by Leslie Wolfe
She raised the bottle at him before taking another mouthful. “It’s Dr. Sharp, by the way. Cheers.”
He looked at the ceiling for a quick moment, the male, head-involved equivalent of an eyeroll. “Of course, it is,” he muttered. “I knew that. I know a few things about you.”
Kay gestured at one of the chairs around the kitchen table and sat on another. “Sit at your own risk,” she said quickly, embarrassed by the state of the furniture. “Again, what can I do for you? Seems to me you understood everything I wrote in there quite well.”
He scratched the back of his head with a quick gesture. He seemed a little uneasy now, maybe frustrated too.
“You’ve worked serial killers before?” he asked, avoiding her eyes.
“Yes, eight wonderful years of putting away the region’s sickest, most disturbed murderers,” she replied, adding some dramatic flair to test his reactions.
He remained serious. “Well, I haven’t. All my murder collars have been simple, mostly motivated by greed or passion, jealousy, B&Es gone bad, stuff like that. But twisted minds like this one… I can’t get myself to think like him, that’s all. And I’ve been a cop for thirteen years.”
“Where, in Texas?”
“There, then here,” he replied. “I moved up here a few years ago.”
“Why?” Kay asked, the first question she was really curious to know the answer to. What would make an Austin cowboy choose to live in a place covered in snow for six months a year?
“Ah, long story.” He waved her curiosity off with a hand gesture. “But never mind me,” he said. “Tell me how to get in that killer’s mind, that’s what I need to know.”
She stood, pacing the space between the kitchen and the living room, and he allowed her the thinking time. “It’s not that simple, Detective.”
“Call me Elliot,” he replied, “at least that should be simple enough.”
She smiled. “Elliot, okay.” She continued to pace, wondering how she could condense her years of training and experience into information she could convey while he finished his beer. Because there certainly wasn’t going to be a second bottle.
Taking her seat back at the table, she made her decision. “Why don’t you tell me about the victim, Elliot? Let’s start there.”
Kay expected some hesitation, being how law enforcement is usually reluctant to share details of an active investigation with just about anyone, but Elliot replied right away, making her wonder if that wasn’t really what he’d come prepared to do from the start.
“The victim is Kendra Marshall, twenty-eight years old, a legal assistant from New York City. She was here on business. She was going to meet with the Christensen family on a matter regarding an inheritance. She never made her appointment.”
“Thanks,” she said, thinking what little that information told her, despite it telling her something he had probably missed. “I could start by telling you things like you have a predator who doesn’t stalk, but rather seizes the opportunity and has a quick and effective manner to grab victims without being seen. He has mobility and means. He knows how to cover his tracks, and his victim’s tracks as well. He’s local, or used to be, because he knows his way around this place.”
“Yeah, that’s useful,” he replied.
“Or I could tell you I spent years training to be a doctor in psychology, and more years in the field, working these types of cases, seeing these monsters operate, interviewing them, understanding the sociopathic mind better than most law enforcement can.”
“You’re saying I can’t do my job worth a pinch of sundried manure?” he reacted, pushing himself away from the table with a loud screech of wooden chair legs dragged against ceramic tiles. “Is that what you’re saying, Dr. Sharp?”
“Whoa, hold your horses, cowboy,” she replied, laughing, entertained by the textbook display of bruised male ego. “All I’m saying is that teaching you how to think and feel like him would take time, and with this killer, you don’t have the luxury of time. He will kill again, and soon. So, I’m offering to work this one with you.”
“In what capacity? You’re not a fed anymore.”
“True, but I’m an educated and experienced civilian, a qualified consultant, for lack of a better word.”
“How much do you want to charge the taxpayers for this gig, Dr. Sharp?”
“Nothing, I’ll do it for free. And you can call me Kay.”
He frowned, wrinkling his forehead while he considered her offer.
“Why Kay? What’s wrong with Katherine?”
“Ah, long story,” she replied, hoping he’d give it up.
“I got time,” he said, staring at the remaining inch of beer on the bottom of his bottle.
She pretended she didn’t notice the unspoken request. “I just hate the name, that’s all. I only kept the initial, K. That reads Kay, right?”
“Who would hate a name like Katherine?” he muttered, then downed the rest of the beer and placed the bottle gently on the table. “Thank you. Where do you want to start?”
“At the coroner’s office, as soon as possible.”
“How about now?”
Speechless, she gestured toward the empty bottle, but he didn’t even blink. Resigned, she reached for her jacket. “Perfect, I’ll get us some breath mints.”
Six
Autopsy
Elliot wandered through the overgrown lawn looking for something in particular, while Kay pretended to lock the front door. She didn’t have a key; Jacob probably hadn’t locked that door in years.
“There,” Elliot said, then bent over and picked a few leaves from a small bush. “Black peppermint,” he clarified, putting one of the leaves in his mouth and chewing enthusiastically. “Does wonders to hide the smell of beer. Want some?”
“I’ll pass,” she replied, climbing into his unmarked SUV.
“Your loss,” he replied cheerfully, tossing the remaining leaves into his mouth.
“You know your herbs,” she commented, unwilling to let the silence ignite the wrong questions. He was smarter than he let on, and that kind of intelligence was dangerous. Cops like Elliot often developed a strong intuition, a mix of instinct and rapid thought process that steered them in the right direction despite the apparent lack of evidence. Last thing she needed was Elliot Young snooping through her life.
“Yes, I do,” he replied, turning onto the state highway, on the way to the county morgue. “It’s a shame you don’t, being that you grew up here. How come?”
“I know some,” she replied cautiously. “I just don’t happen to like herbs that much. Not all of them, anyway,” she added, looking at the in-dash clock and knowing it was going to take him a while to get to the morgue, on the other side of the mountain.
“Tell me one you like,” he asked.
“I like eastern hemlock tea,” she replied. “I love that tea on a cold fall morning.”
“Hemlock is a tree, not an herb,” he laughed. “I thought you knew the difference, Dr. Sharp.”
She turned and saw the amusement in his voice was matched by a genuine smile and not the least bit sarcastic.
“No kidding,” she laughed. “I like rosemary too,” she added. “If you were a shrink you might go off on a tangent exploring my fascination with needle-shaped leaves in plant life.”
“But I’m not, so I won’t,” he replied. When he spoke, she could pick up a hint of his minty breath. “But I will ask you, for the sake of passing the time, why are you really back here, Kay?”
She pressed her lips together until all the oaths that flooded her mind stopped being at risk of blurting out of her mouth. When her anger subsided, she remembered she had experience talking serial killers into revealing their burial sites or the names of their victims. For sure, she could handle a deputy from Texas, regardless of how smart he was, and throw him off whatever scent he’d picked up.
Start with the truth was a valuable trick she’d learned early in her career. Build an iceberg: the truth
you can use above the surface, where it can be easily seen, verified, then everything else under the water surface, where no one will think to look. With that, you can sink any suspect’s ship. Those had been the words of her mentor, the head of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, Aaron Reese, during one of the advanced criminalistics lectures he sometimes gave to agents who showed promise in the field.
Of course, Aaron Reese would’ve been appalled to learn she was about to use his deflection techniques on a fellow law enforcement officer.
“My brother is the only family I have,” she said eventually, just as Elliot was starting to frown. “He’s the kindest man you’ll ever meet, and he wouldn’t intentionally hurt anyone.”
She paused, seeing if Elliot would be satisfied with that tiny morsel of truth she’d laid out in front of him.
He wasn’t.
“And?” he pressed on. “Still, why are you here?”
“I’m looking into what caused him to be given such a harsh sentence over a bar brawl. Those happen every night, as far as I recall, and nobody gets sent to jail over it. No one died; no one was even injured badly or needed stitches. It just doesn’t make sense.” She looked at the trees lining the highway, taking in the rapidly moving landscape for a moment. “He won’t do well behind bars, Elliot. He’s not equipped for life on the inside.”
“And how is your presence here going to help him, exactly?” he asked.
It was a legitimate question, yet it deepened her concern. “I’ll be close to him, taking care of his house, of what few assets he has in this life. I’ll speak to the judge; I’ve already asked for an appointment with him. And I’ll speak with the warden, if he’ll see me.”
“You could’ve been better off staying an FBI agent to do all that, don’t you think? Why not take a leave of absence, instead of leaving the bureau?”
Huh, she thought, that went way beyond a casual question. It was time to turn the tables on the nosy deputy.
“How do you know I’m not? Have you checked up on me?” she asked calmly, forcing her voice to not convey the anger and angst she was feeling.
“I made a few calls,” he replied casually.
He sounded unapologetic, well within his rights, and maybe she’d caused that with her damned letters. If she’d only minded her own business, she wouldn’t have one Elliot Young sniffing at her heels. But she couldn’t do that; not when a killer was out there, most likely getting ready to kill again. Men like him never stopped killing.
“And what have you learned?” she asked calmly, forcing herself to smile with feigned amusement.
“Quite a lot,” he replied. “I learned you left the FBI with minimal notice, but it would take you back in a heartbeat. I heard you’re the best the San Francisco field office has seen in decades, no other profiler having the capacity to understand criminal behavior like you do. And I figured I had a valuable asset by my side, one who chose to write anonymous letters instead of talking to me directly, for some twisted reason.”
“And?” she asked, holding her breath.
“Hey, I’ll take what I can get, and I’ll be grateful for it,” he replied, keeping his eyes on the sloped, winding mountain road.
Again, she didn’t believe him for one second. She’d failed to throw him off her scent.
“Your turn now,” she said. “Why are you here, in Mount Chester, instead of Austin? Did you develop a sudden interest in winter sports?”
He clenched his jaw briefly, enough to let Kay know she’d hit a nerve.
“I screwed up on a case,” he eventually said. “Back in Austin. My partner and I, we should’ve told our boss to reassign us; well, it’s a long story. And I left. I wanted the stink of that screwup as far away from me as possible. If I’d stayed in Texas, it would’ve clung to me like muck on a pig.”
“Strange,” Kay reacted. “You don’t strike me as the kind who runs away from the fallout of his mistakes.”
“We’re here,” he announced, his words followed by a poorly disguised sigh of relief.
He held the door for her as they entered the county morgue, then, after a brief exchange with a lab technician wearing green scrubs, they entered the autopsy room.
“Hey, Doc,” Elliot said.
She thought she recognized the silhouette of the man washing his hands at the stainless-steel sink. When he turned around to meet them, she smiled widely.
“Dr. Whitmore,” she said, “what an unexpected surprise.”
He apologized with a gesture for his dripping hands, and proceeded to wipe them on a towel, but Kay didn’t care. She hugged him, and enjoyed the brief warmth of the bear clinch the doctor offered in return.
Stepping back, she noticed Elliot’s surprised frown in passing, and she studied the medical examiner like one does a good friend who’s been absent for a long time.
Dr. Whitmore had been the San Francisco County medical examiner for the first five years she’d been an FBI agent, their paths crossing often at crime scenes and in the autopsy room. She’d heard he’d retired and regretted not having had the opportunity to say goodbye, but here he was, just as she remembered him, leaning over the autopsy table, quietly whispering notes in his voice recorder and speaking soothingly to the victims as if they were alive and eager to be left alone, to find their peace at last.
He’d aged, but gracefully. His beard was entirely white, and so was his hair. He hadn’t lost his hair like most men his age. He’d added a couple of pounds around his waist, but seemed the same as she remembered him, including his dark-rimmed glasses and jovial smile.
“It’s been what, three years?” she asked.
“Yeah, about that long,” he replied. “Time flies. How’s life in San Francisco?”
“Same old,” she replied. “Busy and more interesting than we’d care to have, but that’s what happens when you’re in the state that holds the crown for the most serial killers in the entire nation. I thought you retired,” she added.
“I did,” he replied. “I am retired. We have a house here, up on the mountain, by the ski slopes. There aren’t many deaths happening here, thankfully, but when there are, they call me in. It’s usually tourists getting in accidents; nothing like this.”
“How about the county coroner?” Kay asked.
“You know just as well as I do, coroners aren’t even required to have a college degree, not to mention an MD. But medical examiners are a different story. This case isn’t one we can fumble with.”
She approached the stainless-steel table, where a woman’s body lay covered with a white sheet. The warmth of the reunion dissipated abruptly, leaving behind the chill of metallic instruments and X-rays affixed to the wall lightbox. She felt a shiver travel up her spine as she drew near the girl’s body, as if the coldness that had engulfed her was somehow touching Kay’s soul.
“What can you tell us about her?” she asked, her eyes drawn to the dark locks of hair that had slipped from underneath the sheet.
Dr. Whitmore uncovered the victim’s face gently, peeling down the sheet until her neck was entirely exposed.
“This is Kendra Marshall, twenty-eight years old,” Dr. Whitmore said, his voice loaded with sadness. “The official cause of death is asphyxia by manual strangulation.”
Kay could see the discoloration where the killer’s hands had crushed her throat, leaving bruising behind, and petechiae around the girl’s eyes.
“Broken hyoid?” she asked, knowing that a fracture in the hyoid bone was an indicator of how forceful the strangulation had been.
“Yes,” he confirmed. “Crushed trachea, shattered hyoid, actually. The killer was enraged.”
“When did she die?” Elliot asked.
He’d stepped closer to the exam table, looking a little pale in the fluorescent lights.
“I’d put time of death about ten days ago, based on decomposition and insect activity,” Dr. Whitmore said. “It’s been cold, the perfect temperature to slow the decay of a body, and that widens the margin of error. I�
�ll write it down as eight to twelve days ago, to be sure.”
“I was about to ask if the autopsy report is done yet. I believe that means it’s not?” Kay asked.
Dr. Whitmore sighed. “This is not San Francisco, and I’m not an official ME anymore, just a retiree no one rushes tox screens for. This is a preliminary report. I’ll narrow down time of death in a couple of days.”
Kay was starting to see how different things were, now that her badge was gone; the absence of her official status made a world of difference. It was probably the same for the retired doctor.
“Tell me everything you can, and we’ll work with it,” she offered.
He peeled off the white sheet completely, leaving Kendra’s bruised body fully exposed under the strong lights. Pale. Vulnerable. Cold.
Kay repressed a shudder.
“Whoa,” Elliot reacted, stepping back as if he’d seen a ghost.
Kay found his reaction strange. He must’ve seen dead bodies before, including Kendra’s at the crime scene. She took a mental note to ask him what that was about, maybe on the drive back.
Kendra’s body was covered in bruises and cuts, some older and some perimortem. The same type of bruising Kay saw around her neck was visible on her arms, her shoulders, her thighs.
She pointed at a cluster of such bruises, yellowish, almost healed. “Are these his fingers?”
“Exactly. He forcefully held her in place and handled her roughly. She was beaten, sexually assaulted, and tortured extensively for days; I’d say at least one week. That’s how long it takes a bruise this deep to heal and turn yellow.”
“Any assailant DNA?” Elliot asked.
“None, I’m afraid. He was thorough and careful about leaving any trace evidence on the body. I’m thinking he might’ve washed her body before burying her. The blanket she was wrapped in was moist, but that could’ve been from soil seepage.”
“Not even under her fingernails?” Elliot insisted, earning himself a quick, disapproving glance from the medical examiner.
