by Mary Burton
The remaining boxes were filled with an odd mix of police files, which he suspected had been copied without permission. Cops made duplicates of case files that mattered, and clearly the case had meant something to the former police chief.
Andrews’s first order of business was to sort all the papers into stacks. Organization would need to be forged from the chaos. He began to work, grateful to let time pass and the outside world fade.
The Dollmaker sat in the dimly lit basement room, staring at the pictures he had taken of Destiny in the very early hours of the morning. Then he scrolled back more frames to pictures snapped in this room. He’d posed her in a variety of ways. Sitting. Lying down. Poised on the bed in a seductive manner.
Remembering their time together, he scrolled through the snapshots, stopping on one that captured her perfect face. He’d not used his flash for this picture, and moody shadows crossed her high cheekbones. But her eyes had been closed, and he’d felt cheated that she couldn’t see him.
“Still, such a pretty girl, Destiny. I already miss you.” He enlarged the picture and studied the fine detailing around her eyes and her mouth.
He’d worked hard to perfect his art, practicing first on himself, marking up his thighs until they were covered in ink, and then on the random whores who worked the streets. They’d been easy to drug, easy to keep for days because no one missed them. No one cared about them.
Some of the whores he dumped back onto the street, drugged and dazed. Others he’d practiced on too long and ruined their faces. Letting them go would have brought the wrong kind of attention to himself, so it had been easy to overdose each with a lethal hit of heroine before disposing of their bodies.
He scrolled through more pictures to another woman’s face. This picture he’d snapped at the mall today. She’d been buying cosmetics. Her long dark hair framed her round face and drew attention to large eyes. Her skin was pale and flawless. A high slash of cheekbones.
Pretty enough that he’d grown hard while he’d been following her and taking pictures. But the longer he watched her, the more flaws he noticed. Pretty but not perfect.
She would be his new doll. She would be his new work of art. And he’d already picked out a name for her.
“Harmony. Harmony. Harmony.” He said the name out loud several more times, liking the way it rolled off his tongue.
It wasn’t really wise to make a new doll so soon, but he could feel the pressure of loneliness building inside him. In the past he’d wait months, even years before creating a new doll.
But waiting was too hard when he remembered Destiny. He didn’t want to be alone. He wanted someone to love. To taste. He needed to wait, but he could not.
He reached for a packet of matches and lit one, watching as the flame danced and swayed. A fire would calm him. It had when he was a boy. He’d not set any fires in town in over three years, so one small one now would likely go unnoticed.
Holding the match until the flame died, he smiled. One small fire. And then he’d bring his Harmony home to live with him for a long, long time.
“I’m going to make you perfect, Harmony.”
CHAPTER NINE
Wednesday, October 5, 5:00 p.m.
Under the glare of a portable lamp, the forensic crew worked the doll victim as Sharp walked through the woods to the condos adjacent to the park and knocked on the doors of the units facing the woods. No one had seen or heard anything last night. Retracing his steps, he stood at the edge of the crime scene, watching as the forensic technician photographed the body.
Judging by the victim’s bone structure and build, she’d been a beautiful woman in the prime of her life. But the garish tattooing had disfigured and perverted her features.
The medical examiner’s van arrived. Dr. Kincaid and Tessa got out with somber expressions, taking time to gather their gear. Tessa’s long black hair was pulled into a thick ponytail, and she was dressed in khakis, well-worn boots, and like Dr. Kincaid, a dark-blue slicker that read “Medical Examiner” on the back. Sharp stood straighter, watching as she and Kincaid removed the stretcher from the back of the van. He thought he could handle working around Tessa, but he realized it was going to be harder than he’d first thought.
Julia Vargas approached Dr. Kincaid and Tessa. They listened to the agent give her report on the body before moving toward the crime scene tape. When they ducked under it, he followed.
Dr. Kincaid extended her hand to Martin Thompson and smiled as she introduced Tessa. “Dr. McGowan is a forensic pathologist. You’ll be seeing more of her.”
Martin shook her hand and only tossed a quick questioning glance at Sharp. “Welcome.”
If Tessa read Martin’s questioning gaze, she gave no sign of it. “Thanks.”
The older man’s normally banal expression actually softened, and he held her hand an extra beat. “Glad to have you on the team.”
“Good to be on it,” Tessa said.
Sharp caught a couple of young officers looking at Tessa. Their gazes weren’t curious, but lewd. They didn’t realize Tessa was his wife. A primitive impulse demanded he punch each guy in the face.
“Who found the body, Agent Vargas?” Tessa asked.
“An early-morning jogger. He said he didn’t touch her. Thought she might have been a mannequin at first. He called the cops right away, and we had a first responder here within five minutes to secure the scene.”
“May I touch the body, Martin?” Dr. Kincaid asked.
“Yes. I’ve collected every bit of evidence I can find, so the body is ready to remove,” Martin said.
Dr. Kincaid knelt and with a gloved hand touched the victim’s face, circling her finger around the red circle, a cartoon version of a blushing cheek.
“It’s a tattoo,” she said, hints of surprise in her tone. “And judging by its color and skin texture, it’s recent. I’d say she only finished healing days ago.”
“Have either of you ever seen anyone with this kind of tattooing?” Julia asked.
“I’ve seen facial tattoos within the gangs,” Dr. Kincaid said.
“Some of the cultures in Asia tattoo the females’ faces, but that’s dying out,” Tessa said.
“I’ve seen women who’ve had permanent makeup applied to their faces. Eyeliner, blush, even lip color,” Dr. Kincaid said. “Even had a woman on my table who had her boyfriend’s name inked on her forehead. But a doll face is a new one.”
“It’s fine workmanship,” Tessa said. Her expression telegraphed a mixture of fascination and sadness.
Tessa pushed up the sleeve of the oversize doll dress. “The white stippling tattoo work that’s on her face also extends from her fingertips to her wrists. Her eyes are expertly lined in a dark ink, and very precise freckles dot her cheeks.” She touched the victim’s mouth. “The red heart-shape tattoo here redefines the shape of her lips.”
“She’d have to be out cold, otherwise the work couldn’t have been done to her face,” Vargas said.
“The injection site isn’t infected, and there’s no bruising, suggesting whoever inserted a needle in her arm knew what they were doing,” Tessa said.
Sharp folded his arms, trying to envision the woman before this work was done, but he couldn’t see past the ink.
Tessa pulled the sleeve back over the victim’s arm. “Look at the detail around her eyes,” she said. “It’s hard enough to do with pen and ink, let alone with a tattoo needle.”
“Only a monster would do this to an unwilling woman,” Vargas said.
“I didn’t say the person who did this was sane,” Tessa said. “I was simply commenting on the skill.”
He watched as Tessa absently rested her hand on the victim’s arm as if assuring her it would be okay, and she was now in good hands. He suspected if he weren’t standing there, Tessa would have spoken to the victim, issuing words of reassurance.
He cleared his throat. “Dr. Kincaid, do you have any idea how she died?”
Dr. Kincaid checked the victim�
��s neck for signs of strangulation and tipped her body forward to look at her back. “Dr. McGowan, what’s your opinion?”
Frowning, Tessa studied the body. “There are no signs of trauma on the body. We’ll have to check her blood levels for signs of asphyxiation and drug overdose.”
“Why the frown, Dr. McGowan?” Vargas asked.
“Her shoulder blades and the backs of her hands are discolored.”
“What does that suggest, Dr. McGowan?” Dr. Kincaid asked.
“After her heart stopped pumping, the blood settled in the lowest part of her body, which was her back.” She rolled down the knee socks and inspected the back of the victim’s calves. They were also bruised. “If she’d died here, her shoulder blades would not be discolored.”
“Correct,” Dr. Kincaid said.
“On her back,” Vargas said, shifting as if uncomfortable with the idea. “I don’t want to think what that suggests.”
“We’ll determine if there was sexual activity,” Dr. Kincaid said. “Though I might not be able to determine whether it was pre- or postmortem.”
“Jesus,” Vargas muttered.
Dr. Kincaid ran her hands over the dead woman’s arm. “The skin is smooth, and there are no signs of hair on her arms or legs. She’s been waxed recently.”
“Do you think it’s murder?” Tessa asked.
“She didn’t die here,” Dr. Kincaid said. “But that doesn’t mean she was murdered. She could have overdosed.”
“The second party panicked,” Vargas said. “She could have been into some kind of weird shit, and it went sideways. Whoever she was partying with dumped her here.”
“She wasn’t dumped,” Sharp said. “She was carefully posed.”
“A final sign of respect?” Vargas asked.
Sharp shook his head. “Or a final statement from the killer. Right now, I don’t know. We’ll let the evidence lead us.”
“How long would it take to tattoo her face and arms?” Vargas asked.
“I can’t speak to how long the tattoo work took,” Dr. Kincaid said. “There are no signs that infection ever set in. That means the wounds would have to be washed, there would have been extensive bandaging of her face and arms, and the dressings would have to have been changed daily to avoid infection.”
“We’re looking for someone who could have gone missing a month ago?” Sharp asked.
“I’d say so,” Dr. Kincaid said.
“Thanks.”
Tessa studied the back hem of the victim’s doll dress. “This appears to be a bloodstain,” she said.
Martin nodded. “I saw that. Don’t know if it’s her blood, but it’s marked for DNA testing.”
Needing a moment, Sharp turned from the scene and walked back to his car. He dug his cigarettes out of his pocket. As he shook loose a cigarette from the pack, he felt Tessa’s gaze on him. He let the pack fall back in his pocket. “What is it, Tessa?”
For a beat she didn’t speak, and then in a voice that was both tender and harsh, “You’re thinking about Kara.”
He flinched at the sound of his sister’s name. Their last big fight was over Kara. He’d been so angry when she’d tried to talk to him about letting his sister go. He’d blown up at her, dumping all his anger for his lost sister on her. Tessa had absorbed his pain to a point, and then she’d gotten angry. Two days later she was on a plane to Southeast Asia.
“So you’re psychic now?” he asked.
“I don’t need to read your mind.” An edge honed the words, telling him she would not tolerate his temper. “I know you. She’s never far away when you’re investigating a case.”
“Really?” He patted his pockets for his lighter and lit the tip of his cigarette. He sensed her disapproval, which only made him inhale deeper. It didn’t help that she was right. If their marriage hadn’t gone sour, he might have tried to free some of those compartmentalized emotions and talk.
“It was her birthday yesterday, Dakota. And your victim is a young woman who would have been about Kara’s age now.”
“Shit, Tessa. It’s been twelve years.” He said it as if the passing years had dulled his sense of failure.
She arched a brow. “Don’t give me that bullshit,” she said, lowering her voice. “For you, no time at all has passed.”
A sigh shuddered through him as he opened the car door. “I’m assuming you’re doing the autopsy.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’m assisting Dr. Kincaid.”
“Call me when you have this victim on the table. I want to be there.”
Tessa arrived back at the medical examiner’s office with Dr. Kincaid and the body just after ten that night. She checked the victim in as Dr. Kincaid scheduled the autopsy for the morning. After the body had been stripped and placed in cold storage, the women opted to call it a night.
It was close to midnight when she made the drive through Richmond and over the Mayo Bridge into the Manchester section of the city. The drive took less than ten minutes. As she pushed through the front door of her cousin’s converted warehouse apartment, relief shuddered through her. She had six hours’ break before returning to the office for the autopsy.
For a moment she stood, staring out the large windows overlooking the James River and the city. As she had done since she began her rotations on the hospital floor in medical school, she stripped off her work clothes and turned on a hot shower. When the steam rose, she stepped into the spray and allowed the heat to wash over her skin and rinse away her day.
As the water pulsed over her face, her thoughts turned back to the kiss she’d given Sharp yesterday. Loving him would never, ever be easy. And still, touching him had felt right. “God, Dakota, let me help us figure this out.”
When she’d dried and changed into sweats and a T-shirt, she went into the living room. The furniture in the apartment was eclectic, minimalist, and highlighted her cousin Rebecca’s travels. The rugs were from Morocco, a vase filled with fresh tulips was from Paris, and the collection of black-and-white photos featured many of the places she and her late husband had visited.
When Tessa and Sharp had been together, she’d made an effort to create a nice home. But when she’d left him, she left all they’d acquired behind. Soon, she’d have to find her own place and start collecting secondhand and discount furniture. For most of the last year, she’d all but lived out of a tent, so in her mind, any furniture was a step up. The only piece she was determined to invest in was a quality mattress and bedding. No more sleeping on hard, lumpy surfaces.
One of the keepsakes she’d held on to after her departure was a collection of pictures framed in white distressed wood. She’d kept her wedding picture, though it was in storage. What was displayed on her dresser was a picture of Tessa, her mother, and her aunt at Inner Harbor in Baltimore sixteen years ago, right before her mother died. As she stared at her mother’s pallid, sunken features, it was obvious she was gravely ill. But at the time as an idealistic fourteen-year-old, she’d remained hopeful her mother would beat the illness. Another picture showcased four young girls fresh to college. Kara, Diane, Elena, and Tessa. The image was taken at the fall festival several days before that last Halloween party. They stood at the apple-bobbing tent. They were all smiling, but she was the only one with wet hair. The only one who’d dared ruin her makeup to catch a bobbing piece of fruit in her teeth.
She lifted the image and studied their faces. Twelve years was an eternity. Kara, as always, stared boldly at the camera, her hands crossed in a playful way, a breeze catching her dark hair and gently blowing it from her face. Sadness tightened Tessa’s throat. “Happy belated birthday, Kara.”
The front door opened, and she turned to see Rebecca dressed in her scrubs and holding a pizza. Rebecca was a nurse practitioner at the hospital. “So you survived your first day on the new job?”
“Barely.”
“When did you get in?”
“About twenty minutes ago.”
“Long day.”
Rebecca d
ropped her purse on the couch and slipped off her shoes. “I thought you were expecting regular hours.”
“For the most part, I am.”
Rebecca handed the pizza to Tessa. “Let me shower and change, and then we can visit before I drink my wine and crash into bed.”
“Sounds great.”
Minutes later Rebecca joined Tessa in the kitchen dressed in a very oversize T-shirt, with her damp hair draping her shoulders. She dug one wineglass from the cabinet and a half-full bottle of white chilling in the refrigerator. Rebecca pulled the wine cork and filled her glass while Tessa grabbed a soda can and popped the top.
Rebecca raised her glass and toasted. “To my day off tomorrow. Your new job. And to a jungle-free, civilized life.”
Tessa clinked. “Thanks.”
“How did it go today?”
“We responded to a very grisly crime scene. I saw Dakota there.”
Rebecca stilled the glass inches from her lips. “And?”
Tessa knew him well enough to know that under the still waters circled anger as alive and all-consuming as a shark in the ocean. In the coming days, eating would happen on the fly and speaking would whittle to the basics until his case was solved. “Not bad.”
Rebecca raised a brow. “It’s me you’re talking to. How was he?”
Tessa flipped open the pizza box and took a slice. “The same.”
“So what’s the deal with you and Sharp? Married or divorced?”
“Married, technically.”
Rebecca’s eyes narrowed. “What else aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing really.”
“So it is strictly business?”
Tessa pulled a piece of cheese from the top and coiled it around her finger. “Basically.”
“Have you forgotten what it was like when you were married to him? I respect the hell out of the guy as a cop, but you weren’t happy with him.”
“You make him sound like a monster. He isn’t.”
“I didn’t say that. But he got so wrapped up in his work that he wouldn’t come home for days, and when he did, he would hardly speak.”