by N. D. Jones
“Dr. Peterson is waiting for us in the morgue,” Assefa said in a calm voice. “His preliminary report is ready, and I don’t want to be late.” Assefa stood, walked around his desk and to the closed door. He opened it, glanced out then back at Mike. “Let’s go, so we can get this over with.”
Mike rose slowly, his back and knees clearly bothering him, but Assefa cast his eyes elsewhere, feigning ignorance, a pride-saving gesture for an old man not ready to be cast out to pasture.
“What’s the rush, kid? The killer made sure they aren’t going anywhere.”
No. No, they weren’t. Callous but true.
Five minutes later, Assefa entered the morgue, instantly assaulted by its spiritual coldness. It held an eerie stillness that chilled him to the core, reminiscent of too many burials he’d attended before moving to the States. No matter how many times he’d rubbed up against the Grim Reaper, he never got used to it. He just wasn’t built that way. His older brother, Razi, viewed this as a weakness, “a character flaw not becoming of a male from the House of Berber.” Assefa disagreed, for only a person who despised senseless death, understanding the far-reaching tentacles of its toxic vapors, could battle the malignant forces of the world.
He said a brief prayer to Anubis, the Egyptian god of death and dying, to watch over the lost souls who’d found their way to the emotionally sterile room, where bodies, not people, were dispassionately dissected and discussed like a frog in a high school biology class.
“Dr. Hudson Peterson, you remember Special Agent Berber?” Mike said, having moved into the chilly room and in front of Assefa.
“Of course, I remember him. He’s the only one brave or crazy enough to work with you, Mike. Nice to see you again, Agent Berber. I just wish the visit were upstairs where it’s bright and warm and free of dead bodies, rather than down here where it’s…well, not.”
“I thought you liked working with the dead, Hudson,” Mike said glibly. “The dead can’t complain about your bad jokes or poor surgical skills.”
The medical examiner laughed, and Mike continued, one inappropriate joke after the other.
Assefa observed the interplay, the men obviously friends on some bizarre level only they could explain. They exchanged a few more jabs before the doctor returned his attention to the purpose of their visit.
Finally, if he had to listen to one more joke that began with “An ME and a homicide detective walked into a funeral home…” he would’ve been forced to rip their tongues out and throw them in a jar of formaldehyde.
“So, the FBI thinks our guy is a serial killer?” Dr. Peterson asked of Assefa, the doctor’s mind back on the case at hand.
“The victims in Maryland fit the profile of other victims up and down the East Coast we’ve documented over the last two years—Central Maine, Cape Cod, Manchester. There are probably more victims than we’re aware of, but this guy seems to go on a rampage for a few months, and then goes underground for a year or so before resurfacing in another locale. It’s made tracking him damn near impossible. By the time we realized a string of murders in a state weren’t random at all and were likely our guy, he’d sated his appetite and disappeared. If it weren’t for Mike and his ability to connect the dots, we would’ve been too late again. We need to catch the bastard before he disappears again, Dr. Peterson. So, what have you found?”
“As you’ve probably already surmised, the cause of death of the Ferrells mirrors all of the other vics. Look at this,” the ME said with a wave of a hand, encouraging the men to move closer to the corpse on the table.
Dr. Peterson pushed a gloved finger into a gaping hole in Mrs. Ferrell’s neck. “My finger is where her carotid artery should be. The carotid artery is a paired structure, one for both sides of the body. The right artery starts at the brachiocephalic trunk, whereas the left originates from the aortic arch in the thoracic region. At the lower part of the neck, the two carotid arteries are—”
“Speak English, Hudson, and stop trying to impress the kid with your medical lingo. Just in case you’ve forgotten, some of us haven’t been to medical school, or have an egg fuckin’ head,” Mike complained, his grumble unprofessional and so typical.
Unfortunately, this wasn’t the first time Assefa had witnessed Mike rudely rebuke a colleague. When Mike joined the force, a high school education had been considered good enough, not the bare-bones, minimal requirement it currently was. Over the years, his street smarts and military experience had made him a prime candidate for detective. And while Mike was by far the best detective in his unit, the younger detectives had letters behind their names, giving them knowledge of modern technology and forensics that Mike struggled to stay abreast of. And the fact that a few of those guys were just arrogant jerks who treated Mike like a useless relic did nothing to endear them to the older detective. Which, Assefa assumed, accounted for the detective’s bad attitude toward any twenty-something with a degree. Of which Assefa was guilty on both counts.
“So, what you’re saying, doctor, is that the Ferrells are missing the two common carotid arteries, and judging from the size of the hole the internal jugular vein and vagus nerve as well.”
Assefa stepped closer to the bodies to get a better look.
“Is the kid right, Hudson?”
“Yes, it’s as if she was mauled. Here, take a gander at this.” Hudson lifted Mrs. Ferrell’s right wrist to the men. “The superficial veins of the upper extremity have been ripped and partially removed. Here as well,” he noted, pointing to the torn and battered region around the pale woman’s heart.
Dr. Peterson covered the body with a white sheet, grabbed a manila folder off his spotless, metal desk and handed the preliminary report to Mike. “Here’s the most interesting part, assuming I can trust my calculations.” He gave the bodies a thoughtful look. “Based on their height and the size of their clothing, my estimation of their weight is probably ninety-five percent accurate.”
“What in the hell are you babbling on about, Hudson?” Mike questioned.
“Ah, yeah, right. Where was I? Oh, yes, while blood makes up about eight to nine percent of a person’s body weight, the Ferrells had far less when I examined them. For example, a woman weighing, like Mrs. Ferrell here, approximately one hundred and ten pounds, should hold about three point five quarts of blood. But when she was brought in, at least a half of that was missing. Even taking into account the blood found at the crime scene, that’s still not enough to account for how much is missing.”
Dr. Peterson scratched his head, black hair thick and a bit untamed. “Now what in the hell kind of killer removes almost two quarts of blood and takes arteries and veins as souvenirs?”
A sadistic one.
“Your results reflect the division’s findings, Dr. Peterson. Unfortunately, I’ve seen this before.” Too many damn times. Too many kills. Too many victims. Must stop him. Put the beast down like the rabid dog it is. “I am surprised the girl survived, though. The killer doesn’t give a damn about slaughtering children. It’s killed minors before, in the same brutal manner. ‘Mauled’ is a too-accurate word to describe what happened to the Ferrells and the other victims. Elizabeth Ferrell is one lucky little girl. She—”
“Lucky?” interjected Mike. “I don’t know how lucky she is after having her parents drained dry like a cold beer by some…some…fuck, I don’t even know what to call someone who would do something like that.” One thumb gestured in the direction of the two covered bodies. Then that thumb joined the others and formed an angry fist.
“A demon. A monster. The devil. Take your pick, detective, and you’ll be right. Elizabeth Ferrell may not feel lucky now, and she won’t for a very long time. But her life was returned to her. It has meaning, she’s too young to appreciate or see.”
“Oh, for the love of Nostradamus, don’t tell me you’re one of those people who believes everything happens for a reason and God works in mysterious ways or some other bullshit like that.”
“I see why you can’t keep
a partner. Who in the hell would willingly pair themselves with a foul-mouthed, I’ll-offend-anybody-who-doesn’t-think-like-me runt of the litter like you, Mike?”
Assefa knew all too well the pain of losing a parent at a young age and the subsequent despair that gripped a child’s heart and mind. Mike may have lived through a war and seen unimaginable atrocities, but he lacked spirituality, faith. And in times of great sorrow, faith was often a beacon of light, a critical support used to guide one through the cavernous melancholy of their mind. It happened for Assefa. He believed it could happen for Elizabeth Ferrell.
“My point is, Mike,” he said, swallowing the urge to choke the narrow-minded detective with his nineteen-eighties ketchup-stained tie, “We give our lives purpose, and without it, there’s no meaning or form to it. Parents help shape and give meaning to the lives of their children. Elizabeth Ferrell’s purpose for living was brutally taken from her, and she’s probably struggling to find meaning in what’s left, questioning why she survived and her parents didn’t. Don’t make light of something you know nothing about. I can only hope that your goddaughter can help.”
Dr. Peterson grinned and patted Mike on the back. “Well, they finally found someone you can’t bully, eh, Mike. And he can walk, talk and think at the same time.”
Mike smirked.
Dr. Peterson laughed, showing two rows of gleaming white, perfectly set teeth.
“You’re incorrigible, Hudson. I can’t have these kids thinking they can show me up. As it is, they call me ‘old man Mike’ behind my back. I hate being called old. I may not move as well as I used to, but I can still kick ass if I have to. And right now, I feel like kicking some serial killer ass.”
“Finally, something we can agree on,” Assefa said, his expression grave, tone as deadly as the killer they tracked.
The men walked to the door. Mike exited, but something compelled Assefa to turn around and take one final look at the serial killer’s handiwork. He had told Mike the truth. He knew precisely what he was hunting—a monster, a demon, but most assuredly not a man.
“Where’s your goddaughter? She’s late, and I don’t have all day to wait around for her when I could be interviewing the child myself.”
Assefa had spent the day gathering reports on the new case and cross-referencing them with the other Baltimore City murders. He and Mike had interviewed the Ferrells’ neighbors, none of whom had heard or seen anything out of the ordinary. No screaming, no breaking glass, no crying, no strange cars, no strange people, nothing, nothing, nothing but dead ends.
A complete waste of a day except for the man who found Elizabeth Ferrell walking in the middle of the street late at night. In fact, the elderly man had had to swerve his car to avoid hitting her.
“I thought she had been stabbed or shot,” Mr. Diamond, the neighbor, had said. “She was covered in blood when I managed to calm my nerves enough to get out of the car and see what I almost hit. My wife says I’m too old to drive. Bad eyes. Bad reflexes.”
Assefa already knew the girl was unharmed, Mike had taken care of that end of the case.
“Why were you out so late, Mr. Diamond?” Assefa had asked, pleased the Diamonds had invited him into their air-conditioned home, providing a temporary escape from the warm April day.
“I forgot to pick up my heart pills. The Rite Aid drive-thru pharmacy on Foster Avenue is open ‘til midnight. When you get old like me, son, the mind starts to go. Perhaps my wife is right. I probably shouldn’t be driving.”
“Well,” Assefa had said, taking a long drink from the refreshing iced tea, “if you hadn’t been out so late, who knows what would’ve happened to Elizabeth Ferrell?”
Now, a couple of hours later, he was wasting time at Johns Hopkins Hospital, waiting for some crackpot doctor Mike recommended. What was he thinking, trusting the detective to find a decent psychologist? And she had the audacity to be late. Didn’t she understand the importance of this case, the delicate nature of having a child as the sole witness to a murder? Of course, she didn’t, because if she did, the woman would be here, and he would be in the child’s room getting the information he needed.
“Calm your nerves, kid, and don’t even think about talking with that girl without a professional with you. Besides, it’s only ten after four. Sanura said she would come straight here after her last class, and College Park is at least sixty miles away. She doesn’t work for us. Try to remember that, big man. She’s doing me a favor and you better tone down that FBI attitude before she gets here.”
Assefa scoffed.
“Well, you can wait here. I’m going to take a walk.”
“You do that. And while you’re here, consider having a personality transplant.”
Assefa chose to ignore Mike’s attempt at mockery, deciding to stroll away from him in search of the hospital’s cafeteria or any Mike-free zone.
Fifteen minutes later, a bottle of cold water in hand, Assefa rounded the corner to see Mike sitting with an attractively slender, brown-skinned woman with shoulder-length hair that matched her complexion. He nearly dropped his drink.
And while Assefa’s keen eyes easily made out the woman’s—Sanura Williams?—black dress shoes and black-and-gray pinstriped business casual skirt that fell just above her knees, beautifully accenting long, well-toned legs, it was the wild energy from her aura which held him captive and made him her silent, willing prisoner.
CHAPTER TWO
Sanura rushed off the elevator and down a bright corridor with pink, blue, and yellow balloons decorating the walls of the children’s wing, bordering a mural of happy children in a park, the sun above affirming their special place in the world. An illusion, she thought, a beautiful illusion of how life should be for children. The truth, however, rested behind the closed hospital doors, where reality had long since claimed their innocence.
Her heels clicked with each long stride she took, her pace hurried, purposeful. Mike only sought her counsel on cases of a unique nature, counsel that was off the record. And she was late. She hated being late, and Mike would worry. Mike constantly worried. He’d probably already called her mother or Cynthia alerting them to her MIA status.
Sanura made a right onto another colorful corridor. At the end of the glistening hallway sat Mike, cell phone in hand and an all-too-familiar scowl gracing his aging features. As if sensing her presence, he looked up from his phone, and their eyes met. His face softened, reminding Sanura of the soft heart encased within the detective’s tortoiseshell of a body.
“I’m sorry I’m late. The beltway was a beast.” She bent to give Mike a heartfelt hug, her long arms circling his taut shoulders.
“It’s all right. I was just beginning to worry about you, but you showed up before I had a chance to call Cynthia.”
“You always worry about me, and I’ll tell you the same thing I told Dad and I tell Mom, I can—”
“Take care of myself,” he finished. “I know, but that won’t stop me from worrying, so you might as well accept it.”
She kissed Mike on the cheek and sat beside him in one of the wooden chairs lining the hallway, conveniently serving as a family waiting area.
“So, tell me about this case of yours, the girl, and what you need me to do.” Sanura leaned back in the chair and crossed her legs, seeking a comfort she knew wouldn’t last once Mike began.
Sanura listened to the detailed, unabridged facts of the case, having already read reports of the slayings in the Baltimore Sun. The gruesome murders headlined every local news program from the early morning news to the eleven o’clock evening news.
She nodded, listening intently to details about Elizabeth Ferrell’s horrific night. While Sanura enjoyed using her training to help Mike, she hated when the case involved children, which didn’t make any sense since she was a child psychologist. Perhaps that was it, she reasoned, as Mike regaled her with one morbid piece of evidence followed by an even more depressing fact. Perhaps it took a person who detested even the thought of an injured c
hild to be such a strong advocate for their rights and protection. Sanura wanted to help those lost souls. No, she needed to help them, free them from their pain, their misery.
So she sat and listened and fought the urge to cover her mouth and squirm in her chair when Mike described the crime scene photos his temporary partner had shown him earlier in the day. And just when she was about to tell him she didn’t need to know the coroner’s findings, a wave of energy slammed into her, shredding her concentration, dissolving all thoughts of the child and the case. The energy rode Sanura hard, forcing her eyes to close, mouth slightly parting, aura open and alert, searching for the source.
Deep breaths, Sanura. Deep, calming breaths.
With embarrassed concentration, she slowly opened her eyes. And a smiling stranger stood before her, a chilled bottle of water in his right hand.
Their eyes met, and another blast of energy assaulted her senses. She didn’t close her eyes this time and refused to look away. No, Sanura simply absorbed the magical energy, opening her senses and pulling the scent to her. It swirled about her, strong but gentle. And while it should have felt strange, as if her body had been invaded by a foreign substance, it simply felt—right.
The man’s eyes widened, almost as much as his nostrils when he inhaled deeply. Still, he only stared, gaze unwavering, eyes sparkling with unasked questions. Yeah, she had questions of her own, like, had he experienced the odd sensation too? Sanura didn’t know. But she had felt it, as strongly as she now felt the heat of his gaze roaming her body, slow and sensual, ratcheting up the indescribable energy between them tenfold. Damn.
Mike stood and placed himself between Sanura and the fine stranger with the most tantalizing aura she had ever sensed. Mike faced the man, his head craned up to meet the taller man’s eyes, a snarl seeping through his lips when he said, “We talked about this, remember what I said.”