Hunt and Prey (Kelsey's Burden Series Book 8)

by Kaylie Hunter

  I glanced over at Huey. “You okay if I leave Beast out here with you?”

  Huey looked down at Beast. “He looks mean.”

  “As do you.”

  A devilish grin appeared. I took the expression as a yes, and hand signaled for Beast to stay. Beast looked around before wandering over to the wall and throwing himself onto the cool tile. I dug a treat from my bag and tossed it to him before walking through the next set of doors and down the hall to Tasha’s office.

  Tasha was waiting impatiently and shoved a tablet into my hands as soon as I entered.

  I looked at the tablet, swiping the screen to flip through the notes and pictures. “You started the autopsy already?”

  “Only the external exam. I knew you’d be anxious for answers. I also confirmed the substance inside the syringe was morphine, though I’ll have to wait for the official lab report on the victim’s blood work before I enter official cause of death.”

  “The morphine doesn’t surprise me. Lydia knew something about Pauly’s killer. She was supposed to meet me this morning.” I threw myself into the guest chair which was placed along the wall by the door. Tasha had stopped moving the chair back to her desk years ago, adjusting to my need to see through the glass door while we talked.

  “But this—” Tasha took the tablet and swiped until she found what she was looking for. She handed the tablet back, pointing toward a photo “—might surprise you.”

  I studied the photo. At first, I thought it was a picture from Pauly’s autopsy. The bruise across the back of the neck was the same. Then I realized that the victim had dirty blond hair. “This is Lydia?”

  “Bingo. Identical bruising as Pauly and Roseline on the back of the neck.”

  “Walk me through this. How does this type of injury happen?”

  She waved for me to follow her and led me into the next room. She lifted the bean-bag manikin from its hook. They made computer modules for this type of thing, but bean-bag Bert, as he was named years ago, was a more user-friendly tool.

  “The victims were all on their stomachs,” Tasha said, throwing Bert to the floor. “Then the killer uses his own body to apply pressure on the neck until the victim passes out.”

  Tasha partially stood on Bert’s neck. She scrunched her nose, as she stepped off, shifted her stance, and placed her other foot on Bert’s neck.

  I split my focus between her facial expressions and her demonstration. “You think it was a foot?”

  Tasha shifted her weight again. “In theory, it could be a foot, but it’s hard to imagine applying the right force while maintaining control of the victim. The victim would be struggling. Grabbing at the attacker to throw him off balance.”

  What she said made sense. The victims weren’t likely to stay stationary once they realized they couldn’t breathe. “A knee hold?”

  Tasha got down on the floor and repositioned her knee directly on Bert’s neck. “Maybe… But there wasn’t any bruising on the back or shoulders. With only the knee to the neck, the victim could still unbalance the attacker.”

  She moved to lie on top of Bert, placing her forearm against the back of his neck. She shifted between straddling him mid-back level to lying flat on top of him. She slowly shifted upward again, with her upper body centered over Bert’s neck. Her lower body remained over Bert’s back and hips, pinning him down.

  Nodding to herself, she finally spoke. “If I had to guess, this position seems reasonable. I’d need to run the computer module to be sure, but with the attacker lying on top of the body, the victim’s movements would be limited. Also, the pressure is distributed over a large section of the body which accounts for the lack of bruising on the victims’ backs and shoulders.” She studied her position. “And the killer still has a significant share of his body weight centered behind his forearm to choke the victim.”

  I circled around Tasha and Bert. “But why? If the attacker is strong enough to take his victims down—and weighs enough to keep him there—why doesn’t he choke them the old-fashioned way with his hands? Why this way?” I snapped a picture of Tasha and Bert with my phone.

  Tasha glanced at my phone, then flipped me the bird as she stood. “Your attacker could lack the hand strength to strangle someone. Nerve damage or even arthritis could make using his forearm preferable.” She leaned over and grabbed Bean-Bag Bert by the hand, dragging him back to his hook.

  “You said a knee or boot wasn’t feasible because of balancing while the victim struggled. Couldn’t enough force be applied to the neck with a quick kick or punch to cut off oxygen?”

  Tasha shook her head. “If you were to stomp on someone’s neck that hard, you’d expect to see damage to the vertebrae. No such damage has appeared on any of the victims’ x-rays. No. For whatever reason, the killer doesn’t want to break their necks. He prefers to control their airway until they pass out.”

  I looked down at my phone and studied the picture. “Tasha?”

  “Yes, Charlie?” she said, mimicking me.

  My stomach did a summersault. “Did you scan the victims’ clothes for semen?”

  “I assigned lab techs to examine the clothes. They didn’t report finding anything other than hair and fibers.” She walked over, studying my face the same way I’d studied hers earlier. “Why? None of the victims were sexually assaulted.”

  “Just because their clothes were still intact, doesn’t mean they weren’t sexually assaulted. Look at your position on top of Bert,” I said, turning my phone toward her to show her the picture. “Now imagine the killer was taller. Bigger. What if he rubs his body against the victims’ while they lose consciousness? What if it excites him? That would explain why he chooses not to break their necks.”

  Tasha was silent a moment as she studied the photo. “You’re going to delete that picture, right?”

  “Nope. But because it depicts the killer’s method of killing, I won’t post it on Twitter.” I closed the photo gallery app on the phone. “Can you rerun the clothes for trace? It’s unlikely that there’s anything there, but if the killer ejaculated enough to wet his own clothes, there could be transfer on the victims’ clothes.”

  “I’ll have all the clothes rechecked. It’s a valid theory. In the meantime, I need a favor.”

  “I’m not deleting the photo,” I said, sliding my phone into my pocket.

  “Whatever,” she said, waving a hand that she didn’t care. “I’ve been photographed doing worse than molesting Bean-Bag Bert.” She moved over to her filing cabinet and pulled a file. “Two years ago, a victim came through this office. I wasn’t allowed to work the case because the victim was someone I knew.”

  I took the folder from her and flipped it open. Victim’s Name: Terri Weston. Cause of death: Severed artery on upper right thigh. Details: African-American Female, 26 years old, 125 pounds, five-foot three-inches tall. Her body was found in Hibiscus park near the jogging path.

  “Do you have the police file?”

  “No. I’m not even supposed to have the autopsy. After Dr. Brighton retired, I used his login to print myself a copy.”

  “Naughty-naughty,” I said, shaking a finger at her. “Who is she to you? How do you know her?”

  “She was my college roommate. We went to medical school together, but she had to drop out because her mother fell ill. She switched to a nursing program and later was hired at the county hospital. We lost track of each other for a few years but reconnected when I moved to Miami.”

  “And it’s a cold case? I thought I knew all the unsolved homicides.”

  “Her file isn’t classified as unsolved. They arrested her boyfriend, Terrance Haines. He was sentenced to twenty years in prison.”

  I studied her face, but she kept her emotions hidden. “He didn’t do it, did he?”

  “I can’t prove he’s innocent.”

  “But you know him. Personally?”

  “Yes. I knew him well enough to help him shop for a wedding ring the day before.”

  I closed the
folder and leaned against the wall. “Maybe she said no. Maybe she laughed at him, and he snapped.”

  Tasha pressed her lips together in annoyance before responding. “That’s the theory the DA used as motive, but I swear to you, Kid, she would’ve said yes. I know it. She loved him. Her face lit up every time he entered the room. He made her laugh, didn’t put her down for her odd quirks, and gave her the space to become her own person. She adored him.”

  I glanced back at the folder in my hand. Whether the case was closed or not, Tasha was my friend. She needed closure. “I’ll look into it. I swear. But Tasha,” I said, shaking my head. “Why didn’t you tell me about this? Why didn’t you ask for my help before now?”

  “You’ve had a lot going on the last few years. Between finding your nephew and then your cousin disappearing, I didn’t want to bother you with it until I knew for sure the police had the wrong man.”

  “And now you’re sure? That this—” I looked back at the notes to check the name “—Terrance Haines, didn’t kill your friend?”

  “Positive,” she said, taking the file. She pulled photos from the folder, lining them out along the table top. “I think it’s the same guy.”

  She took a step back as I took a step forward. My eyes absorbed the details of each autopsy photo. “Son of a bitch.”

  “That’s what I said!” She turned away from the photos. “When I got my hands on the report, I read the notes, but couldn’t look at the pictures. It was too hard. I didn’t want to see my friend like that. But this morning I remembered the description of the neck bruise in her autopsy report, and I had to look.”

  “I’ll pull the police case files,” I said, tucking the photos back inside the folder.

  “I’m sorry to drag you into this. I know cops who stick their noses in other cop’s cases aren’t treated well. I don’t want to cause you problems.”

  “You think I give a damn?”

  She laughed. “No. But you should.”

  “Probably. But every cop who knows me, knows I’m a pain in the ass.” I walked toward the door, tucking the folder under my arm. “I’ll let you know what I find. Until then, don’t mention this to anyone else. The last thing we need is the killer figuring out you were snooping into this case.”

  “Can I tell Terrance?”

  I pushed the door open but stopped to answer her. “No. Not until we know something.”

  Her head bowed as her shoulders slumped. I slipped out the door, walking back to reception.

  Entering the main room, I paused when I saw Huey sitting next to an elderly gentleman who was weeping. Beast had his head rested on the man’s knee. The man absently stroked Beast’s head.

  Huey walked over to me. “Can I keep your dog for a little longer? The man’s wife died in a car crash. They were married fifty-seven years.”

  “Of course. I’ll come back in a few hours. I have some errands to run anyway.”

  Huey returned to the grieving husband.

  I motioned for Beast to stay as I slipped out. It wasn’t until I exited the building that I remembered I was supposed to text Ford or Quille for an escort.

  I looked around but didn’t see anyone. I hurried to Wild Card’s rental, hitting the unlock button and climbing inside. Even though I knew the back seat was empty, I checked it again to be sure. Then I climbed over the seat and checked the cargo area. Returning to the driver’s seat, I stared at the keys in my hand.

  Paranoia was setting in. My brain argued with itself over the potential of a car bomb. After much consideration, I finally decided that Mr. Tricky had tried to kidnap me, not kill me.

  I started the car, relaxing when nothing exploded.

  Then I belatedly remembered Mr. Tricky also tried to shoot me outside the precinct.

  I laughed at myself as I pulled out into traffic.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  CHARLIE

  Tuesday, 12:35 p.m.

  The county hospital was only a few blocks over, and since it was lunchtime, odds were good I’d catch some of the nurses in the breakroom. My odds improved if I fed them, so I stopped and bought five pizzas on the way.

  Most of the staff in the emergency room knew me, either from prior investigations I’d worked or from my multiple visits for stitches and x-rays.

  Security waved me through the front doors. The charge nurse licked her lips, staring at the pizza boxes as she buzzed me past the waiting area and into the inner sanctum. And Sharon Johnson—an administrator and numbers pusher for the ER—held the breakroom door open as she shook her head at me.

  “I don’t know how you get away with it.” Sharon followed me into the breakroom and helped me open the pizza boxes. “With anyone else, security wouldn’t let them through the front door. But the entire staff lights up like a kid on Christmas when they see you coming.”

  I plated a slice of pizza for myself. “Security lets me in because they know if they didn’t, I’d just find another way. The medical staff talks to me because, unlike some of my brothers and sisters in blue, I don’t drag out the questions. I know the staff is busy. I’m happy to feed them in exchange for them sharing what little downtime they have between patients.”

  Sharon swallowed her second bite of pizza before asking, “What information are you digging for today?”

  “Today’s a doozie,” I said, setting my plate aside as I grabbed my notepad. “I have so many questions, I can’t keep them straight. But before everyone gets here, I have a question about a nurse who was killed about two years ago while jogging.”

  Sharon glanced over her shoulder to make sure we were still alone. “That’s a tough one for this group. I wouldn’t mention it casually over pizza. Terri was well liked and some are still grieving.”

  “Anyone in particular I should ask to meet with privately?”

  “Yeah,” she dropped into a chair, “me.” She focused on the floor but shook her head. “But I can’t talk about it here. Not during a shift.”

  “Can I ask just one question?” I said, holding up one finger.

  Sharon’s shoulders dropped, but she didn’t say no.

  “Do you think her boyfriend killed her?”

  Her facial features were set with a determined look. “No. I don’t. But I also couldn’t stomach following the case, so I don’t know what the evidence was against him.”

  “I get that. I’ve watched plenty of families make the mistake of hearing the gory details in court.”

  “I’m off shift at four today. I can meet to talk then.”

  Debbie, the charge nurse, came barreling through the door. “Kid, you made my day. I’m starving.” She piled three slices of pizza onto a plate. “What’s with all the makeup though? Do we need to have a counselor talk to you about those bruises you’re trying to hide?”

  Dr. Adams and nurse Erica entered, zeroing in on the food.

  “The shrink at work would love to get me on her couch, but no, I’m good,” I said, answering Debbie. “I took a boot to the face while on the job.”

  “And the bruises around your neck?” Sharon asked.

  “That happened a few minutes earlier. Same bad guy.”

  “The cut on your chin should’ve been stitched,” Dr. Adams said. “You’re going to have a scar.”

  “Scars build character,” I said as more staff entered. “I’ve got some quick-hit questions today, folks. First on the list, I’m looking for information on liquid morphine. Who has access? And where can someone get it?”

  “You can get it,” Sharon said. “But it’s not easy. We already heard about the overdoses.”

  “Perfect,” I said, rubbing my hands together and grinning. “If everyone knows about the ODs, then everyone already has a theory. Hit me with your ideas.”

  Erica leaned against the far wall next to the door, standing while she ate. “It seems unlikely that someone with legal access to narcotics would steal liquid morphine. If you’re dumb enough to raid the medicine cabinet, there are better drugs to choose. I mean,
it’ll do the job if you’re looking to feel no pain. But there’s a tricky line between feeling high and falling asleep. It wouldn’t be my first choice.”

  Debbie’s eyes narrowed at Erica. “Maybe you should share with the group what your first choice would be.”

  Erica grinned at Debbie, but took a bite of her pizza, not answering.

  Debbie shook her head. “Erica’s right about the dosage being tricky. That’s why we usually use the drip machines to pace the distribution. It’s not as common to inject a patient directly unless they’ve been in a major trauma.”

  “Can you break into a drip machine? I’ve never paid much attention to them. I’m usually the one connected to the other end.”

  Sharon snorted as she grabbed another slice of pizza. “A couple years back, a teenager snuck into the hospital and stole one. He was still wheeling the machine across the asphalt when security caught up with him. Far as I know, he never got it open.”

  “Do ambulances stock morphine?”

  “Sure. But the good stuff is locked in a cabinet,” Erica said, winking at Debbie.

  “And the paramedics have to report any missing narcotics.”

  I bit my lower lip, thinking. “What about hospice?”

  Everyone looked at Dr. Adams. He shrugged. “It’s administrated by either the patient’s doctor or a hospice doctor,” he explained. “Same rules apply as in a hospital, but if the patient can still eat and drink, they’ll be prescribed pills, not the liquid form.”

  “Any other loopholes?”

  “There’s a black market for everything,” Erica said.

  Sharon bobbed her head in agreement. “But with prescription drugs, we see more issues with pill popping. Usually by the time they start looking for a needle, they’re into heroin, which is made from morphine.” Dr. Adams tossed his crust into the trash before turning back to face me. “Are you sure the blood tests pointed to liquid morphine? Heroin is more common and hard to confirm in test results.”

  I leaned back in my chair. “Both Tasha and Greg confirmed the results. They explained their findings too, in long-winded detail. But I honestly didn’t retain all the medical mumbo jumbo.”