He left her to work and wandered over to where Chris sat inputting data in a computer. “Kind of quiet down here.”
“Deadly dull,” he shot back, snickering at his own joke.
Autopsy room humor.
“Detective?” Elizabeth motioned him over. “You’re not going to like me very much. But there’s a good chance this is the work of a different killer.”
He had called her for confirmation, thought they would get it and move forward with the investigation. Instead, he was left feeling as if the rug had been yanked from under his feet-again.
“Talk to me,” he said, hearing the frustration in his own voice.
“First, this killer used a much less effective tool. Maybe a small garden saw or even some sort of kitchen utensil.”
“He was in a situation where he had to use what was available.” Even as he offered the explanation, he discounted it. The Handyman had planned his acts carefully, not leaving things like tools to chance. That much had been obvious.
Elizabeth went on, expression sympathetic. “This cutter was obviously uncertain of himself. Look here.” Adjusting the light and magnifier, she used clamp tweezers to draw what was left of the tissue away from the bone. “See those marks on the bone? They’re false starts.”
“In your opinion.”
She lifted her gaze. “My expert opinion. Yes.”
“What else?”
“The amputation shows no skill, the cutter just sawed and hacked away. The City Park Jane Doe’s was slick, very professional.”
Spencer frowned. “A couple of the original samples displayed the same unskilled cuts. Could be he’s gotten rusty in the past couple of years? That along with not having his usual quality equipment, could account for the clumsiness, couldn’t it?”
“It might,” she conceded. “But here’s the kicker. I think this killer’s left-handed, not right.”
This just got worse and worse.
“Sorry, Detective, just calling it as I see it.”
“Show me.”
She retrieved seven photos from her briefcase and spread them out on the nearest work station. “Here are photos from all the previous victims. These first three represent the ones we assumed were the Handyman’s earliest attempts. Notice the false starts.”
“Just like this victim.”
“Yes, but with one difference. Do you see it?”
He studied the images, frowning. “You’re the expert, you tell me.”
“Here, the cutter pulls the saw from left to right. That’s evidenced by the depth of the cut, where it starts and how it finishes. Let’s look at today’s victim again.”
Spencer saw what she meant right away. “Dammit!”
“Sorry. Really, I am.”
He searched for an explanation. “Could this be bogus?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Could he have used his left hand even though he was right-handed?”
“That would certainly explain some of the clumsiness. But why?”
“To throw us off. To make us question whether he was the Real McCoy or not.”
“Anything’s possible, Detective. Although I think it’s a stretch. On many levels.”
“Such as?”
“Keeping in mind that my specialty is bones, not behavior, the human animal is one who falls back on the automatic or innate.
“Being right-handed or left-handed is innate. The killer would need an incredible amount of control to consciously use his ‘wrong’ hand, especially during a time of elevated adrenaline or excitement.”
She was right. In addition, serial killers were creatures of ritual. The Handyman took his victim’s right hand. He would do it exactly the same way each time, refining the ritual as he went. The act, the way he played it out, was meaningful to him-emotionally and intellectually. Often sexually gratifying as well.
So what now? It didn’t mean Tonya hadn’t been a victim of the Handyman, but it certainly wasn’t the slam dunk they had expected.
“When can you have an official finding?”
“I’ll coordinate with Ray. Certainly within the next couple of days.”
He nodded. “Until then, can we keep this between us?”
“Absolutely.” She frowned slightly. “What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure. But this is an especially sensitive case, and I want to make certain all my ducks are in a row before I present anything to the brass.”
Elizabeth agreed and stayed behind to catch up with the pathologist; Spencer headed to his car. As he slid into the Camaro his phone vibrated. It was Tony.
“Pasta Man,” he said. “I was just going to call you.”
“Great minds, Slick. Got news. Jessica Skye’s family has been located. Small town in Alabama. Daphne. They’ve not heard from her since before Katrina.”
“Have they tried to find her?”
“Got the sense that wasn’t high on their priority list. Apparently Jessica and her family weren’t on great terms, though her mother sounded really shook up when I asked if she’d be willing to look at a photo, see if she thought it was her daughter.”
The forensic sculptor’s reconstruction.
“She agreed to do it?”
“She did. I contacted the Daphne PD,” Tony went on. “Promised me they’d do the honors as soon as they received a jpeg image of the reconstruction.”
“I’m heading in now, I’ll do it. You got a name?”
“Detective Fields. You want the number?”
“I’ll look it up. How’s the condo search coming?”
“Progressing. So far, nothing’s jumped up and bit me in the ass. The techs are applying Luminol now.”
The chemical mixture, when sprayed on areas where blood was suspected but not seen, reacted with iron in the hemoglobin and fluoresced. Many a criminal thought he had expertly mopped up the scene of the crime, only to be tripped up by Luminol.
“By the way, there’s a photo of Messinger on her bathroom vanity wearing the Tonya necklace.”
“It’ll do until we can get a positive ID. I have news, too. Messinger may not have been killed by the Handyman.”
“You’re shitting me, right?”
“Wish I was. Dr. Walker found some major differences between the old amputations and this new one. The most stunning, she believes the original samples were made by a right-handed killer, this one a left-handed.”
“You going to tell the captain this happy news?”
“Actually, I was going to let you.”
“Fat chance, Slick. You’re family, she won’t kill you.”
Before Spencer could argue the truth of that, Tony hung up.
55
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
6:35 p.m.
Yvette bent over her bathroom sink and splashed her face with cold water. It snapped her out of the fog she had been in since Patti told her.
Tonya was dead. Murdered. In her heart, Yvette had known it all along. But now it was real.
He shot her. Twice.
And removed her right hand. His trademark.
She straightened. Gazed into the mirror.
Her fault. Tonya was dead because of her.
She stared at herself, suddenly light-headed. Her knees went to rubber and she clutched the vanity for support. She breathed deeply through her nose, exhaling through her mouth. Letting go. Of the guilt. The fear.
Her life had spun completely out of control, her with it. Morphing her into a person she was afraid to know.
“You okay?” Stacy called softly, tapping on the bathroom door.
Anger surged up in her. She fisted her fingers. “No, I’m not okay! I’m pissed. At you. At your stupid boyfriend. If you’d done something right away when I told you about the Artist, Tonya would be alive.”
“You don’t know that. He may have targeted-”
“I turned to Tonya for help…and now she’s-” Yvette fought the urge to cry. “It’s your fault, not mine. You hear me? Your fault!”
The other woman didn’t respond. The seconds ticked awkwardly past. Yvette went to the door, rested her palms and forehead against it. “Say something, dammit!”
“I’m sorry, Yvette.” She said it softly, her voice thick. “I really am.”
“Sorry doesn’t mean jack!”
Make the hurt go away. Make this nightmare end.
Stacy cleared her throat. “If you…need anything, let me know. I’ll be right out here.”
Yvette squeezed her eyes shut against the need that welled up inside her. For comfort. Companionship. The urge to spill her guts and pour out her heart.
“Just leave me alone,” she said instead, harshly. “Go away! I don’t want you h-”
To her horror, the words choked off on a sob. A terrible, broken sound.
Biting back another, she crossed to the commode, flipped down the lid and sat. She curved her arms around herself and rocked back and forth.
What to do? What to do? She was losing it.
On the vanity counter, her cell phone pinged, announcing the arrival of a text message. She gazed at the device a moment, then reached for it. Hands shaking, she retrieved the message.
i miss u
pls dont b mad
He didn’t identify himself; he didn’t have to.
Riley.
Yvette reread the message, heart beating heavily. It seemed forever since she’d stormed out of Tipitina’s, pride wounded and heart broken.
In light of today’s news, her actions seemed childish and melodramatic. She wished she could take them back. Wished she could rewind to last Thursday night and stand up to June Benson.
Stand up for herself. Her feelings.
Maybe she could do it now?
She hit reply and typed:
i miss u 2
Holding her breath, she sent it. A moment later, her phone pinged. He’d responded! She eagerly read:
meet me tnite moonwlk
She wanted to, badly. To tell him how she felt, what his sister had done. How it had hurt. And ask if they still had a chance.
And she wanted to do it without a chaperone. How could she get rid of Stacy?
If you need anything, let me know.
She needed something, all right. Quickly, she typed a reply.
when
He answered almost instantaneously:
now
Smiling to herself, she typed:
ok wait 4 me
Yvette knew she had to come up with something urgent enough to propel Stacy from her post. Something that couldn’t be put off or ordered in.
She mentally thumbed though her choices: food, drink, reading material. Then she knew. Something every woman understood.
Smiling to herself, she got to her feet, went to the vanity cabinet. From it she retrieved an almost full box of tampons. She dug some tissues out of the waste basket, dumped the box’s contents in, then covered it with the used tissues.
Box in hand, she went to the bathroom door, peeked out. From where she stood, she had a straight view into the living room. The detective sat on the couch, reading a magazine.
“Stacy?”
The woman looked over at her. It occurred to Yvette that Stacy’s expression seemed off; she ignored the thought and moved her plan forward.
“I’ve got a problem.” She held up the empty box. “I just started.”
“You don’t have any?”
She shook her head. “There’s a drugstore up the block and around the corner. Royal Pharmacy.”
“Does the store deliver?”
“Not that I know of.” Yvette mustered what she hoped was distress. “I flow kind of…It’s going to get messy fast.”
Stacy made a face and stood. “Where’s the store?”
“Up one block, take a left. It’s right there.”
“Dead-bolt and security chain the door. Don’t open for anyone. Anyone. Got that?”
Yvette nodded and scurried out of the bathroom, joining the other woman at the door. “And Stacy?” When the woman looked back at her she sent her a weak smile. “Thanks.”
The moment she had closed and locked the door, she raced back to the bathroom. She rinsed her face again, ran a brush through her hair, then applied mascara, blush and lip gloss.
Snatching up her purse, she tiptoed to the door and peered out the peephole. The coast looked clear and she carefully eased the door open, half expecting the other woman to jump out with an “Aha!”
She didn’t. Nor was she anywhere in sight.
Yvette slipped out, locking the door behind her. Not glancing back, she hurried to meet Riley.
The Moon Walk was a scenic boardwalk along the Mississippi River, across from Jackson Square. Just steps from the water, it had been named for Mayor “Moon” Landrieu.
Yvette dropped a dollar in a street musician’s hat; he acknowledged without missing a note of “Blue Moon.” He wasn’t very good, but she figured he had to make a living-and the living for French Quarter street performers had been lean since Katrina.
She hurried up the ramp that led to the observation deck and promenade. She saw him right away, pacing, expression distraught.
“Riley!”
He stopped and turned, broke into a broad smile and strode to her. He caught her hands. “You came. I’d begun to lose hope.”
“I said I’d be here.”
He searched her gaze. “Since the other night, I’ve been by your apartment several times. You never answered your bell.”
“Why didn’t you call?”
“Figured you wouldn’t answer.” He tightened his fingers on hers. “June told me what she said to you. That’s not what I’m about, Yvette. I promise.”
“What she said really hurt.”
“She’s overprotective.”
Yvette firmed her resolve to stick up for herself. “What she said was just plain mean. She judged me without knowing anything about me.”
“She’s just crazy sometimes. Don’t hold it against me. Please?”
He tightened his hands on hers. “I like you, Yvette. And it doesn’t matter to me what you do for a living. No, that’s wrong. It does, but I still want to be with you. Whether you’re a waitress or a stripper doesn’t change that fact.”
She gazed at him. Could it be? Was he simply accepting what she did as a fact of her life? Neither condemning her stripping nor turned on by it?
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“That you’re too good to be true.”
“I’m not.” He drew her against his chest. “I’m real. And I’m here.”
She stood on tiptoes, lifting her face to his. “So am I,” she whispered.
He kissed her. Once, then again and again. Deep, drugging kisses. Ones that left her wanting him naked. Wanting her naked against him.
“Get a room, why don’tcha?”
That came along with snickers from a group of teenagers. Riley pulled away, faced flushed and out of breath. “Do you trust me?”
“Trust you? Why-”
“I want to show you something.”
“What?”
“It’ll ruin the surprise.”
“Where?”
“Not far.”
When she hesitated, he held out his hand. “Do you trust me?” he asked again.
Did she? With everything going on, she shouldn’t. After all, what did she really know about Riley Benson?
She shouldn’t, but she did. She prayed she wasn’t making another mistake. That she wouldn’t have her heart broken again.
She laid her hand in his. “Yes,” she said simply. “I trust you.”
56
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
9:45 p.m.
Stacy paced. The lying little sneak had conned her. And she had fallen for it, hook, line and sinker. She wasn’t certain whether she was more pissed off or embarrassed.
She’d had to call Patti and tell her she’d been duped. By now, the rest of the team knew. By morning most of the department
would be in on the joke-the one played on her.
She had to admit a bit of grudging respect for the woman. She’d come up with the one thing that would propel her to leave Yvette unsupervised. For twelve minutes. Twelve stinking minutes.
She’d gotten back and Yvette had been gone. She would have worried she’d been snatched by the Handyman, but while searching for her keys, Nancy had popped her head out and informed her she had seen Yvette leave-alone and smiling.
Stacy bet she had been smiling. Congratulating herself on outsmarting her archenemy, the hapless Detective Killian. Never mind that the archenemy was around to protect her from a madman.
How could such a bright girl be so stupid?
All this to meet a guy. Stacy had come to that conclusion after performing a quick search of the apartment. It didn’t appear Yvette had taken anything but her purse, and she had left makeup strewn on the vanity counter.
Patti hadn’t bought “the guy” angle. She feared that Yvette had decided to cut and run. And that on her own, Yvette would be an easy target.
The captain had sentenced Stacy to “stay put.” She needed Stacy at the apartment in case Yvette returned or the Artist showed. So here she was, pacing and stewing, while the rest of the team actively searched for the dancer.
She dialed Rene. “Anything?” she asked when he answered.
“Nada.”
“She never showed at the Hustle?”
“Sorry.”
“Shit. Keep me posted.”
Frustrated, she snapped her cell phone shut, tossed it onto the couch and continued pacing. If Yvette had bolted, Stacy’s stupidity had jeopardized the investigation.
But if the Artist had gotten Yvette, Stacy’s stupidity would have jeopardized the young woman’s life.
“If you’d done something right away, when I told you about the Artist, Tonya would be alive. It’s your fault she’s dead, not mine. Your fault!”
The words hurt. And the possibility that they were even partly true was too horrible to contemplate. They’d had good reason to doubt Yvette, but that didn’t change how Stacy felt now, knowing a woman was dead.
At the tap on the door, she all but lunged for it, hoping Yvette had returned.
She hadn’t. Instead, Spencer stood on the other side, a Starbucks grande cup in his hand and a shit-eating grin on his face.
Last Known Victim Page 25