by Leslie Wolfe
She looked at Doc Rizza, who sat on the small couch Cat used at night, just as quiet and as grim. “Let’s go over everything we have, again.”
Doc Rizza nodded slowly, and ran his fingers through the few remaining strands of thinning, disheveled hair on his balding head.
“What did you think of the interview with Craig Nelson, Katherine’s husband?” she asked.
“He mentioned she was depressed after childbirth,” Doc replied. “Postpartum depression is not that uncommon, you know. What puzzles me is that Katherine was a medical doctor who should have recognized the symptoms and treated herself, or sought treatment. She knew better; why didn’t she deal with her depression?”
“True, but never mind that, what else did you notice?”
“Craig, her husband, was the parent who was most bonded with the baby. He took time off from work to stay with his one-year-old son and allow Katherine to return to her job. Also, not uncommon in postpartum depression, when the mother struggles with hormonal and metabolic imbalances, and cannot fully bond—”
“You know what I see?” Tess’s excitement brought an inquisitive glance from Doc Rizza. “I see another pattern.”
Doc Rizza frowned. “Tell me.”
“Lisa Trask’s hairdresser told us Lisa felt trapped in her marriage. Sarah Thomas’s husband told us Sarah had struggled after birth, including a battle with alcoholism. Now Katherine, we hear she was also depressed, and, to your point, has done nothing to pull herself out of it.”
“I think it’s a stretch to call Lisa Trask depressed, Tess. You’re reaching, or maybe I don’t have all the facts.”
“All right, no one really told us Lisa was depressed, and the hairdresser mentioned she was upset with family issues and her parents’ hate of her husband’s ethnicity, not depressed. But Lisa was letting her eyes wander a little. Now you tell me, Doc, what does constant family hardship do to people?”
Doc Rizza sighed. “Yeah… it gets them depressed.”
Tess smiled widely. “So, we have young, married mothers who are depressed and not too happy to be mothers, right?”
“Appears to be that way, yes.”
“I think we’re getting ready to formulate a preliminary profile, wouldn’t you say?”
“That’s entirely your ballgame,” Doc replied.
“The ring swap fits with this scenario,” she added. “The replacement of the expensive wedding rings with the cheap ones is nothing if not a statement of value. The unsubs want everyone to know the victims didn’t place too much value on their marriages.”
Doc Rizza tilted his head a little. “You’re right, it could fit. I’m still not sure about Lisa’s depression. Why didn’t her husband mention it as such?”
Tess resumed biting her index fingernail, and stared at the white ceiling tiles for a while.
“Universal blame, that’s why,” she eventually said.
“What do you mean?”
“Lisa’s husband suffered directly because of his wife’s parents, and he knew she also suffered. She could have been depressed, but he failed to identify it because he’s used to blaming every shred of sadness and despair that entered their household on the hateful parents. He’s so used to blaming them, he doesn’t notice things anymore.”
Doc Rizza stood and stretched his back with a groan. “It could work,” he eventually said. “We could still be reaching, though.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Tess replied. “The ring swap substantiates this theory and minimizes the risk in making this assumption. Yes, I don’t absolutely know for sure that Lisa Trask was depressed, but it’s a strong possibility. For our purpose, it’s enough for her to have seemed depressed, and that could have easily happened just because she was upset about her family issues.”
“Because the unsub observed them?”
“Because somehow their depression, or apparent depression, seemed to have been a factor in the unsub’s decision to choose them as targets for his displaced anger, in addition to their physical appearances. We don’t know that yet, but it seems plausible, and for now, I’ll take that and chalk it down on that case board.”
“Do you think they saw the same shrink, or something similar?”
Tess frowned. “Maybe. I’ll ask Donovan to dig deeper into their backgrounds, including cash transactions if he can correlate bank withdrawals with geolocations of the victims’ cars and phones. Many patients who see a shrink don’t want to leave traces in the system.”
“Some therapists are willing to bend the rules, yes,” Doc confirmed. “Especially talk therapists, who don’t write scripts, will sometimes accept patients who pay in cash and use potentially fake names.”
“Yeah, Doc, I got that, but the unsub could have seen them anywhere. They could have filled drug prescriptions at the same pharmacy, or could have attended support groups online, chat rooms. AA is a likelihood in Sarah’s case, but we have to check the other two victims to determine if they had addictions.”
“Neither Lisa nor Sarah had any signs of addictions,” Doc replied. “Tox screens came back clean, no needle marks, zero blood alcohol. They’d been gone for ten days, and that could be a factor.”
“Expanded tox screen?”
“I haven’t run it; there wasn’t any reason to. Anything specific you’re looking for?”
“We still need to figure out how he’s snatching them. There’s the obvious way, hit them in the head with something and haul them out of there, but Katherine was taken in broad daylight.”
“I’ll run the expanded tox screen, with focus on any narcotics and anesthetics. I’ll run a hair analysis for drug detection; it will show more history, older drug use. By the way, neither victim had signs of blunt force trauma to the head, dating more than a week antemortem.”
“Huh?”
“The unsub didn’t hit them on the head when he abducted them.”
“Ah, yes, I see. There goes that theory.”
Tess propped herself better against the pillows, and took a sip of tea from a tall cup. “I wish Cat would get here already, I’m starving. My stomach’s growling so loudly, it’s… ugh.”
“That’s a great sign, Tess, don’t be embarrassed. Let me get you something from the cafeteria,” Doc offered, ready to storm out of the door.
She smiled and allowed herself to relish the heart swell she felt. She didn’t feel she deserved any affection from these people, yet there they were, ready to help. Doc Rizza, Gary, Todd, even Donovan. The thought of having friends was new to her, and a little scary. She didn’t feel she’d done much to deserve their friendships, and that thought humbled her. Maybe Cat was right; it was time to let people get close again. It was time to trust and share.
“What’s so funny?” Doc asked, still waiting for an answer.
“Nothing, Doc, really. Let’s talk DNA instead. Cat will get here eventually.”
“I found two DNA samples on both victims, none of which were found in CODIS, not even familial matches. We got nothing, other than the confirmation that one sample was present only in the semen, and the other sample only on the skin abrasions on the victims’ necks, from rope transfer. The strangler must have some calluses on his palms, maybe some partially healed abrasions.”
Tess grinned and chuckled. Her voice sounded a little hoarse, and she cleared her voice before speaking. “How can you say we have nothing, when we have DNA, Doc?”
He shrugged, looking confused. “We got nothing to match it against. When we have a suspect, we’ll be able to eliminate or inculpate, but until then…”
“Everything we are is in our DNA, right?”
“Um… yes,” he replied, and his eyebrows shot up as far as they could.
“What if we ask the lab to run a full profile on those two DNA samples, and give us everything they can extract. Race, skin color, hair color, any genetically identifiable physical features, even health predispositions.”
“It’s never been done before as a criminal investigation tool,” he
objected, sounding somewhat unconvinced. “Not that I know of, anyway. I don’t think it’s admissible as probable cause to get a warrant for a DNA sample from a suspect.”
“But it could work, right?”
“To some extent,” Doc admitted, “but how will knowing the unsub has green eyes help you identify him?”
“I’m not sure yet,” she replied reluctantly, and a frown ridged her forehead. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and nervously rubbed the back of her neck. “We could use the DNA analysis results to narrow the suspect lists, and go from there.”
“Do you have a suspect list?”
“No, not yet, but we will have one, soon. How about behavioral issues, are those genetically transmitted?”
“Some are,” Doc replied, starting to sound more excited. “There are numerous studies on behavioral genomics, conducted on twins mostly, and yes, it’s something we could try. But this type of DNA analysis will take weeks, if not months, to complete.”
Tess winked and grinned, but didn’t address his concern. “How about height? Is that something that’s written in our DNA?”
“Only to some extent,” he confirmed, “I think there’s a certain percentage of genetic predetermination of height, and that percent varies by race. The rest depends on environmental and nutritional factors.”
“Okay, I get it, it’s not that accurate, but we’ll at least know if he’s medium height or Mr. Big and Tall, right?”
“Yes, we should be able to determine height within certain limits. It would help if we knew the parental heights, then we could calculate—”
“If we had a way to find their parents, we’d find them, Doc. End of investigation.”
“You could also run polygenic risk scores,” Doc added, “for various mental disorders most commonly associated with convicted serial killers and rapists. It will give you the unsubs’ predispositions to certain mental disorders. Typically, such disorders leave a trail of records, juvie arrests, petty crime, you know, all that.”
“Where are the DNA samples now, Doc?”
“At the FBI lab, here in Miami.”
“Awesome,” she replied, then dialed Donovan’s direct line on her conferencing phone.
He picked up immediately. “Oh, no, I just got here,” he said, then sighed noisily.
“I need you to work some wonders for me, please,” Tess asked in a pleasant voice.
“Shoot.”
“Let’s get the lab to run full DNA profiles on my two unsubs. I want to know everything there is to know about their physical appearance, and their predisposition to diseases, both physical and mental.”
“Polygenic risk scores,” Doc said. “Relevant chromosomal mutations too.”
There was a brief moment of silence on the line.
“Okay, that’s interesting,” Donovan said. “It will take them forever, I guess.”
“They got twenty-four hours, how’s that?”
“Open the window and you’ll hear them scream,” Donovan replied dryly. “They have other cases ahead of yours. I’ll let you know what they say. Talk to you soon.”
“Uh-uh, not so fast,” Tess reacted. “We need you to run full background on the three victims. We can’t establish where the unsub saw them, or how they were chosen with the tools Palm Beach has been using. Anything and everything in their background you can dig up. Go deep; geophysical locations, bank withdrawals, indirect spending, online activity, and social media, the works.”
They could hear Donovan typing quickly, probably taking notes.
“Remember you promised you wouldn’t abuse your only dedicated analyst, right?”
“I never promised,” Tess blurted. “You asked, but I never promised.”
“Ahh… so that’s the way the game is played, huh?”
“No, but I’m desperate, and I appreciate your help.”
“Sweet talker,” Donovan replied, then they heard the dial tone.
Tess breathed a little bit easier, thinking they finally had a strategy. It was hard to tell what she’d be able to derive from all the information extracted from the unsubs DNA, but it sure as hell beat having nothing.
“Do you think it’s going to work?” she asked.
Doc Rizza shook his head once, smiling. “That’s why, my dear, you can’t convalesce like the rest of them.”
28
An Invitation
Stacy Rodriguez flipped her long, silky hair over her shoulder and leaned forward, to get closer to the phone. She still couldn’t hear clearly. She grunted quietly and closed the door to her minuscule office, then pushed the phone’s speaker volume to the max. It was better, but she still couldn’t make out everything the man was saying. The connection was bad, just like it normally was, leaving a portion of the weekly interdisciplinary conference call to be inferred rather than listened to.
The speaker went on and on about some discrepancies in the documentation for a new software module, but she only needed a couple of questions answered to do her part. She was a database developer and architect, a rather unusual profession for a woman, yet it matched her organized style and her analytical mind, and allowed her to function by her own rules, while making a significant amount of money. Database architects created the backbone of software applications, and built the skeleton that supported the entire system. As such, she qualified for her own office instead of a cubicle, and countless perks, some unofficial, like gas mileage and car allowance, and others official, like flex time and remote work.
These days she preferred to come to the office though, running away from the smell of formula and the constant baby fussing. It numbed her brain, and even if her wonderful Renata was the dedicated mother that she was, she just couldn’t focus on anything while they were there.
Stacy was constantly conflicted about her feelings lately. When she was at home, with her wife and two lovely daughters, she was annoyed, bored, even irritated sometimes. When she was away from home, she missed them terribly. It made no sense.
She turned her swivel chair with the back toward the glass door and continued to listen to the endless conference call, but discreetly removed a manicure set from her purse and tended to her fingernails without anyone seeing her. Her nails were somewhat too long for a professional who could type sixty words per minute, but a carefully chosen keyboard helped prevent the long-nail typos. Renata didn’t like her impeccably polished nails either, saying they could scratch the girls. But Stacy liked them just the way they were, oval-shaped, painted a deep burgundy, and covered with a thick, clear, finish coat that made them shine like rubies.
A chime covered the monotone of the conference call, and she welcomed the interruption. She opened her messenger and read the text that brought an enigmatic smile to her lips.
“I think it’s time we met. I think you and I should have a cup of coffee today instead of lunch,” the message said, and there was no signature at the end of the text, but Stacy didn’t need one. Should she dare to have that coffee? It was the first step on a road that led to nothing good, or to an amazing experience. Her feelings of guilt clashed with excitement and made her giddy. She waited for the end of the conference call, tapping her foot impatiently, and when it was finally over, she scuttled to the kitchenette.
She paced the tiled floor with a loud clack of her 3-inch heels accompanying every step, while a couple of coworkers stared at her, then at each other. She ignored them for a while, then stopped abruptly in front of them.
“Tell me, please, if you were on a diet, but you could dip your fingers into a melting pot filled with fudge, would you do it? I’m not saying eat the whole thing, just… get a taste?”
The two colleagues glanced quickly at each other, then one of them answered hesitantly, “Sure, why not? If no one was watching, I’d go for it. Life’s short.” The young woman laughed, and her colleague joined in.
“That’s what I thought,” Stacy replied, feeling better about her guilt. She thanked them with a quick nod and left the kitche
nette, not before hearing chuckles erupt behind her, and one of the two saying, “Enjoy your molten fudge, Stace!”
She grinned as she walked the hallway to her office with a determined stride. As soon as she closed the office door behind her, she opened her messenger and typed, “You’re on. Make mine a double cappuccino, if you please.”
29
Entangled Leads
Tess felt very proud of herself, walking the entire distance from the MRI lab back to her room. She walked a little faster than the day before, and, while still clutching Cat’s arm, she felt her knees grow stronger, firmer. She’d insisted to walk all the way there and back, before she even knew where the lab was, and to her it seemed as if they’d put that MRI machine at the other end of the earth. Now she welcomed the proximity of her room. For some reason, she still tired easily; somewhat to be expected after losing so much blood. “Two more days, three at the most,” Dr. DePaolo had promised, and she wanted it to be two, not three before she could finally leave the hospital.
The two of them turned the corner and soon her room was within sight. Her step faltered and her grasp of Cat’s arm tightened, when she saw someone she didn’t recognize looking around in her room, shuffling through her things.
“Cat,” she whispered, but he’d already stopped in place, his wiry muscles tense and his breathing shallow.
They watched the man, dressed in a white lab coat and wearing a surgical mask, as he approached her IV stand where an almost full bag hung in place. It was ready to be connected to her line, as soon as she returned to bed. The man checked the IV bag, then removed a syringe from his pocket and injected the contents into the bag. He tapped on the bag a couple of times, so the fluids would mix. He moved swiftly, demonstrating dexterity in handling medical instruments.