“All ten fingers were seared beyond recognition. The amount of blistering and the burn patterns would seem to indicate that somebody superheated metal and pressed it against each of her fingers one at a time.”
“One at a time?” Reed asked, arching an eyebrow.
“Yep,” Pope said. “And it was done before her death too. Amount of blood and bruising shows her heart was still beating while it happened, amount of adrenaline in her system makes me near positive she was aware of it going on, too.”
“Jesus,” Reed whispered. “And the teeth?”
“Same thing,” Pope said, letting the hand slap down by her side. Taking one step forward, he jammed his thumb and forefingers between her lips, extending them apart more than an inch.
“See how puffy the gums are in here? Those things were removed.”
For the first time since Reed’s arrival Pope stopped short, not feeling the need to state the obvious or denigrate the remains of the girl any further.
Feeling the skin tighten around his mouth and eyes as he drew his face in, Reed considered what Pope had just told him. In just a matter of moments the mutilation to her body had been pushed beyond a mere erasure of her identity on into torture, a sadistic exercise over a helpless victim.
“Any other torture or abuse?” Reed asked, his words measured, relaying the acrimony that was beginning to flow through him, even if he had no idea where to aim it.
“Nothing sexual, if that’s what you mean,” Pope said.
It wasn’t, though Reed let him go, needing to hear the information now or in the near future anyway.
“No signs of sexual activity recently, no traces of semen anywhere in her system.”
“Any other physical abuse?” Reed asked. “Namely, defense wounds of any kind?”
“Not that I saw,” Pope replied, “but that’s not real surprising.”
Reed paused a moment, waiting for him to continue, and when no further explanation came prompted, “Meaning?”
“Meaning most defensive wounds are found in the hands,” Pope replied. “Broken nails or fingers, skin or blood under the nails, etc.”
At this Reed nodded, putting things together in his mind.
Had there been any signs of a struggle, they were likely destroyed by the mangling of her hands or washed away in the river.
“Not only that,” Pope said, drawing Reed from his thoughts, “but based on her blood work, I’m not sure she would have been able to fight back anyway.
“There were enough neuromuscular blockers in her system to keep her motionless for a week.”
Remaining silent a moment, processing the information, Reed swept his gaze the length of the girl. Lying prone on the tray she appeared almost childlike, all color having drained from her skin, giving her the impression of a doll.
In reality, a very short time earlier she had been subjected to unbearable agony, her body maimed beyond repair, left in a state so altered they could not even determine who she was.
“What was the official COD?” Reed asked.
“Cardiac arrest,” Pope said, “which let me tell you, wasn’t easy.”
Again Reed raised an eyebrow, waiting for the rest of the explanation to come his way without saying anything.
“Girl in her late twenties,” Pope said, “in good physical condition? That doesn’t just happen.”
Again Reed fell silent, trying to put all the new information into place. What little frame of reference he’d previously had had just been obliterated, replaced by a great many questions and no clear way to answer them.
“Everything in the report?” he asked.
“On the desk in Solomon’s office,” Pope replied, pushing the tray back closed, the young girl disappearing from sight.
With just a nod Reed headed for the door, barely making it back out into the hallway before the music kicked to life behind him.
Chapter Sixteen
There were more than a dozen girls all crammed into the room, ranging in age from fourteen to somewhere in the early-twenties. Getting them all into the same place had not been easy, The Muscle going to each of the three houses the girls shared and rousting them from their slumber.
Dressed in sweats and pajamas they were spread around the room, several still with makeup smeared across their faces, having not bothered to wash before falling into bed. Crease lines ran along the faces of a few, many still blinking away the grogginess.
Not one of them had said a word, many cowering from his presence, almost sprinting from bed at the sound of his voice.
Even if they didn’t know all the words he was using, they knew the tone well enough to know not to press him.
Not that they would have anyway.
That had been the first indicator that something was not right with the girl he had eliminated. It wasn’t the fact that she was clearly a bit older than the others, it was that she didn’t cower from him or The Businessman. She was not afraid of them, occasionally even made it a point to stare at them with a look that bordered on defiance.
Once she had given herself away in such an obvious manner, it wasn’t hard to start picking up on the other inconsistencies.
The way she looked over every room she entered.
The side conversations she was perpetually trying to drum up with the other girls.
The way she was clearly trying to pass herself off as speaking non-native English.
Who she was or what she was after The Muscle couldn’t be certain. There were too many girls for one man to be on them all every minute of the day, the system he had worked out a far better tool for enforcement than constant supervision could ever be.
If one of the girls disappeared, the others would be punished. It was as simple as that, had only been challenged once before, in Roanoke.
The response was exactly as he had promised, the results just as he had expected.
The key to the entire enterprise, The Muscle had found, was to instill in the girls a sense that they were completely dispensable. For his many faults, The Businessman had put together a veritable pipeline to China, there never being a shortage of girls from poor conditions looking to come to America for a better life.
And it wasn’t as if there would ever be a dearth of dirty old perverts looking to fulfill their wishes with Asian girls.
The fact that some were underage only escalated things for many of them, being able to check off two desires at once.
The thought of such a thing made The Muscle sick as he stood in the back of the room, waiting for the girls to take their seats. As many as possible squeezed onto the couch, a pair resting on either arm of it. The remainder went to the floor, sitting cross legged, all silent, making a point of not looking his way.
Watching their behavior, seeing them without the heavy stage makeup and gaudy outfits they wore at night, The Muscle couldn’t help but see them as anything but children.
Unfortunate, yes. Lucrative, for sure.
But children, just the same.
Why anybody would ever want to spend money on such a thing was beyond him, especially with so much better, more experienced options available for free.
Sliding his cellphone from his pocket, The Muscle checked the time, finding it to be just two minutes before noon. Knowing that the story would be the lead, he walked to the front of the room and folded his arms over his chest.
With the flaps of his coat hanging open behind him he knew he encompassed nearly the entire width of the front wall, his features hard as he stared down at the girls, every last one of them looking intently at their laps. A few of them fidgeted, a couple looked as if they might cry, but not one dared look up at him.
Good. Already it was working.
“We’ve told you all many times what would happen if you girls tried anything,” The Muscle began. He forced a bit more bass into his voice for effect, raising it a few decibels, almost barking at the girls.
“If you tried running away, or going to the police, or contacting anybody abou
t what goes on here.”
The number that looked as if they might cry doubled, the girls seeming to wilt before him, shrinking in size.
“Well, I want you to pay close to attention to what happens when you challenge that,” The Muscle said. “Jun might have worked at the club instead of on the street with you all, but she was not above the rules.”
He paused there, glancing to each of the girls, before snapping, “Do you understand?!”
Several of the girls flinched as The Muscle stood and glared, seconds ticking by in his head. The midday newscast would be starting any moment, meaning he needed to wrap things up, to cede the floor for the point of the gathering.
Right now a short distance away he knew The Businessman was doing the same with his girls, having all of the hostesses and dancers from the club crammed into his office, the flat screen on the wall tuned in to the newscast.
Regardless where the girls worked, whether it was indoors with The Businessman or strolling the corners under The Muscle, they were all subject to the same rules.
And they needed to know that.
The soles of his boots sounded heavy against the bare wooden floor as he walked to the side. Extending an arm, he produced a television remote and aimed it at the screen, the broadcast just beginning.
Seated behind the desk was a lone woman, her hair arranged into a cobra-esque mane around her head. She wore a lavender jacket and too much makeup as she stared into the camera, a look of grave concern on her face.
“Our lead story today,” she began, ”comes to us from The Bottoms, where a young woman was found floating in the Olentangy River.”
As she spoke the screen cut away to images of the girl The Muscle had done away with two nights before. At the sight of her he could again smell the scorched skin of her fingers in his nose, could feel her teeth breaking free of their roots as he worked her over, making sure that no identity could ever be ascertained.
The point was to make sure the girls received a message, that compliance was attained.
It was not to bring down any police activity on the organization.
A few of the girls gasped as they saw her laid flat on a table, her dark hair fanned out away from her. In the image her eyes were closed, her pale complexion already turning to blue, making it quite clear that she was gone.
“At this time police have not yet released the identity of the girl and are not known to have any leads.”
A final image of the girl flashed on screen before she vanished, the woman again taking center stage, moving on to a Christmas tree fire at a home on the south side. The Muscle let it play just long enough to ensure the story was over before cutting the feed off, the television going black, the only sound a few sniffles in its wake.
For a moment he considered walking back up and making another speech, but ultimately decided against it.
Those pictures had said everything for him.
Judging by the look of the girls, the message had been received.
Chapter Seventeen
The moment the newscast was over Grimes twisted his computer monitor back around to its original position, the front of it turned toward him, the solid black back panel of it facing Reed. He laced his fingers across his stomach and pressed his thumbs together tight, a frown on his face as he stared at Reed.
A similar look was plastered across Reed’s visage, the report bothersome as much for what was said – of that there was painfully little – but for what it represented.
Not only had somebody alerted the media of what had happened, they had let it be known that there were precious few details as yet available on the case.
“I assume I already know the answer to this, but I have to ask,” Grimes opened, “did you call it in?”
There was no hostility within Reed about the question, knowing what the captain said was true, that he did have to ask. As lead investigator on the case, it bore to reason that the chief conduit of information would be him, both with the captain and the media.
“No,” Reed said, making sure his tone conveyed how he felt about the situation. “Hell no.”
There he paused a moment, thinking about everybody that had access to the case, would have been able to provide the images that had just played across the screen before them.
“Who alerted you about it?” Reed asked.
“Dade, from downtown,” Grimes replied, referring to Oliver Dade, Senior Media Correspondent for the entire CPD. As the highest ranking civilian in the department his office was just down the hall from the Chief of Police in the downtown headquarters, the building just a handful of miles away as the crow flew, but light years apart in virtually every other way.
Only once before had Reed crossed paths with Dade, a case that had involved the Chief herself back in the spring. At the time his impression of the man was that he was little more than a spin doctor, his main responsibility to steer the department away from any negative press, truth be damned.
The fact that he had already called Grimes on this only served to heighten that initial thought.
“What are they saying?” Reed asked.
Raising his eyebrows just slightly, Grimes blew out a sigh. “The usual rhetoric. We don’t have to solve this thing today, but we at least need to put together enough evidence to prove to the community that we do have leads and are following them closely.”
Reed could feel the taste of bile rising in the back of his throat as he thought on what the captain said.
“And I suppose just issuing a statement as such won’t do it?”
“After that initial report saying we were left scratching our watch and winding our asses?” Grimes asked. “Doubtful.”
A slight smirk pushed Reed’s head back as he turned his attention to the floor, staring down at his partner for a moment. Sensing his movement she matched his gaze, the two of them holding the pose as Reed pushed through what he knew.
“Definitely didn’t come from me,” he said, “no way would Earl or his guys ever go to the press.”
“Right,” Grimes agreed.
“And as big an asshole as Dr. Pope is, I can’t imagine him doing something like this either.”
“Yeah?” Grimes asked, a bit of uncertainty in his voice.
“No,” Reed said, flicking his gaze over to Grimes. “Like I said, he’s a dick, but if he did this he would have made sure to get his picture on the news too.”
“Hmm,” the captain grunted, seeming to accept the information. “So who does that leave us with?”
A moment passed with neither saying anything, each processing what they knew, forcing everything into place as best they could. With so much still left unknown it was an incomplete picture at best, Reed trying to fit things together, to at the very least force enough together to form a general heading.
“Can you pull the report up again?” Reed asked, watching as the captain focused on him a moment before reaching out to rotate the screen.
As it came around he could still see the previous image frozen in place from their initial viewing. Maneuvering the cursor with his mouse, the captain slid the indicator on the time bar at the bottom of the screen back to the beginning of the clip and clicked play.
The segment began with local reporter Yasmin Leveritt seated in the middle of the screen wearing a lavender blazer and a string of white pearls. Glossy black hair was parted down the middle and tucked behind her ears, framing a heart shaped face with green eyes.
Speaking in earnest, she stared directly into the camera, setting the stage, before the angle shifted her to the side, an inset of the victim coming up alongside her.
“Stop it there,” Reed said, extending a finger toward the screen the moment the girl came into view.
On command Grimes clicked the same button in the corner to freeze the image, Leveritt coming to a stop with her eyes closed and her mouth half open.
“Look here,” Reed said, raising his backside up from the chair and moving so close the tip of his finger touched the
screen. “The background, behind the girl.”
Pulling his hand back a moment, he allowed Grimes to see what he was pointing at, the captain rising from his own seat and matching his pose on the other side of the desk.
“Is that plywood beneath her?” Grimes muttered, his eyes pinched up tight as he stared at the thumbnail image.
“Sure as hell looks like it,” Reed said, staring at the mottled brown backdrop, the girl’s black hair a stark contrast atop it.
“And her hair. Look how clean and shiny it still is.”
Again the captain fell silent, leaning forward another couple of inches to stare at the screen before whispering, “I’ll be damned. These were taken before the girl was dumped. Which means...”
His voice fell away as he pushed himself back up to full height, staring across at Reed.
“The killer alerted the press,” Reed finished.
“Son of a bitch,” Grimes spat, the word carrying so much venom it pulled Billie up from the ground, rising onto all fours, her head rotating between Reed and his captain.
Again the thoughts Reed had scribbled out before came to mind, that everything about the girl’s body and the way it was deposited seemed to indicate that she was intended to be found. Otherwise there was no point in stripping her naked, no possible reason for not weighing her down.
Whoever the killer was wanted her humiliated, wanted to make an example of her.
“You alright with Billie and I going over there right now?” Reed asked. “I’d like to speak to whoever fielded the email or opened the mail, whatever it was, see if they have anything useful.”
Nodding once, Grimes folded his arms across his chest, the frown on his face so pronounced it seemed to touch his jawline on either side of his mouth.
“You know they’re going to be all over you for details on this the minute you walk in there.”
Reed hadn’t considered that aspect yet, though he knew the captain was right. Regardless of the source, they had been given a golden lead on a story, would not let it go until they had a valid reason to do so.
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