“I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” he shouted over his shoulder.
The surf was no rougher than usual, the waves cresting just over a foot. The Pacific was deep and blue and cold, but Matt liked it. He’d seen Jaws twenty-three times, but the thought of a shark never frightened him. Rather, the prospect of sharing the water with a creature that had lived for millions of years fascinated him. A shark was a living dinosaur, his teacher, Mrs. Higgins, had said, and he believed her.
Gulls continued to nosedive the object, their shrill cries filling the ocean air. Looking back to shore, he could see Leroy sitting there, not much bigger than a pin dot. He waved back to the shore, wondering if his buddy could see him. A toothpick arm waving back was his response. Never been out this far before, Matt thought. Now Leroy won’t give me any crap the rest of the day. Wonder what it could be. Dead seal maybe? Dolphin that got tangled in a fisherman’s met?
As Matt got closer to the body, a strange sense of peril washed over him. Stomach tightened in a vise grip, horrible thoughts tore through his mind. He felt like running but knew there was nowhere to go. Carefully, he tucked his left leg up on the board, then his right, careful not to cause a ripple in the water. Laughing at himself, he still couldn’t shake the feeling.
It was as if he knew he should not be here.
In this place.
Alone.
Still, the mystery of what was floating beckoned him. Yanking up his surfer shorts, he gulped down saliva caught in his throat, regaining his courage.
Within twenty feet of it now, his arms ached from paddling, his muscles feeling like they were filled with acid. “Damned seagulls, get away.” He waved his arms, thinking the birds might poop on him. He was on the object now; couldn’t tell what it was. All bloated, torn up, mangled. Guts floating on top of the water, bleached white by the ocean’s tide. Whatever it was had been ripped apart a bit further by the seagulls.
Inhaling a deep breath, he reached over and put one hand on the mass. Reacting to his touch, the bulbous mass rolled over on itself.
A piercing scream escaped from Matt Bender’s lungs, the carnage now evident. Eyes missing from a cavity in the face, mouth gaping open. It hadn’t been a seal floating.
It was a girl.
And she was dead.
“How’s the Aromatic Shrimp?” McGregor asked, his face glued to the menu. “Very good, sir. House special. Crispy shrimp in special hot sauce flavored with ginger, garlic, and cooked with chopped green onion.”
“That sounds good. I’ll have that.” He folded his menu and gave it to the diminutive woman.
“And I’ll have the Shanghai Duck,” Cat said, doing the same.
“Anything to drink?”
“Two iced teas.” McGregor looked at Cat for approval, which she gave.
The food arrived within ten minutes. Cat’s entree was delicious, duck smothered with a dark sauce and shredded green onions. On the side came a plate of Chinese pancakes, which she eagerly dug into.
“Hey, I thought with the way you looked you’d have a salad.”
“I didn’t see any salads on the menu, did you?” she asked rhetorically. “And, besides, Chinese food is my favorite.”
Cat watched as McGregor’s big burly hands busied themselves with the chopsticks. She could see he was no expert, but he was gainfully making an effort with them, perhaps for her. The more she got to know McGregor, the more she liked him. He had been weathered by the job, but somehow that made him more personable, honest. They ate in silence.
“How is it?” Cat asked.
“Great,” McGregor said, shoving another bright pink shrimp into his mouth. “And yours?”
“Can’t say I’ve had better.”
The moment was interrupted by a whirring, then chirping sound. McGregor’s cell phone. Quickly putting down the chopsticks, he checked his text messages. “Office.”
In one fluid motion he was up from the table. “I’ll be back. I’ve got to call them.”
She watched him disappear toward the back of the restaurant, then reappear a minute later, already in a jog.
“Come on, we gotta go,” he shouted her way.
“What is it?”
“We got another body. They think it’s our boy.”
Cat was up as quickly as she could be, left thirty bucks on the table. “Where?”
“Doheny State Beach.”
“Is it the Bennett girl?”
McGregor shook his head. “Don’t know.” His eyes flashed a steely light.
Two minutes later, McGregor and Cat were on the freeway, a dome light flashing. McGregor was replaying the telephone conversation in his head, upset and agitated.
“God,” Cat said, “another one.”
“Second one in two weeks. No doubt, if it’s our guy, he’s getting angrier.”
“Or bolder.”
“Or both,” McGregor surmised.
“They found her buried on the beach?” Cat was sure before this day was over, she’d have more questions than answers. This was only the first.
“Naw, she washed up.” McGregor reconsidered his words. “Well, some little kid found her floating, then she washed up.”
The car soared along doing eighty-five down the 405 Freeway, then on to Interstate 5. It was the second time today they had come in this direction, though at this speed Cat barely recognized anything. Immediately in front of them some little old lady stomped on the brakes. McGregor laid on the horn, swerving the car to the left in one nonstop motion, just in time to miss the other car’s back fender by inches. Cat sucked in hard and felt her body brace for impact. It never came.
“Freakin’ Seizure World drivers,” McGregor hollered back, referring to the blue-haired elderly drivers—residents of Leisure World—that made driving hell in this town.
“Jesus Christ, can’t you slow down a little?” Cat cringed at the thought of what could have just happened.
McGregor just kept driving.
“It’s not like the body is going anywhere.”
“Look, you don’t get it do you. Craig’s down there, his eyes all over my case.”
Cat looked at him like he was crazy. “Who in the hell is that?”
“Los Angeles FBI punk named Craig Gray. Had the pleasure of meeting the little prick once. He’s so slimy he made me want to vomit on myself, just so I could get the taste of him outta my mouth.”
“That’s nice.” Cat tried not to pay attention to the road.
“Let’s just say the guy is oozing so much slime that he drinks motor oil for breakfast.”
“What’s he doing involved in the case?”
“Someone had to have called him in.”
“Who?”
“Hell if I know, but I damned well aim to find out.”
Cat let the rest of the conversation ride, seeing McGregor appeared more provoked as they got closer to the beach. Off the freeway now, they swung a right on Crown Valley Parkway, headed up a hill, then right on Niguel Road.
McGregor glanced over, caught a glimmer of excitement in Cat’s eyes. Her right hand was rubbing the black valise that never seemed to be far from her side.
“How much farther?”
“Just a few minutes more.” They were on Pacific Coast Highway, commonly called PCH, careening toward Dana Point Harbor, then a quick left and they were at the beach.
McGregor almost plowed through the parking gate, stopping with a screech.
“Dammit, police business!” he shouted, flashing his ID at the parking attendant, who quickly raised the gate, calling a “sorry” as they sped through.
As Cat looked around, people were leaving the beach in droves, packing coolers, beach chairs, umbrellas in the back of minivans, trucks, cars. Cat got out and started toward the beach. A muumuu-clad woman grabbed her arm. “I wouldn’t go down there, miss. They found”—she gulped hard—“a body.”
“I know, we’re here on police business,” Cat said matter-of-factly. The woman gave a curious look, cockin
g her head to the left, then frowned.
“Hope you didn’t eat lunch before you came, ’cause if you did you’re gonna lose it.” The woman walked away, ushering her bawling young children ahead of her in a protective gesture.
As expected, the beach was deserted but for one area, which was swarming with cops. McGregor was ten paces ahead, moving in a much too deliberate jog. Cat knew he was determined not to let any LA agent steal this case.
After four difficult strides in the sand, which felt like quicksand, Cat swept her shoes off in one quick, effortless motion. Recognizing Richmond, she walked over to where he stood. The chief wore a navy suit, dress shoes, a tie—clearly out of place at the beach. He was sweating profusely, beads pouring down his forehead, rolling to a stop at his too-tight collar.
Beside him, dressed in beige baggy chinos, a white oxford shirt with blue ink stains on one pocket, and white canvas sneakers, stood a slim, pretentious man she did not recognize. He appeared as if he had just gotten out of the shower, shirt clinging to his long, lanky limbs, long hair greased straight back in a ponytail. Behind round silver-framed glasses, the man watched Cat with startling green eyes, set off by long black lashes and arched bushy brows. Speaking in a resonant baritone, he leaned forward and presented his hand. “Dr. Catherine Powers, I presume?”
“Yes, and who might you be?”
Chief Richmond interjected. “Cat, this is Craig Gray, field agent FBI, Los Angeles.”
Cat shook his hand, noting the man’s apparent charm, which came without trying. He appeared to be genuinely taken with her. “I am very pleased to meet you. I’ve read some of your published work in the Journal of American Medicine.” Eleven months ago Cat had written a piece on the aberration of criminal violent behavior and CAT scan abnormalities in the cerebral cortex. Much of the work, the theory even, was experimental, but it raised the eyes and ears of many experts to the possibility of an organic correlation to violence.
“Thank you,” she said, appearing polite. Shaking this guy’s hands gave her the creeps. Outward appearances could be deceiving, Cat concluded.
“I see you’ve met Mr. Gray,” McGregor said, cynicism in each syllable. Agent Gray merely nodded in McGregor’s direction, wearing a pasted frozen smile. Cat thought of McGregor belting this slime bucket in the face. It made her smile inside. It was not her intent to dance around another forensic pathologist from the FBI’s LA office. She did not want to bow and scrape to the local boys or become involved in some local feud between warring FBI factions. Gray’s loss was her gain; she had been given carte blanche on this case, and she wasn’t about to have the local boys interfere.
Sensing the hostile undercurrent between Gray and McGregor, Chief Richmond interrupted. “The body is over here.” Instinctively, he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, dabbed a big swab of Vicks under his nostrils, and covered his mouth and nose. Cat did the same.
A photographer hovered, snapping off photos of the body at every angle. On a landing about 150 feet away, a crowd of curious onlookers stood, pointing, some of them snapping pictures of their own. It never amazed Cat, the depths of some people’s morbid curiosity.
A Channel 2 mobile news van pulled into the parking lot; Cat could see the van’s live feed antenna above the cars. She glanced at her watch: 3:30. Perfect, she thought with a groan. Just time enough to make the four o’clock news.
She shouted at the plainclothes officers in the area. “Get those people out of here. And keep the media back. I want them out of my way.” Officers in blue corralled the crowd back. They halted the media team emerging from the Channel 2 van. They set up a media and crowd area 100 feet back from the body.
Gray leaned over and whispered in Cat’s ear as she knelt beside the body, the stench far worse than that of a normal decaying body. “You got a public relations problem with this case? The media has a right to know.”
“The media doesn’t have a right to anything until I see it first, and as far as my having a public relations problem with this case, I don’t. I just have work to do, and I can’t do it very well with people like you gawking over my shoulder.” She was honestly used to having people working close by, but something about Gray unnerved her.
Tall and straight, built like a freight train, a man dipped under the yellow crime scene tape and approached rapidly. He took her hand and pumped it hard, his succotash-shaped mustache bobbing up and down as he spoke. “Mrs. Powers, oh, pardon me, Dr. Powers, I am Dana Point Mayor Lewis Needleman.” He sounded out of breath. “I can assure you, we’ve never had anything in this city like this before.” He raised his arms high above his shoulders, as if Cat hadn’t taken in the scenic seaside town. “But let me tell you, if you need anything—anything at all,” he said with an obvious sexual connotation, “you just let me know.”
He leaned over and gave her his card. Taking one glance at the body, it was plain he couldn’t accept the fact that what he was looking at was once a human being. The sight was jarring. Ever the politician, he wheeled around on his heels, avoiding the horrific sight. Raising his head, he waved at the onlookers, making sure they could see that he, Mayor Lewis Needleman, had everything under control.
Cat put the card in her pocket and disregarded the remainder of the grandstanding. “Has anyone touched the body?”
Richardson responded. “Lifeguards helped bring it in, but no one’s touched it since it hit the beach.”
“Good, would you gentlemen mind stepping back? I have work to do.”
The men did as she asked.
This girl, who had no name except Jane Doe right now, had been in the water for some time. Adiponecrosis, the body’s mechanism for breaking down fatty tissues, had started. The result of this process, a waxy yellowish substance, filled the girl’s abdomen. Adipocere had started to replace the muscles. Her face showed telltale decay signs from being in the water. Grotesque, irregular features made up the bulk of it. Cat consciously reminded herself that this girl once had a face.
She felt the afternoon sun beat down, the humidity burdensome at 80 percent. Removing her navy blue jacket, she tied it around her waist, swatting at flies. Out of her valise she pulled tweezers, scalpel, vials, and some other instruments of her trade. Cat worked quickly over the victim, trying not to look at the girl’s face, or what was left of it. No doubt, whoever this was, or had once been, she had been pretty. The water-bloated body still revealed slender fingers, delicate hands, small wrists.
Cat’s anger grew seeing this brutalization. Whatever mindless, satanic creature had done this, she meant to find him. The wounds he had inflicted were somewhat the same as before. The girl’s sternum had been ripped with vertical slashes, some of them two, three inches long. The body had long since stopped bleeding. Instead, the wounds splayed open to the hot sun, baking. To the face, the damage was severe; the girl’s teeth, gums, and bones around the mouth were exposed. Seawater had collected where her eyes should have been. From the nose, a tar-like slick. Cat was angry. This was someone’s daughter, someone’s baby.
“Sweet Jesus,” she said to herself.
Looking over her shoulder from a kneeling position, Cat saw news trucks gathering, the crowd growing, appearing now like vultures. By now the word was out on the street, the story making the four o’clock news. She could almost hear the Channel 2 anchor’s drone: “Authorities have located yet another young woman’s body, an apparent victim of the Burning Man. This is the fourth victim in as many weeks, the first in Dana Point. Facts are sketchy, but lifeguards on the scene tell us that a young boy paddled out in the surf and found the woman floating facedown. Her identity remains a mystery. This victim displays the same mutilations as the others, multiple stab wounds, the use of acid. As with the others, the killer has gotten away scot-free, and authorities don’t have a clue to his identity. One thing is certain. The women of Orange County are under siege. This coldhearted killer will kill again and again until he himself is killed.”
Fact of the matter was California had
never been at a loss for serial killers. Charles Manson, Ed Kemper, Herbert Mullin had all had their particular brand of madness hatched in this state.
The heat was oppressive. Cat’s sweat-drenched hair hung in her face, clung to her forehead.
McGregor approached after questioning the kid. “We got a friggin’ circus up there,” he said, seeing what she saw. “It’s a damned zoo.” He looked at the body closely. “Looks like more damage than the others?”
“Yes. Ligature tears in the skin, here and here.” Cat pointed to the swollen corpse’s wrists and heels. Dark discolorations surrounded the areas.
“Here too?” McGregor pointed to a dark circle surrounding the neck, which was mostly hidden by the victim’s damp hair.
“Yes.” Cat nodded. “It appears that, as well as escalating the number of attacks, he is escalating their violence.”
“Any idea of her age?”
“It’s really hard to tell. She’s been in the water for some time,” Cat replied, scraping out what was under the nails into a glass vial. She frowned. “Whatever there was under here, the ocean’s already eaten up and spit out.”
“It’s our guy, huh?”
“Appears to be, unless we have a copycat. But I don’t think so; the lacerations are almost identically placed. That information has not been released to the press. There is no way a copycat could know.”
Cat looked at McGregor’s eyes. They appeared competent and in charge, but worried. “What is it?”
“This isn’t Carrie Ann Bennett. Not unless she had a dye job.”
“What?” Cat stopped what she was doing.
McGregor stood up, turned, and squinted at the sinking sun. “Carrie Ann Bennett was a brunette.”
“And this body’s been floating way too long.”
NINE
The fellow that can only see a week ahead is always the popular fellow, for he is looking with the crowd. But the one that can see years ahead, he has a telescope but he can’t make anybody believe that he has it.
The Burning Man Page 7