A crowd gathered around the bar that circled the grand piano. An older woman was holding court behind the piano waiting for her oversized sherry glass to fill with tips.
Lt. Dante Costello was old school. He didn’t trust journalists and he made that clear as soon as he sat down.
“I don’t even want to be seen here with you, St. James.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Tommy dismissed his concern with the wave of her hand. “But you’re going to want to hear what I have to say.”
Kelly leaned over and put his arm around Tommy protectively. “I wouldn’t have had her call you if I thought any of that was a problem.”
Costello frowned.
Last year, Tommy had been a pariah in the police department. The debacle had also nearly destroyed her relationship with Kelly when department officials suspected he’d leaked Tommy confidential police information. The newspaper’s coverage—and mistakes in coverage—of a woman murdered during a lunchtime walk had been a disaster.
It all stemmed from a police source slipping Tommy the name of a man under investigation in the sensational murder. The cops had issued a search warrant for a mentally ill man who lived neared the crime scene that had committed suicide a few days after the murder. Investigators, facing pressure from citizens and the mayor to solve the case, were hot on the man’s trail; sure, they had their guy. Tommy was sure, too.
Sure enough that the editors put the man’s name and picture on the front page of the newspaper. Armed with her tip, Tommy and Parker did a story that was splashed all over the front page of the Twin Cities News.
But they were wrong.
Everyone was wrong—The cops for going after the wrong guy and the paper for running with the anonymous tip.
Although police had suspected the man, they ultimately concluded he was not involved. But it was too late. His name had been tarnished. Tommy would never, until the day she died, forget the man’s father’s face when he told her his heart had been shattered by the story.
Tommy had tried since that day to make up for it, making sure every story she was involved with was accurate and did more good than harm. But she was still very gun-shy — and sensitive, knowing that some cops would never forgive her for her foul up.
“I see you have the good graces to blush a little,” Costello said, his tone softening as he saw red spread across Tommy’s pale white face. “Hey, I don’t blame you like the other cops. We were looking at that guy. Unfortunately, we were barking up the wrong tree.”
Tommy clamped her lips together, silently acknowledging the concession. But Costello still insinuated that she’d done something. She decided to let it go. For her boyfriend’s sake.
“So, what do you know about these kids?” Costello said, leaning in and lowering his voice.
A few old men playing squeezeboxes started up and the piano lady joined in. Tommy leaned over and told Costello about the strange call.
“I’m waiting to find out if the caller was right. The autopsy hasn’t been done yet, I guess.”
Suddenly, Costello stood up, downed his drink and put on his coat.
“Drink up, folks, we’re taking a little field trip. To the morgue.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE MORGUE OFFICES were empty as Lt. Costello unlocked the doors and led them through the dark hallway into the autopsy room.
It was always sobering for Tommy to see walls of shelves containing slivers of body parts: samples of the liver, heart, brain, urine, blood and bile. Tissue and body fluid specimens are usually saved for a year, but DNA samples were kept indefinitely for analysis and evidence reasons.
Mobile carts containing all the autopsy instruments stood against a wall at the ready. During forensic examinations, the carts were wheeled over to the gurneys. Most of the tools look like something from a kitchen or a garage at home. Along with a scalpel and circular electrical saw, there was a tray containing rib cutters, which were actually pruning shears. Some frugal forensic pathologists saved money by buying the garden tool instead of the more expensive autopsy scissors.
A large pair of forceps sat at the ready, used by the pathologist to grip organs and pull them out of the body. Although during one autopsy Tommy watched, the doctor just scooped them out with his hand. A thick knife was used to cut open the chest in a y-shape and to thinly slice specimens of each organ after they were weighed. There were also everyday looking scissors and a hammer with a hook to help pry the skull open once it was cut.
On the wall opposite the storage room was a viewing room with a large plate glass window for people who wanted to observe the autopsies but keep a barrier between them and the dead bodies.
However, most people opt to gather around the gurney and watch from up close.
“Let’s wheel him out and get him ready,” Costello said. “Pathologist will be here in a few.”
Tommy gave Kelly a look. This guy had pull. He got the pathologist out at eleven at night to do the autopsy?
A gust of cold air that came out of the walk-in freezer when Costello opened the huge door. Tommy got a glimpse of about ten gurneys with bodies draped with sheets before the door slammed shut behind him.
She wondered if you could accidentally get locked in.
Not much could be worse. Locked in a freezer with a bunch of dead bodies.
The stuff nightmares were made of.
Tommy had been inside the freezer before. It had two rooms: the inner room was a deep freezer for bodies that were sticking around for a while. All the Jane and John Does were in there, along with bodies that were identified, but whom nobody had claimed. Eventually they would end up in a county plot.
A few seconds later, Costello emerged, whistling and wheeling a gurney into the examination room. The body was covered by a light blue tarp.
“Come on big fella, we’ll just put you right here,” Costello said as he wheeled the gurney over so it rested against a built-in sink on one wall. Three other sinks lined the walls, all ready for their own gurneys.
A doorbell rang and Costello disappeared, leaving Kelly and Tommy and the dead body.
Costello re-emerged. A tall, gangly man with long, unfashionable hair and small wire glasses trailed behind him. He was looking down, but then when he looked up and saw Tommy, he froze, stopping dead in his tracks. He looked panicked.
Costello didn’t notice.
“This is the doc, name’s Mark Dickinson,” Costello said with a grumble. “Doc. This is Detective Kelly and Miss St. James. She was the one who alerted me to this. I know it’s not protocol but she has every right to be in on this.”
The doctor seemed to relax a bit. At least he quit staring at Tommy.
“Dickinson, I called you in because the last pathologist didn’t find anything. Said the death was natural, a drowning. Bullshit. I know a murder when I see one. Dickinson, I need you to help me prove that?”
He turned to Tommy. “This guy’s the best in town. Hands down. If there are any signs of foul play he’ll find it.”
The doctor’s neck flushed red. He put on a white lab coat and snapped on some rubber gloves.
“Thanks again for coming at the last minute, Doc,” Costello said, slapping the slight man on the back, which made him stumble a bit. “I want you to do a quick check of the kid’s windpipe.”
The doctor suddenly seemed excited. His eyes glittered and he licked his lips.
Maybe he’s happy now that he knows he wasn’t dragged out of bed for nothing, Tommy thought.
“We don’t usually cut into the windpipe during routine autopsies,” the doctor said. It was the first time, he’d spoken since he walked in. Something about his voice made Tommy look up. Then she realized what it was: His proper, extremely enunciated and confident words didn’t match his gangly, bumbling, awkward exterior.
Tommy knew his type. He was one of those incredibly smart guys who seemed incompetent in any social situation, but as soon as you set them in front of their true calling, their genius emerged—along with
their confidence. Tommy usually had a soft spot for guys like this and ended up being friends with them.
She scooted closer as Dickinson sharpened the long knife on a stone. Back and forth, he looked at her and then looked quickly away.
Without warning, the pathologist leaned over and slit open the neck and then the windpipe. As he did, something sprung from the windpipe, making Tommy gasp and jump back. Dickinson leaned over and extracted it with some tweezers, holding it up and for the first time, meeting Tommy’s gaze.
It was a coin. With a skull-and-crossbones on it, like it was part of a pirate’s treasure.
CHAPTER EIGHT
GETTING PERMISSION from the court to unearth the other dead college boys from their graves was not easy.
But eventually, either the families—or the courts—agreed.
After finding the coin, the pathologist ran some further tests and found that the boy had been poisoned. The substance had been very difficult to identify and had been written off as nothing by the previous forensic pathologist during the first autopsy.
The lieutenant was right—this doctor was good. Probably the best in town. Tommy was grateful that Costello’s gut instincts had proven right. But it had opened up a massive investigation and sent fear spiraling throughout the college campus.
On this sunny summer day, sweat rolled off the bare backs of the gravediggers who were waist-deep in the ground. A tractor had done the initial dig, but it took some precision work to unearth the coffins all the way.
Lt. Costello, standing sentry and supervising the grave digging, pretended not to see Tommy crouched across the manicured lawn, her long lens extended as she shot frame after frame of the big yellow tractor dumping mounds of dirt to get to the casket below while cheerful gravediggers flung dirt over their shoulders.
Tommy had agreed to sit on the scoop until Lt. Costello was ready to announce that he was looking at the dead college boys as homicide victims who were all targeted by the same killer.
So far, the autopsies had all revealed the same thing: death by poisoning and a coin stuck in the victim’s windpipe.
This body, the last one to be examined, would make it a serial killing spree with five victims.
Although, she had a very strong stomach, Tommy had opted to pass on the autopsies of the unearthed dead bodies, figuring it was probably a good idea not to press her stomach of steel — and her luck.
As she snapped off the last shots of the casket being loaded into the waiting coroner’s vehicle, Parker arrived.
“I think I got enough to run the story. We just need the green light. I can’t wait until Costello gives the okay to pull the trigger on this one,” Parker said, spreading his hands over an imaginary paper. “‘Serial Killer Targets College Boys.’ We’ll have national press here by noon that day.”
“Yeah. It’s a big one,” Tommy said, watching the black casket get lifted out of the grave. She swallowed. It was an ugly, awful story. Parents who had to bury their son would now be told their child had died terribly—that their son had been murdered by a serial killer who shoved a gold coin down the boy’s throat.
But it was an important story to tell. The casket was carried behind a small room made of plastic the police had erected near the grave site.
Parker shook his head. “I don’t like sitting on news, though.”
“I told you that was the only way. You agreed.” She shot him a dangerous look.
He threw up his hands. “I know. I promise. You can trust me. You know you can. You believe me, right?” He looked so earnest. But Tommy did trust him. He would keep his word. “Right?” He asked again.
“Yeah,” said Tommy distractedly, remembering how they got the scoop.
Parker seemed to remember that, as well. “Any more calls?”
“No. I still can’t figure out why he wanted us to know. Wanted me to know.”
“Easy,” Parker said. “He wants the attention. Serial killers are usually big babies that way. They love the thrill of getting away with something, of getting one over on the cops. They’re megalomaniacs.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Tommy said, her brow furrowed as she packed her camera in its bag and started walking toward her car. She wasn’t even a reporter. Why had the killer called her?
Back at the office, Tommy and Parker walked in together laughing and joking around over the memory of a story they had covered years before. Even before she turned around, Tommy knew whose eyes were boring holes in her back. Meg.
The other photographer had yet to forgive Tommy for taking her to the morgue. And she didn’t like Tommy and Parker working this story together. Not one bit.
Parker, in his usual playboy style, had dropped the young photographer in an instant when the serial killer story broke. He would always pick a story over a casual fling, which was one reason Tommy still liked him. He was a true journalist. Just like she was.
As Tommy settled into her desk, Meg snatched up her bag and huffed away. The photo editor, Martin Sandoval, turned to her.
“What’d you do to piss her off?”
Tommy shrugged and rolled her eyes.
“Well, I’d watch your back if I were you,” Sandoval said. “She’s been cozying up to the executive editor and publisher. Not sure what she’s scheming, but if I were you, I’d be careful.”
“Screw her,” Tommy said. “I’m not worried about her.”
Sandoval stared at her until Tommy looked up. He shook his head and said, “Well, maybe you should be.”
CHAPTER NINE
THE COPS WERE IDIOTS, he thought. They had the evidence. They had the coins and they had no idea what to do with them. What did he have to do, send them a signed confession? If he had known how easy getting away with murder was, he would have given in to his urges years ago, when he was a teenager.
At least they’d given him a name. About time.
He was the Mississippi River Killer.
Sort of lame. Maybe it had been cool thirty years ago with the Green River Killer, but now it sounded like sloppy seconds.
He’d hoped they would call him the Pirate Killer or, even better, Skull-and-Crossbones Killer. But the river killer? Lame. Maybe he’d have to make it easier for them to connect the dots. Prod them toward the geocache stash.
They would never catch him. He was smarter than they were. It was almost comical how inept the police department was.
And he had hoped that photographer would be smarter, but she was turning out to be a disappointment. He would have to work harder to make her find him. He wanted to see the fear on her face when she realized who he was. Just thinking about the terror racing through her white limbs made him excited.
She would be his. It wouldn’t be long now. He would make sure. She belonged to him.
It was time to let her in on it.
It was time to declare his true intentions.
CHAPTER TEN
THE NEXT MORNING WHEN Tommy got out of the shower, she saw a missed call on her cell phone.
Kelly had left for work when the day was still dark. But it wasn’t him.
When she played the message, wrapped only in a big towel, a chill raced through her that had nothing to do with the wet droplets on her skin. The message was brief.
The voice was that same creepy high-pitched one.
“I did it all for you. Tell those idiots at the P.D. to go back to the crime scenes.”
And then dead air for a few seconds before he hung up.
Tommy dropped her phone onto the floor as if it had burned her.
Within the hour, Tommy was seated in a small conference room at the police station with Lt. Costello, Kelly, and two other detectives.
Tommy hit the “speaker phone” button on her cell and then played the message.
Again, the voice sounded distorted, as if the caller were trying to disguise his voice.
“Son of a bitch,” Kelly said, scraping back his chair and standing. He began pacing the room.
“Calm down, sport,
” Costello said. “We’ll figure out who this creep is. Meanwhile, Kelly, why don’t you make sure you’re having sleepovers at Tommy’s every night until we find this sucker. And you know, you’re off the case, now? It’s too personal. It won’t stick in court if they show how you’re connected here and you make the bust, right?”
Because the Mississippi River Killer case was so big, homicide had brought in other detectives from narcotics and fraud to help out. Kelly had been hoping he could hone his skills for a stint on the homicide squad one day.
“That’s bullshit. I can’t back off now,” Kelly said angrily.
“Sorry Charlie. Them’s the breaks. And here’s the deal,” Costello said turning to the other detectives, “Because Tommy here is sort of a special case, being Kelly’s sweetheart and all, we’re going to do things a little differently to make everyone happy. Nobody higher up has to know, but I want you guys to take turns doing surveillance on her. For two reasons: Obviously to keep her safe, but also because if our killer is doing it for her, as he said, there’s a good chance he’s watching her. If you watch her, you might just find him watching her, got it?”
“Yes, sir,” both men said simultaneously.
For the first time, Tommy gave them a good looking over. Both were young — one redheaded and freckled enough to be her brother. The other was blond and buff with a weight lifter physique. The blond noticed her looking and winked, making her blush.
“Thank you very much, but I don’t need bodyguards,” Tommy protested. “I can take care of myself.”
“You heard me,” Costello said, dismissing her complaint. “It’s part of our strategy to catch our killer. Boys, once Miss St. James is home, you can turn her care over to Detective Kelly. I know he’s got the skills to handle her at that point.”
Tommy blushed at the innuendo. Or was she just extra paranoid because the beefy blond cop kept winking at her when nobody was looking?
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