—Will Rogers, The Autobiography of Will Rogers
From a distance, he watched and waited. Part of the ebbing sameness of bodies, he was one of them and yet not.Cat Powers had arrived. She was tending to the girl, to his patient. He appreciated her assistance. It was nice to have someone competent around.
Men overdressed for the beach, obviously law enforcement, backed off from the body as her stench blew upwind.
Focusing his attention back on Powers, he noticed she was indeed a fine specimen of a woman. Even kneeling, he could tell her legs were long and lean, auburn hair pulled up. She tucked a stray wisp over her left ear.
How alluring.
This woman coming all this way for me.
He stared harder at her, etching every nuance of her into his mind, her movements, her coloring.
Closing his eyes, he even caught a whisper of her voice, yes, just a bit. Sweet, melodic…he had to stop himself from smiling.
From the way she tended to his patient, he could tell she was a compassionate woman. Graceful. Beautiful. Even more so than the black-and-white newsprint photos dared portray.
He was sure now.
She was worthy.
TEN
Our deeds determine us, As much as we determine our deeds.
—George Eliot, Adam Bede
The autopsies were becoming routine. That scared Cat. It meant the killer was getting better at his work. It meant she was numbing to it.
This time the recording camera’s whirl was joined by lights that beckoned from an overhead viewing area. Standing in front of four rows of seats were Chief Richmond, agents McGregor and Gray, Director Sanchez, and, for some reason, Mayor Needleman. Inside two hours of retrieving evidence from the body, Cat was standing over a stainless-steel table. To her left, a gleaming stainless-steel scale; above her important men waited for the autopsy to begin.
“We meet again, Dr. Powers,” Conrad said smoothly as he entered the room. His eyes roamed hers, then her torso, down to her feet, and back up to her eyes. “I see our guests have arrived.” He looked up to the viewing gallery, his lips curled in an odd grin.
“You invited them?” Cat tried not to sound angry, but it was difficult.
“Yes, I did.” He glared at her, then the smile returned. It was immediately evident that the man felt at home here. “Shall we begin?”
Cat nodded, holding her gloved hands up, and let her anger go, reciting the standard jargon. Time of day, tag number, age, height, weight, sex, the victim’s name, which at the moment was Jane Doe. Like the others the cuts were clean, not jagged, made with an extremely sharp knife of some kind, the blade perhaps an inch or so long. The cuts ran in a vertical pattern over the anterior portion of the body, bare horizontal rents sometimes intersecting like some bizarre crossword puzzle. The wounds were not hacks, nor placed randomly. Each one was precise, often repeating itself on both the left and right sides, as if the killer had slashed one side, held the body to a mirror, and the identical wounds had magically appeared on the corpse’s other side. After close scrutiny of the wounds, Cat could tell sulfuric acid had been used; the tissue deep in each wound had been eaten away. Occasionally, however, there was a laceration that appeared to be only that, just a laceration, as if the killer had been torn between using the acid and a slow painful death due to blood loss.
Each of Cat’s findings was recorded, the camera zooming in and out as needed. Again, the largest wound appeared to be a ventral wound to the abdomen. Cat looked closely at this area and determined the wound was placed like the others, just above the haustra of the ascending colon, not deep enough to penetrate, although the fish had chewed their way through.
From above, Cat could hear the occasional gasps as she examined, dictating her findings. The agents had seen their share of autopsies, but it was clear Needleman had not. “Bend at the knees if you start to go,” she could faintly hear McGregor coaching the politician, who was visibly sweating through a tasteless blue and white striped seersucker suit.
There were no scars, tattoos, moles, or other obvious identifying scars on the victim. A detailed external examination of the genitals revealed no rape or sexual assault. Fluids were withdrawn, swabs taken and sent off to toxicology.
The victim’s breasts were speckled with freckles in a star array, much like the Big Dipper. This provided little, if any, help in finding out who Jane Doe was. But it was the only thing Cat had to work with. Maybe it would be enough to help her identify this Jane Doe.
Cat took her time, trying not to feel rushed, despite six pairs of eyes watching her. In a Jane Doe autopsy, missing just one detail could mean the difference between a victim being identified, with a proper burial, and a pauper’s funeral. This girl deserved a proper resting place, given the sheer terror in which she died.
Carefully, Cat drew a scalpel down the center of Jane Doe’s blue-white breasts. The skin parted, revealing the pink muscle of the pectoralis major. Cat cut a Y-shaped incision, as she had a thousand times before, down the midsection. Drawing the flaps back, she cut through the ribs, lifting out the breast plate onto the stainless-steel table to her right. Then she put her hands into the body, working below the sternum, as she continued to whisper into the microphone.
The internal organs, first from the chest cavity, then the lower abdomen, finally the pelvic area, Cat meticulously removed and weighed. She removed a thin tissue from each after taking its weight. Like the external examination, the internal prodding revealed no evidence of voluntary sex or sexual assault.
Coming upon the stomach, she carefully analyzed the contents for excessive fluids, a sign the girl drowned. As she expected, Jane Doe had not drowned.
Blood, semen, and hair were collected and sent to the FBI’s labs of DNA typing. The bladder was removed and sent to toxicology. It would reveal if the killer had pumped Jane Doe full of drugs, such as barbiturates or street drugs, prior to her untimely death. From the postmortem bruises to the wrists, ankles, and neck, Cat suspected they would find no drugs in this girl. The Burning Man had wanted her very much awake.
Cat moved the young woman’s head. Leaning over the girl’s lifeless eye sockets, she found petechiae in her conjunctiva. The tiny red and purple spots to the mucous membrane that lined the inside of the lids revealed that Jane Doe had been strangled or choked during the final minutes of her life. This went hand-in-hand with the deep, penetrating discoloration to the neck, Cat thought. Probably tied her down to something.
Cat’s fingers probed the waxy pale body’s scalp, her eyes just inches away. “I’ve got something here. Take a look.” She parted the hair.
Dr. Conrad James leaned closer. “What is it?”
“You tell me.”
“Appears to be a letter carved into her head.”
They both looked down at the letter “I.”
“He’s sending us a message.”
“How do you get that from just one carving? He might not even have intended to make a letter, just came out that way.”
“Come on, McGregor. Most serial killers either take something or leave something. This guy’s not a trophy collector, at least not as far as I can see. So what’s the next best thing? He leaves us something. Can’t you see it? He wants us to know him. He wants recognition for his actions. He wants the media attention. He likes the media circus.”
From the courses she had taught in Applied Criminal Psychology, Cat could tell there was step-by-step escalation to this killer’s fantasy. She wondered if this case was typical, if those escalations were fueled by childhood physical abuse from a person in a position of trust, usually a parent, relative, coach, or teacher. She sensed the fantasy was not driven by pornography or macabre experimentation on animals. No, from the looks of it, this man had no need to experiment on animals; he was cutting people for a living every day. In all this, the need for recognition was dominant and overriding. He’d gotten the nerve to face what he really wanted to do: to send a message to the FBI. To her.
�
�Don’t you see, if you break down the components of this latest crime…” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “If you break it down, pre- and post-offensive behavior, the vast majority of the mutilation is premortem, before death. He watches them cry out while they are alive; his motive is to inflict pain. Their screams are like a symphony to him, and he is the maestro. He wants us to share his work, wants us to know.”
“Come on, Cat, we won’t know till we get another body.”
“I’m telling you, I’ve dealt with this type before. If you want to understand the craftsman, take a look at his work. This latest body is a refinement of his style, the ligature bruises.”
She padded up and down the floor. “Equally significant is the way he disposes of the bodies. The first three were dumped out in the middle of nowhere for the animals to get them. This latest one was dumped in the sea. All the corpses have been left out in the open. This is another signal to us, that he wants us to know him. He makes no effort to bury them. He treats the bodies with no respect. He is taunting us.”
“You’re getting too tied up in this.” McGregor rolled his eyes and went to get coffee. Once this woman had her mind set on something, he knew there was no turning back.
“No. I’m not. I’m telling you. He is sharing a piece of himself with us, with me.”
The words left a bad taste in her mouth.
“And he is watching.”
ELEVEN
Skepticism is the first step toward truth.
—Denis Diderot, Pensées Philosophiques
Chief Richmond stood in front of the 40-foot-deep room, the camera bulbs blinding his vision. A barrage of questions came at him like machinegun fire. God, he hated the media, hated the way their concerns, questions, became paramount, at least in their own minds. Hated the fact that clips from this briefing would likely appear on Extra or one of those sleazy tabloid shows his wife couldn’t get enough of.
From what he had seen of the four o’clock newsreels, speculation was already running rampant about who the girl was, that there was a copycat killer who had changed the MO just slightly. One reporter even stated that the killer’s media tag should be changed to reflect the escalation in violence, “the once a week killer.” As promised, the department delivered on its guarantee of an eight o’clock briefing.
Raising his hand, Richmond stated that questions should be held till the end of the briefing. He introduced McGregor and Stevenson and briefly outlined the case for the media.
An overly ambitious reporter jumped up, hair and makeup primed for the spotlights. “What can you tell us about this victim?”
“I’ll turn that question over to Dr. Powers,” he said, stepping off the podium.
Cat stepped up to the plate, watching the room now, bodies silhouetted against harsh lights. Her auburn highlights were set off by the glow, yet the gold-rimmed glasses could not hide her exhaustion. Still, she appeared proficient, masterful, in her description of the investigation. Purposefully, she made no mention of the ligature bruises. She also did not disclose the lacerations’ exact placement.
Cat was careful.
She listed the evidence, keeping the reporter focused on the Burning Man investigation while two plainclothes officers surveyed the room. From Cat’s estimation, the killer would be here. The officers scanned the faces. None looked out of place; none squirmed or looked away as Cat spoke. She squinted, trying to get a read on whether the plainclothes guys had anything. Liston shrugged his shoulders.
Yet she knew he was here.
“Dr. Powers, Dr. Powers,” an older man called out as he stood up, the end of his pen pressing against his lower lip. He looked like someone out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Snow-white hair, ruddy checks. His chest was rising and falling, as if he had run a marathon. “Do we know anything about the killer yet?”
“Not much. We believe he is a white male in his late twenties to early fifties, likely employed in some capacity in the medical profession. A fit man, though not overly large. He takes good care of himself. He is a control fre—” Cat chose her words conscientiously, mindful that the wrong word could set him off. “He is domineering. He is a man of power, of position.”
“What can you tell us of the latest victim?”
“Right now we don’t have a name. Jane Doe appears to be slim, attractive, early twenties. We are asking anyone who might have a friend or relative missing that fits that description to contact us right away. The number should be on your screen. I know it’s not much but that’s all I have.”
As Cat talked, she scrutinized the faces in the crowd, looking for someone who fit the killer’s description. It was impossible. Hell, the reporter who fired the last question at her fit it. They all did. When the conference was over, she stationed herself to the side of the room, close to the back door, watching men as they funneled out. The plainclothes guys mixed with the crowd but looked as befuddled as she felt. She was pissed.
They didn’t have anything concrete on this guy.
Not anything.
As a man moved through the crowd to the door, his eyes would not meet her gaze. He fit the profile, mid-forties, fit, white, wearing expensive Italian shoes. He was wearing a Yankees baseball cap, pulled down over his face. As he turned to go, she glimpsed just a bit of his hair showing from under the cap. At that instant Cat’s instincts screamed it’s him! She lurched across the room, drawing her firearm from its holster in one seamless motion. Her mind was spinning at the possibility of the guy bolting.
As she grabbed his arm, he gasped. The plainclothes guys were walking over chairs as if they were water, crashing through the furniture.
“What?” The man jerked his arm.
She held on. “You knew them.”
He turned away from her now, looking over her shoulder, eyes fixated on the door. “I what?”
“You knew them.”
“I’ve got to go.”
The plainclothes cops worked their way through the crowd. Two people stopped at the door, turned at the commotion.
The man gathered himself up, preparing to speak.
For the first time, he looked at her. A steely stare. He looked through her eyes, not at them. It gave her the creeps. His eyes were a strange shade of hazel that seemed out of place with the rest of his coloring, his hair dark—almost black. This too did not fit with his pale skin.
“I am an admirer of your work,” he said coolly. “Nothing more.”
She pulled him off to the side.
“You know who I am?”
“Doesn’t everyone who is here?” he mocked. “You are the matchless Dr. Catherine Powers.” He used her name for the first time. “You are the FBI’s chief forensic pathologist, I believe with the Behavioral Sciences Unit, out of Quantico, Virginia.” Neither cocky nor arrogant, each word was controlled, delivered in a deep baritone. This man was cool and well-spoken.
He didn’t seem to hear them, two plainclothes surging up on him from behind.
“What is it?” one of them said, out of breath.
She did not reply. Rather, she concentrated on the man.
The first thing that struck her was how ordinary he appeared. Below the baseball cap, trimmed dark hair, clean shaven, oxford shirt. Yet he was strange. The way he looked at her, studied her. The color of his eyes.
“We were just having a conversation,” she said to the agents, her gaze never leaving his. They backed off.
She cocked her head to one side. He did the same. He had the weirdest smirk, not quite a smile, not a frown, but something in between as he looked at her as if she were a specimen butterfly he had just pegged to a corkboard.
Touching him, she was suddenly aware of a strange intimacy. He held her in it, as he wanted to. “You are quite beautiful.”
She did not speak.
“I know of you by reputation. Reputation as the best.”
“You knew them.”
“Knew who?” He remained in control, though clearly he was becoming impatient w
ith her questioning. “To whom are you referring?”
“The girls.”
“I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.” He gestured toward the door. “Now, I would like to stay to chat, but I have an appointment.” He glanced at his watch, breaking eye contact with her for the first time.
Cat felt like she had been in a trance, her head fogged over, her thoughts not right.
As he tried to pull away, she could feel his bicep flex. Hard, rigid, yet smooth, like the man himself.
She looked around at McGregor, who was talking to one of the plainclothes guys, then turned back to this man. She felt herself smile at him. He smiled back.
“I have every intention of finding him,” she said.
His arm twitched.
“I am sure you do.” His words were confident, monotone.
He paused. “Do you have any theories about why they were killed?”
“Why don’t you tell me?” she challenged him at his own charade.
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Tell me about Nancy Marsh. Was she some girl you picked out in the crowd, or did you know her?”
“This is ridiculous,” he said, his anger growing. He tried to pull away. Then, as quickly as the anger came, it dissipated, replaced again by the country gentleman. “I know I can trust you, doctor. I have seen your work.”
She shivered, watching his transformation.
He stared at her lips, mouth. “Perhaps we will meet again.” He gave her an intense, sincere look. Began to move away.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“My name is not important,” he said over his shoulder as he walked away.
It was as if she were caught in a nightmare with not a lick of peace. Cat was drained by the day’s events, yet as she ambled into her hotel lobby, a reporter was on her.
“Doctor, doctor, what is the connection between the victims? Did they know each other? Has the FBI turned up any leads on the assailant?”
Assailant, that was a nice word for a madman, she thought.
The Burning Man Page 8