagging at him. He worked on so many cases, helping local law enforcement in addition to the FBI. Computer evidence storage, crime scene analysis, digital encryption and imaging, everything that could be monitored or scrutinized. Throw in teaching and serving as an expert witness in court, and it was a wonder he had time to think of anything at all. So many investigations crossed his desk that they all started to blend together, but Schwartz stood out. It took a great deal to pique his curiosity, but now that Schwartz had, he felt like a dog refusing to relinquish a bone. Something about the murders was gnawing at him. It wasn't his nature to simply let something go until he had clarified every variable to his satisfaction, and there was still one enormous inconsistency that was driving him mad.

  Schwartz was a true nut-job. No doubt about it. The edginess Carver described, the impulsiveness, the schizophrenia. All classic traits of an unstable, disorganized mind; a profile suited to a serial killer. And that was the problem. The nature of the killings was a contradiction. Everything about the murders was methodical, organized. The abductions were all well planned and executed to avoid any witnesses, a sign the girls had been followed to learn their routines. They had been confined for so long, but why? There were obvious signs of physical abuse, but nothing sexual. None of the bruises or abrasions had been life-threatening, the bloodletting performed in such a way so as not to waste a drop. The post-exsanguination butchering was the only aspect of the crime that reflected anything other than a dispassionate, clinical methodology. It was almost as though two separate people had performed the task: one a chef laboring over an exquisite meal, carefully following the recipe before handing it to the slavering patron who attacks and consumes it in a fraction of the time it had taken to prepare.

  And why drain their blood and then slaughter a lamb for appearance's sake? Or was the lamb's blood more than just for show? Where was the victims' blood and for what reason could the killer possibly need it? The bodies were meant to be found, but not the blood. What were they hiding? He had to break it down to the most basic level. Samples of blood could be used to determine type and cross, complete blood count, metabolic levels and organ function, hematocrit, erythrocyte sedimentation rate, DNA, the presence of toxins or drugs, but he couldn't imagine how any of those tests could be either important to or pose a threat to the killer. There had to be something he was overlooking. All of the girls were recently post-menarche. Following their first menses, the hormone levels would be dramatically altered and elevated, but if the hormones themselves were of interest why not take the glands as well?

  Marshall leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers behind his head, and stared at the row of framed degrees on the wall above his computer monitor. Fat lot of good any of them were doing him now. They were just pieces of paper with fancy signatures and seals to justify his ass being in this chair. He sighed and leaned forward again, grabbing his coffee mug but only managing to slosh the last cold swig onto his lab coat and jeans. At least he hadn't spilled it on his Mudvayne concert tee. That would have totally ruined the day. Tucking his long blonde bangs behind his ears, he scooted forward and started typing on the keyboard.

  The screen filled with the restriction fragment length polymorhysm DNA profile of Jasmine Rivers, seemingly endless rows of black lines like a bar code forming her genetic fingerprint. Only a small portion of DNA was useful. The rest was just "junk" used for filler or for functions yet to be determined. He brought up Angela Downing's profile beside hers and instructed the computer to compare them for the hundredth time. Again, the only matches were among alleles common to the species, and nothing specific to either girl. He widened the database search and Jasmine partially matched samples provided by her parents and other family members. No matter how many times he tried, no matter how many different ways he attempted to run the tests, nothing was going to change. None of the girls shared any genetic traits with one another that would necessitate the removal of their blood to hide a motive. Maybe the sicko had just drained them dry so he could fill his bathtub and wallow in it like the completely deranged psycho that he was.

  He grabbed the coffee cup again. Still empty.

  "Crap," he said, tossing the mug onto the desk. He didn't want to go all the way down the hall to get a refill, especially since no one else ever brewed a stupid pot, and if there was still any left, it would undoubtedly be the same stale black sludge he had made hours ago.

  He needed to clear his head regardless, he supposed. His mind could only run in circles so long before wearing itself out anyway.

  Rising from the chair, he stretched his back and yawned. Maybe he should just take a quick nap and be done with it.

  Human blood. Lamb blood. Why was one important and not the other?

  He was getting punchy. Time for an influx of caffeine or he was a goner.

  To amuse himself, Marshall leaned over the keyboard and widened the database search again, this time to include all known DNA profiles.

  He had just turned to head down the hall, mug in hand, when the computer signaled a match. There were Jasmine's parents and random relations, same as before, only now there was another, this one a direct match to a long sequence of the uncharted junk DNA.

  "You've got to be freaking kidding," he said.

  The coffee forgotten, he dropped his cup and plopped into the seat, clearing all extraneous data to study the match.

  "No way. That can't possibly be right."

  He grabbed his phone and hit redial.

  "Come on," he said, tapping his feet anxiously as the dial tone droned on. "Pick up. Pick up. Pick up!"

&nbs
p; Chapter Three

  Without order nothing can exist--

  without chaos nothing can evolve.

  --Anonymous

  I

  Flagstaff, Arizona

  "You coming or what?" Wolfe called.

  "Right behind you," Carver said. He stood on the sidewalk before the Mediterranean-style house, white stucco with arched windows, the red clay-tiled roof like corduroy to a giant, staring at the somehow forbidding façade. All of the blinds were drawn. Only a faint glow emanated through the curtains in the window beside the closed front door.

  "What's wrong?" Ellie asked, climbing out of the car behind him.

  "I don't know." And that was the truth. A cold sensation crept up his spine, raising the hair on his arms despite the blazing sun. He couldn't explain the feeling, but right now he couldn't think of anyplace in the world he wanted to be less.

  He walked up to the porch with Ellie at his side, gnawing on the inside of his lip, scrutinizing each of the windows before looking back upon the empty street, unable to shake the impression that he was being watched.

  Wolfe rang the doorbell and took a step back. After a brief moment, he rang again.

  "Maybe he isn't home," Ellie said.

  "He's in there," Wolfe said, banging on the door. He tried the knob, which turned easily in his hand.

  At the first whiff of the smell from inside, both men drew their weapons.

  "Stay here," Carver said to Ellie, pulling her away from the partially opened door and pressing his back against the house beside the trim. Wolfe did the same on the other side. The two agents locked stares, and Wolfe gave the nod. Carver went in low, ducking across the threshold, sweeping his Beretta from left to right, while Wolfe came in high behind him, taking in the living room before whirling to check behind the door. Carver absorbed the details of the room as fast as he could. Computer monitor on in the corner to the left. Desk. Television. Stereo tower. Coffee table. Chair and couch. Darkened hallway at the back of the room. Staircase to the right, shadows waiting at the top. Coat rack and closet behind the front door, now at his back.