Torn

by Cynthia Eden

  Young girl accuses famed geneticist father of murder.

  Did Dr. Marcus Palmer kill his wife . . . and destroy her remains?

  “Victoria . . .” There was a rough edge to Wade’s voice.

  Carefully, she pushed down the screen until it clicked back in place. “I guess Detective Black wasn’t the only one doing some research.” And it hurt. Wade had been digging into her past moments before—­

  Before what? You went to him, a dark voice reminded her. You wanted him. Don’t get pissed because he gave you what he wanted.

  Too bad. She was pissed.

  Her chin lifted as she marched for the door once more.

  But, suddenly, he was there. Face grim, Wade said, “I just need to know more about you.”

  A broken bit of laughter escaped from her lips. “Oh, Wade. You should be so careful what you wish for.” Her hand lifted and her fingers rasped over the early morning shadow that coated his hard jaw. “Because sometimes, you really might not like the end result.” Then she skirted around him. “We have a job to do. Let’s get it done.” Because that is what I have to focus on now. The job. Not my past. Not you.

  He didn’t call out to her, and she didn’t look back.

  Victoria grabbed her glasses as she passed the table in the outer room—­glasses that Wade had so carefully removed the night before—­and she could feel her hands shaking. But she didn’t know if they were shaking because she was angry.

  Because she was scared . . .

  Or because her careful control had totally been blown to hell and back.

  JUPITER TRAIL. THE place had been deserted when Wade and Victoria investigated it just a day before . . . but now it was filled with activity. Police cars. Yellow tape. The M.E.’s van.

  And onlookers. Wade didn’t know where the people had come from, but a crowd of about fifteen had gathered just beyond the line of yellow police tape—­tape at the entrance to the path.

  He made a point of looking at all the people there. He knew that sometimes killers came back to the scene and watched the discovery of a body. Certain perps got a real kick out of standing back and seeing their dirty work, up close and personal.

  Victoria bent to go under the police tape.

  “No, no, ma’am!” one of the uniformed officers called out. “You can’t do that!”

  She straightened. “I’m pretty sure I can,” she muttered.

  Before the young cop could argue with her, Detective Black was there. He rushed forward. “They’re with me, officer. The team I said I’d be calling in.” He lifted the tape and motioned Victoria and Wade forward. Victoria slid under the tape, but Wade hesitated.

  He looked at the uniformed cop who’d stopped Victoria. “You need to get the name and address of every person here. Make sure your crime scene guys get pictures of the crowd.”

  The cop, a young guy who looked about twenty-­one and was already sweating bullets, stammered, “Wh-­Why?”

  “Because you want to make sure your killer isn’t hiding in plain sight.”

  The young cop backed up, then shot a questioning glance toward Detective Black.

  “Do it,” Dace said immediately, voice curt.

  Damn straight the kid needed to do it.

  Satisfied, for the moment, Wade followed Victoria under the tape and down the worn path. No birds called out this time, and the rising sun beat down on them with every step.

  “When was the body discovered?” Victoria asked Dace, her voice devoid of emotion.

  “Just after dawn this morning. A jogger thought he’d found trash on the path, but it . . . wasn’t.”

  “We’ll want to talk to the jogger,” Wade said at once. He’d already told him on the phone. Hell, yes, he wanted to interview the man who’d found the remains.

  Dace glanced back at him. “We don’t know that this is related to your investigation yet.” There was no missing the caution in his tone. “I called you in because I wanted Dr. Palmer’s expertise, not because I thought—­”

  “That you’d found Kennedy Lane?” Wade finished. “Seriously, man, you don’t need to bullshit me. This is the same place she vanished. You told me it was nearly the same spot where her ear buds were found. And on the five-­year anniversary . . .”

  Dace faced forward. A small huddle of three men and one woman were up ahead on the path. “I can’t speculate. I need to know for certain.”

  And that was why he’d wanted Victoria.

  She had worked for all the major universities at one point or another, lecturing, analyzing . . . and even the FBI had consulted her on numerous cases. When it came to identifying remains—­especially remains that had been exposed to the elements for long periods of time—­Victoria was the best, plain and simple.

  “Dr. Palmer is here,” Dace announced as they closed in on the little group on the path.

  Two men immediately backed away. Wade saw the gleam of the badges clipped to their hips—­more ­detectives. A woman was still bent over, a short distance away from what looked like a large black duffel bag. But at Dace’s words she turned around, squinting up at them as the sunlight hit her face.

  “That’s our M.E., Dr. Eleanor Chambers,” Dace said.

  A few feet behind Dr. Chambers, a man was crouched, snapping pics of the remains. Crime scene tech. It was easy enough for Wade to place all the players at the scene.

  Dr. Chambers rose and nodded toward Victoria and Wade. Her hands were covered in white gloves. “It’s good to meet you, Dr. Palmer,” she said, addressing Victoria. “I’ve been an admirer of your work for a long time.” Eleanor Chambers was an African-­American woman in her mid-­ to early forties. Her heart-­shaped face and wide eyes were solemn as she stared at Victoria.

  “I . . . um, thank you.” Victoria tucked loose hair behind her ear. “What do you know so far?” The sunlight glinted off her glasses.

  “I was waiting for you,” Dr. Chambers said. “The bag hasn’t been moved at all. The guy who discovered the remains—­he said he didn’t touch it. Swears it.” Dr. Chambers motioned to the man with the camera, and he stopped taking his photos. He rushed forward and pulled another set of gloves out of a black supply box on the ground. “Thanks, Tommy,” Dr. Chambers murmured.

  Victoria pulled on the gloves while she stared down at the bag. “He covered her up,” she murmured. “He left her face exposed but he brought in the blanket so that her lower body would be covered.”

  Wade could see what looked like human hair blowing in the faint breeze. Hair and bones. Fuck.

  “We can use the hair for DNA analysis,” Victoria said. “We can find out if it’s . . . Kennedy or if it’s someone else.” She looked over her shoulder, glancing up at Wade. “She’s been buried.”

  He blinked.

  “The dirt. The decomposition. This body was put in the ground, then dug up and brought here.” Her breath whispered out, “It’s deliberate. A message.” Her gaze said what she wasn’t saying.

  I think it’s her. I think he brought her back because he wanted her body to be found on the anniversary of her disappearance.

  Wade’s gut clenched. One body returned . . . and a new woman missing. Was that why Melissa Hastings had vanished? Because the killer had decided it was time to go out and get a new toy?

  “I want to talk to the man who found the body,” Wade said again. Hell—­body. There was hardly any body left. Just bones. And it fucking infuriated him. If he was staring down at Kennedy Lane, then some sick bastard had destroyed her.

  And then he’d brought her back and dumped her body as if she didn’t matter.

  Dace motioned to him, and Wade moved with the detective back down the path. A final glance showed him that Victoria hadn’t touched the remains. She was just staring at the bag and the bones, her shoulders hunched.

  Does she even realize how much she gives a
way? When she worked her cases, Victoria tried to act as if the remains never bothered her, as if she were comfortable with them. But he knew the truth. Sadness always swept over Victoria with the discovery of each body.

  Another one we didn’t save.

  “This is Matthew Walker,” Dace said, pointing to a man who waited behind the yellow police tape, a man wearing black running shorts and tennis shoes. His phone was strapped to his arm, and ear buds hung loosely around his neck. The guy was pacing back and forth, nearly bouncing on his feet as he moved, but when Dace said his name, he immediately swung toward the detective. “He’s the one who found the remains. Dr. Walker, this man is Wade Monroe. He’s got a few more questions for you.”

  “I thought . . . I thought it was garbage.” Matthew ran a hand over his face. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. “I was pissed that someone had dumped trash on the path, but then I realized I was staring at a freaking skeleton.” His breath heaved out. “At first, I thought maybe it was a joke—­maybe some frat boys had lifted a skeleton from one of the labs at the college and dumped it out here.”

  Wade didn’t think this was any kind of joke. “You run this path often?”

  “Three times a week.” Matthew put his hands on his hips and rocked forward again, his body seemingly filled with nervous energy. “I try to get in the runs before my classes start at Worthington.”

  And they were right back to the university.

  Wade slanted a quick glance toward Dace. The detective nodded.

  “You work at Worthington?” Wade asked him carefully.

  “Yeah, yeah. I teach computer programming.” He rose onto his toes, seemingly trying to look over Wade’s shoulders. “Who was that woman with you? And what’s she doing with the body?”

  Wade didn’t answer.

  Matthew’s gaze slowly slid back to him. He must have read the suspicion on Wade’s face because he swallowed nervously and gave a little laugh. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Did you see anyone else when you found the remains?” Wade asked him.

  “No. The place was deserted. The bag was just waiting . . .”

  Waiting to be found. In just the perfect spot.

  Wade glanced back toward the path once more. He saw Victoria walking toward him. Her face was pale, her eyes so solemn.

  He wanted to rush to her. To take her pain away, because he could all but feel that pain surrounding her. But—­Victoria might not want that. Not while they were on a case. Working as a team. So he locked his muscles. He waited for her to come to him.

  And when she was close, he caught the light scent of lavender.

  “You’re the one who found her?” Victoria asked, staring at Matthew.

  He nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I’m Matthew Walker.” He offered his hand to her.

  Victoria looked down and seemed to realize that she was still wearing her gloves.

  Matthew dropped his hand quickly.

  “I’m Victoria Palmer.”

  “You’re a cop.”

  “She’s a doctor,” Dace cut in. “She’s consulting on this case.”

  Matthew looked confused. And still a little green.

  Her gaze darted to Wade. “We’re LOST.”

  “LOST? What the hell is that?” Matthew wanted to know.

  She turned to look back down Jupiter Trail. “It means we were her last option. Only we didn’t find her soon enough.”

  HER WRISTS WERE bleeding. So were her ankles. And she’d gone hoarse from screaming.

  Melissa had screamed for hours and hours, but no one had come to help her. She’d heard no sounds at all.

  Just her own broken voice. Then she was no longer able to speak.

  Her throat was burning. She was so thirsty and she . . . needed a bathroom. Desperately. Shame had filled her the first time she lost control of her body. She’d vowed not to do it again but . . .

  I’m trapped. Helpless.

  How many hours had passed? What was happening? Why was she just being left there?

  Locked away. Forgotten. I could starve to death in here. Is that what will happen? Is that going to be my end?

  She remembered being at Vintage. Being with Jim. Then . . . nothing. Darkness. A big blank in her mind. She didn’t know how she’d gotten here. Wherever the hell here is. She didn’t know who’d brought her to this place.

  Not Jim. She wouldn’t believe that. Jim wouldn’t do this to her. Jim loved her. Sure, his life had been hard. She knew about the abuse he’d suffered, but Jim hadn’t let that get to him. He’d been stronger than the pain in his past, just as she had been stronger. He wouldn’t do this.

  Tears were drying on her cheeks. She tried to cry out again but only managed a weak rasp.

  Screams weren’t working. She had to get loose. Get out.

  Her bloody wrists scraped against the rough rope once more. More tears slid down her cheeks at the pain but she kept pulling. Kept twisting her wrists as she tried to slide out of the rope. She would get out.

  She had a life waiting.

  “I HEARD ABOUT your work on the Lady Killer case,” Eleanor said as Victoria made her way around the M.E.’s office. The remains had carefully been transported just an hour ago, and Victoria had traveled in with Eleanor to complete the exam. “I can’t imagine what it was like, finding all those bodies buried in the sand.”

  The image of the dead flashed in Victoria’s mind. For just an instant she could smell the salt air of the ocean and she was back on Dauphin Island. The Lady Killer. One of the darkest cases that LOST had handled . . . and one that brought closure to many families. “I’m just glad we were able to stop the man who’d hurt them all.” For so long.

  She had her gloves on as she headed toward the remains. There had been hair on the skeleton at the scene, and she stopped now to examine it. At this point of decomposition, the hair was no longer attached to the skull. Actually, there was very little left other than the bones and the teeth.

  But the hair was still there, long, heavy locks that had been tucked behind the skull. The wind had taken those locks and seemingly blown them off the skull.

  Blond locks. Only Kennedy Lane didn’t have blond hair.

  Carefully, she picked up the hair and put it in an evidence bag. She was aware of the weight of Eleanor’s eyes. Victoria glanced over at her. “This is your city,” she said carefully. “You can be lead on this—­”

  Eleanor held up her hands. “I know who you are and what you can do with the dead. I want to watch you and learn.” She motioned toward the bones. “So, please, go right ahead.”

  Victoria nodded. “Fair enough.” Then she said what she’d suspected from the moment she saw the skeleton. “That hair . . . it belongs to someone else.” Bright blond hair. Clean hair—­not dirty like the rest of the skeleton. Staged.

  “Someone else?”

  Yes, and all of the coincidences were adding up to a sickening total in Victoria’s mind. “I think it would be a good idea to compare that hair to . . . to samples that belong to Melissa Hastings.”

  Eleanor just looked confused. “Who’s Melissa Hastings?”

  His new victim.

  Eleanor took the evidence bag.

  Victoria turned back to the remains. The body was obviously that of a female. “You’re a woman,” she said, dropping into her old habit of speaking directly to the victim. She knew it was creepy to others, but since Eleanor worked with the dead, maybe she’d understand.

  Maybe not.

  But when Victoria worked, she couldn’t distance herself. She couldn’t just see the dead. She saw the victim instead. “Your pelvis and your head tell me you were a woman. Probably a very pretty one.” Her gloved hands hovered over the skeleton’s face. “Rounded chin bone, less developed brow ridges, small mastoid process . . .” She pointed behind the ear area and cleared he
r throat as she said to Eleanor, “All signs say she’s female.” Of course, Eleanor would know that. Her gaze strayed to the victim’s mouth. “We’ll need to pull in dental records for Kennedy Lane. Because I can tell you already, this victim was Kennedy’s height.” They were dealing with a completely intact skeleton. Care had obviously been taken with her.

  He buried you. Kept your remains together. Safe.

  That hadn’t been the way Victoria’s father had worked. He’d known how risky it would be to keep a victim’s body close by.

  No body, no crime.

  So he’d made her vanish. But Victoria had known and she’d—­

  “Dr. Palmer?” Eleanor’s voice sharpened. “Dr. Palmer, is everything all right?”

  Victoria shook her head, sending those memories right back to the darkness of her mind. She wasn’t going to deal with them. Not then. “Let’s get the dental records. And let’s figure out . . .” Her gaze was on the skeleton. At the sightless sockets where eyes had been. “Let’s figure out what was done to you.”

  She leaned in closer. She could see dirt on the remains. Dirt and . . .

  Spanish moss? Yes, yes, that was some Spanish moss, attached to the rib bones.

  “Where were you?” Victoria whispered. “Where did he take you?”

  What did he do?

  Soon enough she would have answers.

  Victoria took a deep, bracing breath. For an instant her gaze slid toward the black bag that the remains had been discovered in.

  She remembered . . . A body bag. Being inside. Fear. No, terror. Pain. Can’t breathe. Can’t—­

  “How can I assist?” Eleanor asked.

  And the horrible memory vanished. Victoria’s heart was beating too fast. Her fingers held the faintest tremble. She clenched her gloved hands. She was not going to let her fear take over. That last case she’d worked in Louisiana—­it had gone to hell. But she’d survived. She hadn’t broken then and she wouldn’t fall apart now.

  Just a bag. That’s all it is. Just a bag.

  “Come over here,” Victoria said, and her voice—­amazingly—­came out sounding cool. Calm. “Let’s get a better look at these small indentions I can see on the bones . . .”