Cavanaugh Cold Case

by Marie Ferrarella

  He had an adequate enough imagination, but it was hard for him to envision the remains that were arranged on the exam tables once being living, breathing women.

  “So it’s your opinion that this little band of not-so-merry women was homegrown?”

  Kristin bit back a comment about his choice of descriptive words. Instead, she forced herself to make a dispassionate comment. “Appears that way.”

  Okay, so far he had that the women were most likely from somewhere in the immediate area—or at least this country rather than somewhere out of the country, and that all of them, except for one, were women. It was something, he granted, but still not very much to go on.

  “Can you give me a rough estimate of when they were killed?” he asked.

  She really wished he’d take a few steps back and stop crowding her. But since he apparently wasn’t moving, as casually as she could manage, she did.

  “Well, it wasn’t all at the same time,” she told him. “My preliminary judgment would be that this happened between twenty and twenty-five years ago.”

  “So this wasn’t a mass grave,” he speculated.

  His wording made her think. “More like a grave of opportunity,” she said. “The guy would keep coming back to bury his latest victim because apparently no one had discovered his previous transgressions.”

  The medical examiner’s conclusion interested him. He had no problem adjusting his own thinking to factor in good points. Ego had never been a problem with him. “What makes you so sure it’s the same guy?”

  “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “But judging from appearances—by that I mean the way he dismembered them—it looks that way,” she theorized. As if she suddenly realized what she was saying, Kristin stopped working and raised her eyes to his. “Are you through picking my brain, Detective?”

  “I haven’t even gotten started,” he told her honestly, flashing a grin that held a great deal of promise, as well as sizzle.

  Kristin found she had to struggle to ignore the unwanted effects he was having on her. How did she get rid of this man?

  “That wasn’t really a question,” she told him. “Let me be more clear. You’re through picking my brain.”

  “What’s the matter, Doc?” he asked her good-naturedly. “Haven’t you ever heard of teamwork?”

  Her eyes narrowed to two blue lasers. “I have, Detective. Are you familiar with the concept of carrying someone?”

  He cocked his head, as if that would somehow help him get into her thoughts, and asked her innocently, “Is that an offer?”

  “That is an observation,” she informed him tersely. She was telling him that she was aware he was looking to her to do all the heavy thinking here and he was just absorbing her answers without contributing. “Obviously too subtle for you.”

  His smile only grew more engaging. “I’m really not the subtle type.”

  “Yes, I noticed,” she bit off. She didn’t know how to make it clearer than this. “Now, this might get you to first base or whatever base you’re aiming for with someone else, but I like to feel that I’m earning the money I’m being paid, so unless there’s something else you either want to ask me or share with me, please, leave,” she underscored.

  Instead of going the way she would have expected any normal male to do, he stayed exactly where he was, as if she’d just given him a choice. “Well, the idea of sharing doesn’t sound bad to me,” he began.

  She’d set herself up for that one, Kristin silently reprimanded herself. “Please, leave,” she repeated, and this time she made sure that there was nothing in her tone to leave any wiggle room for him to misinterpret her words.

  Malloy inclined his head, as if he’d finally gotten what she was telling him. “Until the next time,” he told her as he began to take his leave.

  “Heaven forbid,” Kristin muttered under her breath just loud enough to be heard.

  Opening the door, Malloy wound up all but walking into the two CSI agents who had been in charge of digging up the area where all the body parts had ultimately been found.

  Ryan O’Shea and Jake Reynolds were pushing a gurney with what looked to be a black body bag between them.

  “Where do you want this, Doc?” O’Shea asked.

  Kristin didn’t need to ask what they’d brought in. The sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach told her the answer to that one.

  “More?” she groaned, temporarily forgetting about the annoying detective who had invaded her turf and was still in it.

  O’Shea nodded. “It’s the gift that apparently just keeps on giving.”

  “How much more giving?” she asked warily as she eyed the body bag.

  “We found two more heads,” Reynolds told her, aligning the gurney with one of the exam tables and unzipping the bag.

  Kristin closed her eyes for a moment, as if trying to center herself before she spoke. Opening her eyes again, she looked at the body bag. It didn’t look full, but it didn’t appear to be empty, either.

  “Just the heads?” she asked.

  O’Shea had the good grace to look a little apologetic. “And a handful of miscellaneous bones that might or might not belong to the heads.”

  “In other words, just like the rest of it.”

  “Exactly like the rest of it,” O’Shea told her, then added quickly in a far more positive voice, “The good news is that I think that’s it.”

  “The bad news is that there are twelve of them.” Malloy offered up that observation. Three sets of eyes turned toward him as he continued, “Twelve people without their entire bodies, without names and without a clue why they were unlucky enough to join this exclusive boneyard.”

  He studied the piles that were already out. Because of his upbringing, to him, bodies meant families. “And twelve families waiting for some word about one of their own who is never coming home again.”

  Kristin glanced in his direction, wondering if the detective had just said all that for her benefit, or if Malloy Cavanaugh actually did have a sensitive side to him.

  The next moment she decided that she was probably giving the man way too much credit. Someone who looked and acted the way that Malloy Cavanaugh did didn’t have to have a more sensitive side to him. From what she had heard about him, he did just fine with what genetics had given him to work with. There was no need for sensitivity to enter the picture.

  She was partial to sensitivity, responding to that far more than the good looks the man was so generously endowed with. No matter how gorgeous a person might be, looks only went skin deep. Sensitivity went clear down to the bone.

  “So you’re not digging any more?” Malloy asked the CSI agents.

  “Nothing left to dig,” O’Shea replied. “Not unless we want our heads handed to us by that maniacal nursery owner, Harrison, because we’re burrowing under his greenhouses and destroying those butt-ugly plants that the guy’s got everywhere for no reason. We finished digging up the perimeter.”

  “You do realize that there might be more bodies on the property,” Malloy pointed out, turning toward the men. “It’s probably less likely,” he allowed, “but there is still that possibility.”

  “We realize, Detective,” Reynolds replied with a hint of annoyance. “We didn’t just start working crime scene investigations yesterday.”

  “Good to know,” Malloy replied matter-of-factly. “So, what’s the plan?”

  “Come morning,” O’Shea answered, “we’re going to use the GPR—the ground penetrating radar machine that X-rays what’s beneath the surface,” he explained for Malloy’s benefit, “so if there are any more bones buried somewhere on the property, we’ll know where to dig.”

  Malloy looked at the two men, surprised. He knew from conversations around Andrew’s table that department funds were tight. “When did CSI get that?”


  “It took a bit of juggling,” Sean Cavanaugh said, answering his nephew’s question as he walked into the morgue’s exam room, “but I managed to appropriate the funds for it six months ago.” He nodded at Kristin as he continued talking to Malloy. “The last annual fund-raiser we had, after the department finished funding its usual widows and orphans charities, the rest of the money was allotted for new materials for the crime scene investigation lab.” He looked rather pleased as he added, “I thought this was a good way to utilize the money. This way, manpower isn’t needlessly wasted.

  “Once the boys sweep the property,” he concluded, this time addressing his words to Kristin as O’Shea and Reynolds left the morgue, “we’ll know if there are any more bodies to put together and identify.” He looked at the different tables. “You’ve been busy.” There was admiration in his voice. “How are you doing?” Sean asked her.

  She smiled ruefully at the table she was next to. It contained the body she was presently trying to reconstruct. “Not exactly like the jigsaw puzzles I used to love putting together as a kid, but I think it’s coming along.”

  It was obvious that Sean was pleased with the progress her efforts were making.

  “If anyone can do this,” he told her, “you can.” He glanced at his watch. “Well, I’ve got to get back to the lab. Call me if you need anything,” he told her, then added, “Good job,” just before withdrawing.

  Kristin turned back to her work and saw that, unlike the others who had come in, Malloy was still in the room. “Wouldn’t that be your cue to leave, too?” she asked. By her count, he’d started to leave at least three times. Why was he still here?

  Something she’d said to his uncle had caught his attention, and he wanted to ask her about it. “You worked jigsaw puzzles as a kid, too?”

  Too.

  The word was a warning. She gazed at him warily, wondering where he was heading with this. Was he going to turn this around somehow and use this to his advantage?

  Instead of answering his question—a question she knew that he obviously had the answer to—she stated defensively, “That doesn’t bond us.”

  “No,” he agreed. “But it does give us something in common.” He moved closer to her, not to crowd her but to get a better view of the various bones that were spread out on the exam table in front of her. “Want any help?”

  Kristin scrutinized him, trying to determine if he was being serious. “You’re joking.”

  He raised his eyes to hers. “Not at the moment.”

  Rather than tell him outright what she thought of his offer, she pointed out the obvious. “You don’t have a medical degree.”

  His shrug was dismissive. “I have an excellent working knowledge of anatomy, and from what I’ve read, you actually don’t need a medical degree to do this kind of work. It’s preferred, of course, but smaller towns make do with laypeople as long as they’re familiar with that old song.”

  “Song?” she questioned. “What old song?” What the hell was this self-centered, conceited man going on about?

  “You know the one,” he told her, trying to coax the title out of her.

  She had no time for games. “No, I don’t,” she told him sharply. “If I did, I wouldn’t be wasting my breath, asking you, now would I?”

  Rather than tell her the name of the song, he took her totally by surprise and began to sing it. “The leg bone’s connected to the knee bone, the knee bone’s connected to the thigh bone...”

  Was he crazy? If he wasn’t, he was a completely loose canon. Either way, she wanted him out of her morgue. He was just too utterly distracting.

  “Stop,” Kristin cried, holding up her hand to reinforce her point.

  Abruptly ending the song, he looked at her with complete innocence. “Something wrong?”

  “You’re actually going to sing that to me?” she asked incredulously.

  “Sounds better than just saying it,” he told her. “And anyway, it was written as a song, so I just thought I’d get the point across better if I sang it to you. I was told I have a decent singing voice,” he added as if that might make her reconsider letting him finish the tune.

  “Then go sing to whoever told you that.” She closed her eyes, trying to pull herself together. “You’re giving me a headache, Cavanaugh, and I need peace and quiet to concentrate.”

  “What part of ‘peace and quiet’ does that country and western song fit into?” he asked, indicating the music that was being piped in. “The peace, or the quiet?” His expression was the face of innocence—annoyingly so.

  She blew out a breath and, with it, just possibly the last of her patience. “I just like listening to it. It reminds me of my dad—and why am I bothering to explain myself to you, anyway?” Kristin demanded, stunned as she realized what she was doing.

  “Because that’s how people get to know each other,” Malloy said simply.

  This was getting really out of hand now, and good-looking or not, this arrogant SOB was wasting far too much of her time.

  “We’re not supposed to get to know each other, Cavanaugh. We’re just supposed to work together on this case—for now,” she emphasized.

  “Friends work together better than strangers,” Malloy told her.

  That did it. Kristin glared at him, biting back choice phrases. Keep it professional, Kris. Keep it professional, she told herself.

  “I have enough friends.” The statement was delivered through gritted teeth.

  “I don’t,” Malloy countered, then added, “You can never get enough of a good thing, don’t you agree?”

  “Ordinarily, yes,” she replied icily. “But not in your case.”

  Rather than take the cue she was so blatantly giving him, Malloy grinned, humor sparkling in his eyes. “I’m wearing you down, aren’t I?”

  “What you’re doing,” she retorted, “is wearing me out.”

  His grin just grew broader. “Same difference in the long run,” he assured her. Then, before she could resort to anything drastic, he left the room, promising, “I’ll get back to you.”

  He heard her release a guttural sound that amounted to a stifled shriek of frustration.

  Yup, Malloy thought as he closed the door, he was definitely getting to her.

  Chapter 5

  She lost track of time.

  After a point, Kristin began to feel as if she had always been doing this, trying to ascertain which bone went where and if the right number of bones were on any given table.

  In essence, what she was attempting to figure out was if more bones had been dug up than were needed to comprise twelve bodies—because, in that case, it would mean that there had to be more than twelve bodies buried on the property, even if only twelve heads were found.

  Twelve bodies, all murdered, was a difficult enough number to come to terms with. The idea of there being even more victims brought a more pronounced chill to her soul.

  The morgue’s part-time assistants who had been rendering some aid had all gone home for the night, leaving her to work alone.

  Thinking he might still find her in the morgue, obstinately working despite the fact that he had told her to leave more than an hour ago, Sean looked in on Kristin just before he left for the night himself.

  “You’re still at it,” he observed as he peered into the room.

  “Just a couple of minutes longer,” Kristin replied, removing one shin bone and putting another one, this one measuring a more appropriate length, in its place.

  “The bones aren’t going anywhere, Kristin,” Sean quietly pointed out. “They’ll still be here in the morning. And reconstructing all these poor victims one day sooner is not going to change the ultimate outcome of what happened to them. Go home, Kristin,” he told her a tad more sternly.

  “I will,” she responded in all since
rity. “I just need five more minutes and then I’m gone. Honest.”

  Sean shook his head. “Uh-huh.” He’d heard that before, including similar words from his own lips more often than he’d like to recall. He understood now his wife’s frustration when he’d put her off with them. “Well, I’ve got a wife at home who gets out of sorts if I’m late for dinner without an active citywide crime wave as an excuse.” He paused just before leaving, adding significantly, “It’s important to have a life apart from here, Kristin.”

  Sensing he was waiting for her to acknowledge his words, Kristin looked up, her eyes meeting his. “I know that, sir.”

  “I hope you do,” he told her earnestly. “Good night, Kristin.”

  “Good night, sir.” Kristin picked up an instrument that looked like oversize tweezers. “See you in the morning.”

  “Hopefully, not in the same outfit,” he told her.

  Kristin glanced up again and grinned. “I’ve got a change of clothing in my locker.”

  Sean sighed, temporarily surrendering. “I had a feeling,” he said as he walked out.

  He knew it served no purpose to order her home; she was a tenacious young woman who listened politely and then quietly did exactly what she wanted to, making up her own rules. In a way, he admitted to himself, she reminded him of his daughters, all as stubborn as the day was long.

  Kristin had meant what she’d said to the head of the CSI lab. She really did have every intention of going home in the next few minutes.

  But matching up “one more bone” led to doing “just one more,” and then one more after that.

  Time continued to dribble away.

  The next thing she was aware of, Kristin heard the door to the morgue being opened again. Sean Cavanaugh had returned to make sure she’d kept her word, she thought, chagrined.

  “I’m really going to go home right after I make sure that this one last tibia belongs to the body I’m working on, honest,” she promised, then confessed almost sheepishly, “It’s just that joining these parts together is almost addictive.”