Dark and Twisted Reads: All the Pretty GirlsA Perfect EvilBone Cold (A Taylor Jackson Novel)

by J. T. Ellison

  “Hold on.” He stopped her again. “I think I have some boots back here.” He climbed inside the doorway, stopping in midair as he realized the inappropriateness of his actions, again. He avoided her eyes and waited until she slid to the other side and was a safe distance away. Then he stretched over the seat. Thankfully, the rubber work boots were within arm’s reach.

  “Are you sure those are necessary?” She looked at the black boots as though they were shackles.

  “You’ll never get anywhere in this mud. It’s worse by the riverbank.”

  He had already begun undoing the laces. He handed her a boot and began on the other, distracted when she slipped off her expensive leather flats. Clothed only in sheer socks, her feet were small, slender and delicate. He watched her slide her foot into the oversize boot. It swallowed her foot, and even her attempt at tucking in her pant leg wouldn’t guarantee that the huge rubber boot would stay attached.

  As they began their hike through the mud, he was impressed that she kept up with him despite her clumsy footwear and her shorter stride. The area was still cordoned off by yellow tape strung from trees. Sections were torn, flapping in the breeze, a breeze that grew stronger as the fast-moving clouds rolled overhead. Nick pulled up the collar of his jacket. His hair was still damp. A shiver slipped down his back. He glanced at O’Dell, who wore only a wool suit jacket and matching trousers. She buttoned the jacket but showed no other sign of feeling the cutting cold.

  He watched her step carefully around the impression of the small body that still remained pressed into the grass. She crouched down, examined the blades of grass, scooped up a fingerful of mud and sniffed it. Nick winced, remembering the rancid smell. His skin still felt raw from scrubbing the stench from his body.

  O’Dell stood and looked out at the river. The bank was only three or four feet away. The unusually high waters churned, slapping at the banks.

  “Where did you find the medallion?” she asked, without looking at him.

  He walked to the spot and found the white stake one of his deputies had placed there. “Here,” he said, pointing to the plastic marker sunk into the mud, barely visible.

  She looked at the spot, then back at the boy’s resting place. It was only a couple feet away.

  “It was the boy’s. His mother identified it,” Nick explained, still regretting that he couldn’t give it back to Laura Alverez when she had pleaded. “The chain was broken. It must have gotten pulled off in the struggle.”

  “Except there was no struggle.”

  “Excuse me?” He looked back at her for an explanation, but she was on her knees again with a small tape measure stretched between the marker and the pressed grass.

  “There wasn’t a struggle,” she repeated calmly, getting to her feet and wiping at the leaves and mud she had gotten on her trousers.

  “What makes you say that?” He was annoyed by her matter-of-fact attitude. She had been here only minutes and seemed to have it all figured out.

  “You fell here when you tripped, right?” she said, pointing to the torn grass and the indent in the mud.

  Nick winced again. Even his report made him look like a putz. “That’s right,” he admitted.

  “The trampling around the perimeter is obviously from your deputies.”

  “And the FBI,” Nick added defensively, though he knew she wasn’t concerned with those details. “They were in charge until we ruled out a kidnapping.”

  “Other than this spot and where the body lay, there is no torn grass or any beaten down. The victim’s hands and feet were bound when you found him?”

  “Yeah, back behind him.”

  “My guess is that he was like that when they arrived here. Does the coroner have an approximate time and place of death yet?” She brought out a small notebook and jotted down details.

  “He was killed out here, probably less than twenty-four hours before I found him.” The nausea was back. He wondered if he would ever be able to get the image of the dead boy out of his mind. Those wide, innocent eyes staring up at the sky.

  “When did the victim disappear?”

  “Early last Sunday morning. We found his bike and bag of newspapers against a fence. He hadn’t even started his route yet.”

  “So the killer had him for at least three whole days.”

  “Jesus,” Nick mumbled and shook his head. He hadn’t thought about the time between the abduction and the murder. They had all been so sure the boy had been kidnapped by his father or someone who would demand a ransom. Nick had believed the boy was being well cared for.

  “So how did the chain get broken?” Nick wanted to think of something other than the torture the boy may have endured.

  “I don’t know for sure. Maybe the killer pulled it off. It was a silver cross, right?” She looked to him for assurance. He only nodded, impressed that she had equipped herself with so many details from his report. She continued as if thinking out loud. “Maybe the killer didn’t like staring at it. Maybe he wasn’t able to do what he wanted to do as long as the victim was wearing it. Its religious significance is some sort of protection. Perhaps the killer is religious enough to have known that and have been uncomfortable.”

  “A religious killer? Great.”

  “What other trace do you have?”

  “Trace?”

  “Other evidence—other objects, torn pieces of fabric or rope? Was the FBI able to pull any tire tracks at all?”

  The tire tracks again. How many times would he need to be reminded of his screwup.

  “We did find a footprint.”

  She stared at him, and he saw a flicker of impatience.

  “A footprint? Excuse me, Sheriff, I don’t mean to sound skeptical, but how were you able to isolate a footprint? From what I can tell, there must have been over a dozen pairs of feet out here.” She waved her hand at the shoe impressions trampled in the mud. “How do you know that the prints you found weren’t one of your men or the FBI?”

  “Because none of us were barefoot.” He didn’t wait for her reaction but moved closer to the river. He grabbed on to a tree branch just as his boots slid partway down the bank. When he looked up, O’Dell was standing over him.

  “Right here.” He pointed to the set of toes imprinted in the mud and highlighted with remnants of casting powder.

  “There’s no guarantee those are the killer’s.”

  “Who else would be nuts enough to be out here without shoes?”

  She grabbed the same branch and slid down next to him.

  “You mind giving me a hand?” She extended a hand to him and he took it, allowing her to hang on while she bent down and stretched over the impression without sliding into the water.

  Her hand was soft and small in his, but her grip was strong. Her jacket swung open, and he made himself look away. Jesus, she certainly didn’t look like an FBI agent.

  After a few seconds she pulled herself up and immediately released his hand. Back on solid ground, she started writing in the notebook. Nick stared up at the thick, gray clouds. Suddenly, he wished he was anywhere else. The last forty-eight hours had drained him. His calf muscles ached from the 10K race he had pushed himself to run that morning. And now, here he was feeling incompetent and nauseated again, remembering Danny Alverez’s white body, those wide eyes staring up at the stars. A flock of snow geese honked as they passed overhead. Nick caught himself wondering what had been the last thing Danny had looked up at. He hoped it had been some geese, something tranquil and familiar.

  “The puncture marks and the carving in the boy’s chest were exactly like the Jeffreys murders,” he said, forcing his attention back to O’Dell. “How could anyone have that information?”

  “His execution was recent. July, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oftentimes, local news media run stories about the murders when an execution occurs. A person could get plenty of information from those accounts.”

  “The good ole media,” Nick said, remembering
the sting from Christine’s articles.

  “Or someone could get detailed information from the court transcripts. They’re usually public record after the trial is over.”

  “So you think this is a copycat killer?”

  “Yes. It would be too much of a coincidence to duplicate this many details.”

  “Why would anyone copycat a murder like this? For kicks?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” O’Dell told him, finally looking up from the notebook and meeting his eyes. “What I can tell you is this guy is going to do it again. And probably soon.”

  CHAPTER 12

  The hospital’s morgue was in the basement where every sound echoed off the white brick walls. Water pipes thumped and a fan wheezed in motion. Behind them, the elevator door squeezed shut. There was a whirl and a scrape as cables strained and pulled the car back up.

  Sheriff Morrelli seemed to be walking on tiptoe to avoid the clicking of his freshly cleaned boot heels against the tile floor. Maggie glanced up at him as they walked side by side. He was pretending that all of this was routine for him, but it was easy to see through the disguise. Back by the river, she had caught him wincing once or twice, betraying his calm, cool exterior.

  Still, he had insisted on accompanying her here after discovering that the coroner had gone hunting for the day and couldn’t be reached. Even the idea seemed ironic to Maggie—a coroner spending the day hunting. After all the dead bodies she had examined, she couldn’t imagine spending a relaxing Sunday afternoon participating in more death.

  She stood back while Morrelli fumbled with a tangle of keys, then discovered the door to the morgue unlocked. He held it open for her, pressing his body against its weight and requiring her to squeeze past him. She wasn’t sure whether it was intentional or not, but this was the second or third time he had arranged for their bodies to be within touching distance.

  Usually her cool, authoritarian manner quickly put a stop to any unwanted advances. But Morrelli didn’t seem to notice. Somehow, she imagined he treated every woman he met as a potential one-night stand. She knew his type and also knew that his flirting and flattery, along with the boyish charm and athletic good looks, probably got him as far as he wanted to go. It was annoying, but in Morrelli’s case it seemed harmless.

  She had dealt with much worse. She was used to lewd comments from men who were uncomfortable working with a woman. Her experiences included plenty of sexual harassment, from mild flirtation to violent gropes. If anything, at least, it had taught her to take care of herself, protect herself with a shield of indifference.

  Morrelli found the light switch, and like dominoes falling, the rows of fluorescent lights blinked on, one after another. The room was larger than Maggie had expected. Immediately, the smell of ammonia hit her nostrils and burned her lungs. Everything was immaculately scrubbed. A stainless-steel table occupied the middle of the tiled floor. On one wall was a large double sink and a counter that held various tools, including a Stryker saw, several microscopes, vials and test tubes ready for use. The opposite wall contained five refrigerated vaults. Maggie couldn’t help wondering if the small hospital had ever had use for all five at one time.

  She took off her jacket, laid it carefully over a stool and started rolling up the sleeves of her blouse. She stopped and looked around for a lab gown or utility apron. She looked down at the expensive silk blouse, a gift from Greg, a gift he would certainly notice if she never wore again because of unremovable stains. He would accuse her of being thoughtless and irresponsible, just as she had been with her wedding ring, which now sat somewhere on the murky bottom of the Charles River. Oh, well. She rolled up the sleeves.

  She had brought with her a small, black bag that contained everything she would need. She opened it and began laying its contents on the counter, first taking out the small jar of Vicks VapoRub and dabbing a bit around her nostrils. She had learned long ago that even refrigerated dead bodies gave off a smell that was worth avoiding. She started to close the lid, then stopped and turned to Morrelli, who watched from the door. She tossed him the jar.

  “If you’re going to stay, you might want to use some of this.”

  He stared at the jar, then reluctantly opened it, following her example.

  Next, she took out plastic surgical gloves. She handed him a pair, but he shook his head.

  “You really don’t have to stay,” she told him. He was beginning to look pale again, and they hadn’t even rolled out the body.

  “No, I’ll stay. I’ll just…I don’t want to be in your way.”

  She wasn’t sure if it was out of a sense of duty, or if he simply felt it was required for his macho reputation. She preferred to do the examination alone but reminded herself this was Morrelli’s territory and his case. Whether he assumed the role or not, he would technically be the head of this investigation.

  She continued as though he weren’t there. She pulled out a recorder, checked the tape inside and set it for voice activation. She took out a Polaroid camera and made sure it was loaded with film.

  “Which drawer?” she asked, turning to the vaults, ready to begin, her hands on her hips. She glanced back at Morrelli, who stared at the wall of drawers as if he hadn’t realized they would actually have to take the body out.

  He moved slowly, hesitantly, then unlatched the middle drawer and pulled. The metal rollers squealed then clicked as the drawer filled the room.

  Maggie kicked the brake off the wheels of the steel table and rolled it under the drawer. It fit perfectly. Together they unhitched the drawer tray with the small body bag, so that it lay flat on the table. Then they pushed the table back to the middle of the room under the suspended lighting unit. Maggie kicked the brakes back into place, while Morrelli closed the drawer’s door. As soon as she began unzipping the bag, Morrelli retreated to the corner.

  The boy’s body seemed so small and frail, which made the wounds even more pronounced. He had been a good-looking kid, Maggie found herself thinking. His reddish-blond hair was closely cropped. The freckles around his nose and cheeks stood out against the white, pasty skin. He was bruised badly under the neck, the strands of rope leaving indents just above the gaping slash.

  She began by taking photos, close-ups of the puncture marks and the jagged X on the chest, then the blue and purple marks on the wrists and the slashed neck. She waited for each Polaroid to develop, making sure she had enough light and the right angle.

  With the recorder close by, she began documenting what she saw.

  “The victim has bruise marks under and around his neck made by what looks to be a rope. It may have been tied. There appears to be an abrasion just under the left ear, perhaps from the knot.”

  She gently lifted the boy’s head to look at the back of his neck. He felt so light, so weightless. “Yes, the marks are all the way around the neck. This would indicate that the victim was strangled, then his throat slashed. The throat wound is deep and long, extending just below the ear to the other ear. Bruises on the wrists and ankles are similar to the neck. The same rope may have been used.”

  His hands were so small in hers. Maggie held them carefully, reverently, as she examined the palms. “There are deep fingernail marks on the inside of his palms. This would indicate that the victim was alive while some of the wounds were inflicted. The fingernails themselves appear to be clean…very clean.”

  She rested the small hands at the boy’s sides and began examining the wounds. “The victim has eight—no, nine—puncture marks in the chest cavity.” She carefully poked the wounds, watching her gloved index finger disappear into several. “They appear to have been made by a single-edged knife. Three are shallow. At least six are very deep, possibly hitting bone. One may have gone through the heart. Yet, there is very little…actually, there is no blood. Sheriff Morrelli, did it rain while the body was in the open?”

  She looked up at him when he didn’t answer. He was leaning against the wall, hypnotized by the small body on the table. �
�Sheriff Morrelli?”

  This time he realized she was talking to him. He pushed off the wall and stood straight, almost at attention. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” His voice was hushed. He whispered as if not to wake the boy.

  “Do you remember if it rained while the body was out in the open?”

  “No, not at all. We had plenty of rain the week before.”

  “Did the coroner clean the body?”

  “We asked George to hold off doing anything until you got here. Why?”

  Maggie looked over the body again. She stripped off a glove and pushed her hair back out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. There was something very wrong. “Some of these wounds are deep. Even if they were made after the victim was dead, there would still be blood. If I remember correctly, there was plenty of blood at the crime scene in the grass and dirt.”

  “Lots of it. It took forever to get it off my clothes.”

  She lifted the small hand again. The nails were clean, no dirt, no blood or skin, even though he had dug them into the palm of his hand at one point. The feet, also, showed no sign of dirt, not a trace of the river mud. Though he couldn’t have struggled much with his wrists and ankles bound, there still should have been enough movement to warrant some dirt.

  “It’s almost as if his body has been cleaned,” she said to herself. When she looked up, Morrelli was standing beside her.

  “Are you saying the killer washed the body after he was finished?”

  “Look at the carving in the chest.” She pulled the glove back on and gently poked her finger under the edge of the skin. “He used a different knife for this—one with a serrated edge. It ripped and tore the skin in some places. See here?” She ran her fingertip over the jagged skin.

  “There would be blood. There should be blood, at least initially. And these puncture wounds are deep.” She stuck her finger into one to show him. “When you make a hole this size, this deep, it’s going to bleed profusely until you plug it up. This one, I’m almost certain, went into the heart. We’re talking major artery, major gusher. And the throat…Sheriff Morrelli?”