Dead, Without a Stone to Tell It

by Jen J. Danna

  “You also have to wonder if they were hoping someone else might steal the car if it was just left there,” Paul suggested. “There’s not enough detail to see if they left the keys, maybe in hope of inviting some poor sucker to steal it. Then whoever had the bad luck to pick that vehicle would suddenly be linked to a potential kidnapping case if he got caught.”

  “That would nicely throw the scent off the real culprits wouldn’t it?” Leigh leaned in again, studying the frozen image. “But now we’ve finally got a concrete lead. The first one to the killer—” She stopped abruptly, and corrected herself. “—killers instead of the victims. We’ve not only got a picture of the killers, but of the car they used in the abduction.”

  Matt pointed at the image with an index finger. “The footage is pretty grainy, but it looks like a Chevy. Maybe an older model? The license plate is visible, but you can’t see the plate number on it. The print quality is too poor.”

  “We can’t see the plate number on it, but the computer forensics guys back at the office can work miracles. Juka, let’s mark it. What’s the timestamp on the footage?”

  “It starts at nine-oh-eight P.M. and is finished at nine-twelve P.M.,” he answered.

  “This is a copy. The original is back in the office.” She pulled out her cell phone. “I’ll call it in and see how fast we can get someone on this.”

  Matt reached out to briefly touch her shoulder, bringing her eyes up to his. “We need to get on this right away. All these other killings seem to be spread out over time but that was before we interrupted one of them at the burial site. There’s nothing to suggest they won’t strike again, and quickly. What if they take someone else?”

  “I agree. We need to move on this as fast as possible.”

  She speed dialed a number on her phone. “Richards, it’s Abbott. I need computer forensics to contact me ASAP.” She caught Matt’s gaze and held it. “We’ve got a break in the case.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY: GREENHEAD FLY

  Greenhead Fly:Tabanus nigrovittatus; a species of horse fly that is an important pollinator and lives its entire life cycle within the salt marsh. Females require a blood meal for egg production and development, and have a sharp bite that often causes a skin reaction.

  Saturday, 3:20 P.M.

  Boston University, School of Medicine

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Matt set the T-6 vertebra back into place on the table just as his cell phone rang. He hurriedly stripped off his gloves to dig into his lab coat pocket. “Matt.”

  “It’s me.” Leigh’s words were hurried. “I’m at headquarters. The computer forensics boys managed to tweak that security video enough that we could get a license plate number from the footage. We’ve compared the owner’s Massachusetts driver’s license photo against the security footage. Even as grainy as that footage is, we’re sure it’s the same man—a Mr. John Hershey. My warrant just came through, so I’m organizing backup and heading there now.”

  Matt froze. “Heading where?”

  “The registered address on his driver’s license is in Middle-ton. I’ve checked the tax records—it’s owned by Hershey’s father, who is currently a guest at one of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts’ correctional facilities following the beating death of his wife. There are no other children, so our guy should be the only occupant.”

  “I want to come with you.”

  There was dead silence on the line for a moment. “Matt, I didn’t call to invite you along. I was just keeping you in the loop. This is a police investigation. It’s a job for cops, not scientists.”

  “What if that’s where Tracy was killed? If you find weapons there, I might be able to identify them. We’ve gotten a lot further with the investigation in just the last few hours and we’re compiling a list of bone trauma. I can tell you if there are implements there that might have been used on the victims.”

  “I don’t know …” But her words dragged, and Matt knew she was at least considering it.

  “I was helpful to you out on the Essex coast,” he reminded her.

  “I can’t deny that. Okay, if you can get up there fast enough to meet us, you can come along. But you have to stay back until we’ve cleared the residence, and Matt … no gun. Your word on that. We’ll have more than enough firepower as it is.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said obediently and with only a touch of sarcasm. “I’m on my way right now. What’s the address?” He quickly scribbled down the street address she recited to him. “See you there in forty minutes.”

  Saturday, 4:03 P.M.

  Hershey residence

  Middleton, Massachusetts

  After pulling his SUV to the curb behind Leigh’s Crown Vic, Matt met her on the grassy side of the road in front of a fenced yard.

  He quickly scanned the area. It was a quiet neighborhood with large, leafy trees and single-family clapboard dwellings on large lots, well separated from their neighbors. At the far end of the street, several uniformed field troopers were climbing out of their patrol cars. “Which house?”

  Leigh pointed down the street. “The brown bungalow a half block down on the right.”

  Matt fell into step beside her, noting she now wore a light blazer covering her holster and had tucked her shield into the waistband of her jeans.

  The brown bungalow seemed starkly out of place. The other houses on the street were neat and bright while the bungalow shouldered an overall air of shabbiness. Overgrown shrubs surrounded the screened-in front porch, weeds grew in between the concrete paving stones in the front walk, and paint peeled from worn siding. Instead of the paved driveways next to the other houses, this house had a simple gravel off-street parking area.

  “Check out that car,” Matt said quietly, pointing to the older model navy Chevrolet sedan parked near the house. “It’s the same one.”

  “They know the body’s been found, yet the car they used for the kidnapping is still sitting in the driveway? I don’t buy it. They should be a hundred miles from here.” She quickened her pace. “I’ll go in with the backup. You wait out front. I’ll let you know when it’s safe to come in and check the place out.”

  Leigh smelled it the moment she peered in through the dingy screen at the scattered mess of discarded shoes, old newspapers, and rotting garbage inside the porch.

  Blood.

  Human excrement.

  Death.

  She opened the screen door and stepped into the porch. The smell was even stronger inside the enclosed space. She signaled the backup team to stay behind her, then moved forward.

  Leigh quickly scanned the interior of the porch, focusing on one of the front windows. It was unscreened and open several inches.

  Then she heard it. A low moan of pain.

  Alarm shot through Leigh’s system. Someone was alive in there.

  She pulled her gun from its holster, before pounding sharply on the door. “Mr. Hershey, it’s the Massachusetts State Police. Open the door.” Silence. She knocked again. “Mr. Hershey!”

  She tried the door handle—locked. Moving quickly to the open window, she pushed her hands under the window sash and pulled upwards. With a screech, the window reluctantly gave way. Putting her back into it, Leigh opened the window further until the gap was wide enough for her to scramble though. Throwing her leg over the sill, she squeezed her body through the gap.

  She threw the deadbolt to open the door for her backup team, then scanned the gloomy interior. There were no lights on; only late afternoon sun filtered through filthy glass. The front room was full of worn furniture and strewn with old pizza boxes and dirty glassware. A cluster of beer cans sat around a high-tech computer in the corner.

  There was no sign of anyone injured or dead.

  Gun held ready, Leigh moved through the room and down the dim hallway. She moved cautiously, with her back to the wall, every sense on alert. The acrid, metallic smell that permeated the house was all too familiar.

  Another low moan. Down the hall and to the righ
t. Her pulse kicked in response.

  She came to a doorway and peered in cautiously, thankful for the armed men behind her.

  The kitchen seemed deserted until her gaze tracked downwards to see the toe of a shoe. She slid around the doorway, gun extended, about to call out her designation when the words died in horror in her mouth at the sight before her.

  A young man, maybe still in his teens, lay on the floor inside a spreading pool of blood.

  Or what was left of him …

  There was blood everywhere—on the linoleum in puddles and smears, soaked into what was left of his clothing, dripping off deathly white skin. There was even a bloody handprint on the wall.

  Her eyes dropped down to the man and her stomach rioted in protest. She tamped down brutally on the need to vomit.

  She’d been a detective with the Essex unit for years and this surpassed anything she’d seen before. But the similarities to Tracy Kingston were starkly obvious.

  Someone had viciously attacked this man and then left him to die. His shirt was in bloody tatters beneath him and his jeans were pulled down below his hips. His groin was a mass of shredded tissue. He was covered with stab wounds, ragged slashes, and tears. A deep bloody furrow ran from his jaw across his cheekbone toward the opposite eye, nearly amputating his nose. A straight diagonal slash from rib to hip opened the abdominal cavity and loops of pink intestine burst through the layers of fat and skin. A plethora of small stab wounds, each oozing blood, were scattered over the torso, and flaps of skin had been peeled back leaving long, weeping wounds that dripped blood onto the floor. A knife was buried to the hilt in the man’s inner thigh, blood flowing freely around the blade. A bloody serrated knife lay on the floor beside the body next to what Leigh was sure were the man’s testicles.

  Her gaze moved up his body, back to his face. To find his eyes fixed on her. Eyes that were filled with fear and pain.

  Holy mother of God, he was still conscious.

  Leigh bolted from the kitchen and through the living room to the front door. “Matt! I need you now!”

  When Leigh frantically called his name, Matt didn’t pause. He sprinted up the walk and burst through the open front door, only half-aware of the cautious looks the backup team shot his way. “Leigh!”

  Her voice came from down the hallway. “Here! Matt, hurry!”

  He raced down the hallway and skittered around the corner into the kitchen.

  Straight into hell.

  Torn flesh. Exposed organs. Bone and cartilage gleaming through bloody tissue. Dully imploring eyes with dilated pupils.

  He wasn’t prepared for the memories that crashed over him, and couldn’t fight them off as they rose to swamp him, hurling him back into the heat and blood and pain.

  Then Leigh was in front of him, grabbing his arms, giving him a harsh jerk. “Matt! I need you to stay with me.” He blinked, focusing on her frantic expression. “Help is coming, but they’re minutes out. You were a battlefield medic. You must know how to keep him alive until the paramedics get here.”

  He pushed away nightmare and memory as instinct and training took over. He fell to his knees beside the wounded man, cataloging the damage and trying to decide what to deal with first. “He’s bleeding out. He needs a surgical team, but I’ll do what I can to slow the bleeding until we can move him.”

  Leigh took up a position in the doorway of the kitchen. “We interrupted whoever did this. We need to check the house in case he’s still here.”

  Matt nodded distractedly, his attention on the man in front of him. “Throw me your jacket.” Leigh stripped out of it quickly, tossing it to him before disappearing down the hallway toward the back of the house.

  Matt pressed two fingers against the right side of man’s throat, searching for the carotid to feel just the faintest of flutters under his fingertips. The man was fading fast. Matt’s gaze flicked up to see terrified eyes focused on him. “Stay with me. Just hold on. Help is coming.” Quickly undoing his belt, Matt wrapped it around the man’s thigh, several inches above the knife, tightening it until he detected a slowing in the stream of blood seeping around the blade.

  With his bare hands, he started to tuck intestine back into the abdominal cavity so he could close the lips of the gaping wound. But the more he pushed in, the more slippery, bloody loops slid out. Cursing quietly, Matt tried again. Finally, he took Leigh’s jacket in his bloody hands and rolled it up to lay it over the wound, applying pressure as he quickly scanned the other wounds, deciding what to do next.

  He jerked as the ear-splitting shriek of furniture sliding across the floor came from down the hall.

  Leigh had just cleared the first bedroom when the screech split the air. Sprinting after the sound to the end of the corridor, she tried the closed door, but it only opened an inch before jamming against something solid. One of the men joined her and they each pressed a shoulder against the wood, pushing hard, hearing the satisfying squeal of furniture legs skidding over wood from the other side. When the gap created by the open door was about eight inches wide, Leigh carefully peered in, leading with her gun, two members of the backup team right behind her.

  The small bedroom was completely deserted. But the window on the far side of the room was open, the dingy drapes that hung on either side blowing in the light breeze.

  Leigh squeezed her body through the tight space before bolting to the window just in time to see a slender dark-haired man, dressed all in black, sprinting through the back yard.

  “Stop! Police!” she yelled as she scrambled through the window, landing lightly on the ground four feet below and tearing after him. He was easily forty feet ahead of her as she wove through the trees, and she lost sight of him as he shoved through a row of cedars that separated this yard from the next. She desperately poured on all her speed.

  She crashed through the same bushes herself, woody branches scraping her face and arms as she determinedly pushed through. She could hear the footfalls of the other officers behind her as they spread out, widening the search. She scanned the yard and disappointment rose in a wave as nothing moved. Then she caught sight of a movement to her right, toward the back of the lot, and the chase was on again.

  Ahead of her, the man scrambled over a six-foot wooden fence at the end of the yard. For just one instant they made eye contact as he hung at the top of the fence. There was victory and a manic joy in his eyes, an almost unholy light.

  She fired, aiming for his hip, trying to wound him, to slow him. But she was still running and the bullet harmlessly struck the fence post inches below him. Then he was gone, rolling out of sight.

  But the sound of his laughter carried clearly over the top of the fence.

  “Goddamn it!” Leigh ran harder, holstering her gun to take the fence at a running leap, scrambling ungracefully over the top and landing in a heap on the other side. She rolled quickly to her feet, to find herself in a parking lot behind a small strip mall.

  From around the corner came the unmistakable sound of a motorcycle engine starting up with a roar.

  The mental image of the black garbed cyclist with the dragon helmet crashed over Leigh. She’d been feet from him yesterday and hadn’t sensed the danger until it was too late.

  Leigh sprinted across the parking lot, rounding the corner just in time to see him crouched over the same dark motorcycle, rounding the corner into traffic, the now familiar image of the screaming dragon emblazoned on his helmet. He swiveled his head to see her standing in the parking lot.

  He raised two fingers to his brow in mock salute. And then he was gone.

  She pulled out her phone, panting raggedly between sentences as she put out a bulletin for all units in the area, local and state, with a description of the motorcycle and the best description she could give of the suspect.

  She wasn’t hopeful that anyone would catch him. On a motorcycle, he could easily vanish among back roads and fields until the heat died down.

  Leigh simply stood there, beaten, her heart poundi
ng wildly and her breath heaving. Forcing herself to push the frustration, anger, and disappointment aside, she whirled and ran back toward the house.

  Leigh came in through the front door at a run and skidded to a halt inside the kitchen.

  Matt sat back on his heels, his bloodied hands lying limply in his lap. Her jacket still lay across the victim’s abdomen, one sleeve sliding off to sag into the puddle of blood and gore that surrounded him. There was a belt around one thigh, a tourniquet to stem the flow of blood from the femoral artery. He had used pieces of the man’s shirt as field bandages to try to stem the unending streams of blood.

  But it was no use. The man’s open eyes were dead and lifeless.

  Leigh spared only a small glance at the man they had tried to save as her focus shifted to Matt. He was abnormally pale and his eyes were glassy and fixed sightlessly on the body. She knelt beside him in the blood, noticing for the first time the discarded syringe in the puddle beside his knee. She took his cold, sticky hands in hers where they lay unresponsive in her grasp. “Matt?” No response. She squeezed his fingers and tried again. “Matt!”

  His eyes slowly rose to hers, horror and memory locked in their depths.

  A shout from the front of the house made her break eye contact. Heavy, thudding footsteps came toward them and then paramedics followed two troopers through the doorway of the kitchen. They, too, recognized that they were too late.

  Letting go of Matt’s hands, Leigh rose to call for Dr. Edward Rowe and Crime Scene Services.

  Their killer had struck again. They had a ninth victim on their hands.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: TIDAL FLATS

  Tidal Flats: Nearly flat intertidal surfaces that are sheltered from direct wave action by a barrier beach.

  Saturday, 7:12 P.M.

  Lowell residence

  Brookline, Massachusetts