by Mallory Kane
THREE HOURS AFTER HE’D arrived at the scene of the crime, Ryker was in the St. Tammany Parish Crime Lab pacing back and forth.
“Wearing a hole in my floor is not going to make me go any faster.” Dr. Dave Miller was in scrubs, standing over the autopsy table, examining Jean Terry’s fatal wound.
Ryker hated the autopsy room. The previous M.E., Dr. Crouch, who was eighty if he was a day, had treated the victims like sides of beef. The fact that Ryker had known a woman who had ended up on Crouch’s table hadn’t helped.
Dave was the total opposite. Every move he made was kind and respectful. It made a big difference to Ryker, who had never learned to view a dead body as a separate thing from the person she had been.
“What can you tell me about her knife wound?”
Dave was peering through a large lighted magnifying glass. “Not much. I need to cast it, to get a truer representation of the shape and path of the blade. See this V?”
Ryker reluctantly moved closer to the table and looked through the magnifier. “That upside-down V? Yeah. I couldn’t see it earlier, because of all the blood. What would make that kind of wound?”
“Oh, it’s a knife all right. Single-edged. That’s a common pattern. It’s called forking. The blade entered her back here,” Dave said, pointing at the right side of the wound. “And exited here.” He shifted his finger to the left side.
“What do you mean?”
“She was most likely on her feet. Her attacker was behind her, chasing her.” Dave pushed the magnifier away and raised his arm, demonstrating. “He stabbed her with a downward motion. The blade entered between her shoulder blades, angling toward the right. He held on to the knife as she jerked and probably stumbled or fell. In any case, the blade exited at about a thirty-degree angle from where it entered.”
“That’s forking? I remember the term from Forensics, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a wound like that.”
“How many stabbing deaths have you investigated?”
“Only one—two years ago. The weapon was a fireplace poker.”
“Messy.”
“No kidding. Especially after Crouch got done with it.”
Dave didn’t comment. Another point in his favor. Ryker wanted to bite his tongue. It was never good practice to talk about a colleague, present or former. “This upside-down V is typical of a stabbing,” Dave continued. “It’s unusual for a victim to remain still while being stabbed.”
“What are those marks on the edges of the cuts?”
“The knife’s guard. The attacker struck with force. He buried the blade up to the guard. It bruised the skin.”
“The guard? Is that like the hilt?”
“Yep. Hilts refer to swords, but it’s the same thing. It’s always good to have those marks on a wound like this. If I had a weapon to compare it to, that contusion could give us a match.” Dave pulled the magnifier down again and peered through it. “Now I need to concentrate.”
“Sure. I’ve got to write up my report. Let me know as soon as you know anything.”
“Definitely.”
As Ryker pushed open the door, Dave called out to him.
“Oh, Ryker, your victim had breast cancer.”
“Yeah?”
Dave nodded. “Double radical mastectomy, and evidence of radiation.”
“Is that relevant?”
“Hard to say. I’m curious to see if they got it all, and how much of the lymph nodes they got. I’ll order her medical records, and take a biopsy, just in case.”
“Thanks, Dave.”
Ryker headed to the precinct and wrote up everything he’d seen and done at the crime scene. Then, in a different document, he wrote his impressions of the murder, and how it fit his theory of a serial killer, from the date to his concern that the weapon used could be Nicole’s missing knife. He included Dave’s information about Jean Terry’s cancer, although he had no reason to think it had any bearing on her death.
Twice he was interrupted by phone calls. The first was from one of the deputies who’d run the kid in the other night, telling him that the boy was seventeen, had no priors, not even as a juvenile, but that he’d given them a tip that helped in a drug ring case they were trying to put together.
“Great,” Ryker had said. “Glad to help. Do me a favor and get your sergeant to tell my boss, will you?”
The deputy had laughed and said he’d try.
Then, before Ryker could get back to work, his twin brother, Reilly, called.
“Hey, old man.” Reilly’s nickname for Ryker referred to the fact that Ryker was older by seven minutes.
“Kid. What’s up?”
“I heard about the murder. Another notch on your serial killer’s belt, eh?”
“Yeah. I’m hoping this one will give me something concrete I can take to Mike.”
“Maybe so. Did you see Mom’s e-mail?”
“Nope. Been a little busy to follow the Delancey soap opera.”
“Well, it did ramble a bit, but the gist was reminding everybody about the anniversary barbecue.”
Ryker winced at Reilly’s implication. Their mother tended to ramble when she drank, whether talking in person, on the phone or via e-mail.
“I haven’t forgotten about the party.”
“Well, take a look at her message. She’s changing the date because Dad’s got to meet with his parole officer on their anniversary.”
Ryker cursed under his breath. How many ways could his dad’s skewed loyalty interfere with all their lives?
“I’ll check it,” he growled.
“So, you going to bring a date?”
“What do you think? If I can’t even check my mail, when do I find time to date?” Ryker tried to ignore the mental image of Nicole’s beautiful naked body that rose in his brain. “What about you?”
“Not only do I have no time, I have no prospects.”
“That’s sad, kid. Truly sad.”
“Yeah, well.” Reilly sent a few choice and colorful words across the airwaves.
“Same to you,” Ryker said, deliberately changing the subject from their dysfunctional family. “How’s SWAT?”
“Pretty slow right now. We’re doubling up on exercises and drills.”
“Good. See if you can learn how to aim better.” It was an old joke between them. Although they were identical twins, Reilly had inherited the sharpshooter gene. It was Ryker who’d had to work at his marksmanship.
“Right. Call me if you want me to take your handgun proficiency test for you.”
Ryker winced at the faint bitterness in his twin’s voice. Reilly had wanted the detective position that had been given to Ryker.
“Trust me,” Ryker said wryly. “You couldn’t shoot bad enough for them to believe you were me.”
The backhanded compliment earned a reluctant laugh from his brother. Ryker’s desk phone rang. “Hey, kid. I gotta go. Work calls.”
“Guess I won’t see you until the party, then. Bye.”
Ryker hung up his cell phone and picked up his desk phone’s handset.
It was Dave. “Ryker. I’ve got something for you.”
“I’ll be right there.” He sped over to the lab and ran to the autopsy room.
“Whoa!” Dave said as Ryker slammed open the door. “There’s no fire here.”
“Sorry. What’ve you got?”
“Take a look at this.” Dave pointed to a white elongated carving that lay on an exam table.
Ryker’s heart thumped when he saw it. It was the casting of the knife wound. Although the casting didn’t look like any knife Ryker had ever seen, he knew from the look on Dave’s face that he’d come to a conclusion about the knife that had been used to stab Jean Terry.
“Well?” Ryker said, not even trying to keep the excitement out of his voice.
“From the shape of the casting, and the appearance of the wound, I’d say the knife’s blade is around five and a half to six inches long. It has a curved return and a tapered bolster.
I’d be willing to bet the blade is flexible, based on the shape of the wound.”
“Return? Bolster?”
Dave grinned. “Yeah. I suddenly developed a need to know a lot about knives. If you’re so sure you’ve got a serial killer on your hands, I want to make sure I don’t miss anything that might help you prove it.” He pulled up a diagram on his computer. “Here’s a breakdown of the parts of a knife. See there? The return is basically the end of the blade. The bolster is a collar that joins the blade with the handle.”
“So what does all that mean? Can you identify the knife?”
“If I had a knife, I could tell you how it compares to the knife that was used. I will say, in the short amount of time I’ve had to do research, I’ve concluded that the knife used to kill your victim was a boning knife.”
“A boning knife?”
Dave nodded. “Usually used by chefs to debone meat. The blade can be stiff or flexible. This one was flexible.”
Ryker’s pulse pounded in his head. “This could be it.” He clasped Dave’s shoulder and shook his hand. “This might be my break. If that wound was made with a chef’s knife, it could be the knife that he took from Nicole.”
“Nicole?”
“Nicole Beckham. Last year’s victim. She’s a chef. The killer was scared off by her roommate, but he got away with one of her knives. I don’t know which one.”
“Bring her knives in. I’ll see if they match.”
“Dave, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your hard work on this. Will you be around today? Tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here all afternoon. Tomorrow’s Saturday. My daughter has a soccer game out of town.”
Ryker headed back to the precinct, feeling like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “Don’t get excited,” he warned himself, but it was too late.
If Nicole’s missing knife could be matched with that wound, he’d have the proof he needed to convince Mike that there was a serial killer on the loose in St. Tammany Parish.
Chapter Four
Ryker didn’t sleep a wink all night. He’d carried the four case files of the previous victims home with him, as well as copies of Dave’s findings about Jean Terry’s stab wound and Bill’s notes. He went through all four of the files again, comparing everything he could find to Dave’s and Bill’s notes as well as his own. By the time the sun came up he had reinforced his belief that the three deaths plus Nicole’s near attack were the work of one man.
He looked at his coffee mug in distaste. He’d drunk coffee all night while he’d worked. Now he needed water. Water and a shower.
He took his mug into the kitchen and exchanged it for a cold bottle of water. He gulped half of it as he walked back to his desk.
He sat on the edge of the desk and read over his notes one more time, including the victims’ birth dates, which he’d just matched up during the night.
October 25, 2006: Daisy Howard, born in October of 1985 (21), was stabbed with her fireplace poker in her apartment while her fiancé was out of town. Model.
October 22, 2007: Bella Pottinger, whom he’d dated briefly in college, and who was born on November 1 of 1976 (30), was killed by a single slash to her carotid artery. The weapon was a broken wine bottle from her wine cooler. Professor of administrative justice.
October 24, 2008: Jennifer Gomez, born in October of 1985 (23), a bank teller, was strangled with her phone cord.
October 20, 2009: Nicole Beckham, born in October of 1983 (26), barely escaped being stabbed with a knife from her chef knife case when her roommate came home.
October 22, 2010: Jean Terry, born in October of 1973 (37) real estate agent, was stabbed in the back with a chef’s boning knife on her patio.
He nodded as he gathered up the files and loaded them back into the box. If he could bring his chief proof that the knife stolen from Nicole’s chef knife case was consistent with the knife that had killed Jean Terry, maybe Mike would let Ryker connect the cases.
The trouble was, he couldn’t find anything in Nicole’s case file about which of her knives had been stolen. The CSI reports described the knife case, the engraving on the other knives and the fact that of the nine knives originally in the case, eight were still present and one slot was empty. But not a single report said anything about the specific knife that was missing. From Dave, Ryker knew that most chef knife kits contained between twelve and sixteen utensils, not all of which were knives.
He looked at his watch. It was after seven o’clock in the morning. He needed to take a shower. Then he’d head over to Nicole’s apartment to find out which of her knives the killer had stolen. It had to be the boning knife. It was the only thing that made sense.
He thought about his words to Mike.
It’s a shame that another woman has to die to convince you. Damn, he hated to be right about this one.
RYKER KNOCKED FOR A THIRD time on Nicole’s door.
“Nicole?” he shouted, rapping harder. His pulse was pounding in his temple, even though he tried to reason with himself. She’d probably gone to the restaurant, or shopping, or even out of town for the weekend. She hadn’t mentioned anything about it, but then, they hadn’t talked much. They’d been too busy with other things.
He looked over the landing down to the small parking lot attached to the building. He had no idea what kind of car she drove. Nor did he have her cell phone number.
He vaulted down the stairs and loped the three blocks from her building to L’Orage. The restaurant was closed. Shading his eyes, he peered through the glass front doors, then pounded on them. There were lights toward the back, where the kitchen was located.
He debated going around to the back and banging on the kitchen door, but before he made up his mind, he saw movement from the kitchen area.
As the figure grew closer, he saw that it was Nicole. Relief washed over him. No matter how irrational it was, he’d been worried that something had happened to her.
She glared at him as she unlocked the beveled glass doors. “We’re closed,” she said.
“I need your cell phone number,” he blurted.
Her brows knit and she cocked her head. “Okay. Maybe you’d better come inside.” She stepped back to let him in, then closed and locked the door.
The front of the restaurant was dark. For the first time, Ryker noticed that the windows were tinted, making the light from the sun appear a dark, watery green color. He’d never been to the restaurant during the daytime.
“What is wrong with you?” Nicole said. “And keep your voice down. The restaurant owner is in the kitchen.” Her brow was still knit in a small frown.
Ryker realized that to her, his actions might seem less like those of a detective than a needy boyfriend. He took a deep breath. He had a huge stake in this case he was trying to build. Another woman had died. He had to stop the killer before the next anniversary date.
“Okay. I went to your apartment this morning, and you weren’t there. I thought the restaurant wasn’t open for lunch on Saturdays.”
“It’s not, but we still have work to do.”
“I need to get your cell phone number, in case I need to get in touch with you.”
“That’s what the emergency is?” she said on a sigh. “I was afraid—”
“What? Oh, that something had happened with the case?” He nodded. “It has, but it’s not bad. Okay, it is bad, but I’ve got information that could be very good.”
“Nicole, is everything all right?” The speaker was a large black man in a massive white apron.
“Everything’s fine, Job. Thanks.”
Job scrutinized Ryker, then nodded. “You call me if you need me.”
“Job?” Ryker said, once the man had gone back into the kitchen. “Is that really his name?”
“Just like in the Bible,” Nicole said. “Job Washington is the owner of L’Orage. He watches out for me.”
“I’m glad. That makes me feel a little better. Now give me your cell phone number and take mi
ne.” Ryker quickly recorded Nicole’s number and gave her his.
“Tell me what this is all about. That call you got this morning—another woman was killed, wasn’t she? I saw something on the news.”
He nodded, and reached out and placed his hand over hers on the table. “She was stabbed.”
Nicole met his gaze, then pulled her hand away.
He knew what he was about to say was going to upset her, but he couldn’t think of an easier way to do it. Maybe if the information about the stolen knife had been noted somewhere in her case file. Then he wouldn’t have to tell her the specifics about Jean Terry’s stabbing in order to get the information he needed.
He took a deep breath and met her gaze. “Which of your knives was stolen?”
Nicole heard the suppressed intensity in Ryker’s voice. It matched the intensity in his blue eyes. But it was his words that ripped through her insides.
“Wh-which knife?” she stammered. She’d heard him loud and clear. She automatically parroted what he’d said because she needed time to absorb what his question meant. She had the feeling that the answer she gave was going to turn her world upside-down.
He nodded. “I know there are a bunch of different knives in your case. Which one did the intruder take?”
She opened her mouth to ask why, but her lips felt numb. She shook her head.
“Come on, Nic. Which knife?”
She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry. In that instant, she didn’t think she could have spoken if her life depended on it. Maybe it did.
“It was the boning knife, wasn’t it? Five- to six-inch flexible blade.”
She felt as though he’d hit her in the chest. That was how hard her heart was beating. She closed her eyes for a brief instant, trying to blot out the grisly images that suddenly rose in her mind. “Th-that woman was stabbed with my knife?” she rasped.
Ryker nodded and reached for her hand again. His warm fingers closed over hers. To his credit, he looked as if he’d rather be tortured than answer her. “That means—”
“It means the man who broke into your apartment and tried to attack you with your own knife has killed four women. You’re his only mistake.”