Skin Deep

by Gary Braver

  “That’s our thought, too.”

  “Another thing, you might want to look into the medical history of the suspects. Some researchers argue that many serial killers suffered some form of brain damage when young, usually to the right hemisphere, which accounts for lack of empathy. So if you can get access to early medical records, look for any brain trauma—blows to the head, repeated concussions—or neurological abnormalities.”

  Steve nodded. “Back to his MO shifts. On the third killing the guy gets cagey and decides to set a stage for suicide, maybe because of the Novak protest. It’s possible he knows something about police procedures.”

  “Hard not to. Serial killers today know about crime scene forensics. They’re C.S.I.-savvy. They’ve seen the shows and movies. They’ve read books. They know police work. They know how to cover their trail and disguise the scene.”

  “As opposed to the killer who leaves his signature to taunt the cops, to say, ‘It’s me.’”

  “Yes. This one isn’t playing hide-and-seek with police. He just can’t help but leave his signature behind.”

  “Yet he stages a suicide—intentional or accidental—to cover that the deaths are serial murders. And that’s what I keep circling back to—what I don’t get.”

  “I’m not sure. Unless there are other elements he didn’t want discovered.”

  “Like a telltale signature—something that is all his and he doesn’t want found.”

  “Possibly. And maybe that’s what you’ll have to figure out to stop him.”

  “So I’m looking for someone whose mother had red hair, wore black stockings, and who knocked him on his head a lot.”

  She laughed. “Now, aren’t you glad you stopped by?”

  He gave Jackie a hug. “Thanks never comes close.”

  “It’ll do.” She squeezed him back.

  Steve closed the door behind him. The evening was warm and a crescent moon made a crooked smile over the trees. He headed for his car, thinking that under that moon was a killer who hunted women who looked like his wife.

  As he pulled away, Jackie’s words reverberated in his head: “Maybe the question is what brings them to him.”

  82

  It was around ten the next morning when Steve reached Cynthia Farina-Morgan.

  He said he had a few questions to ask her about her sister. In front of him were four photos of Terry—the backyard shot and three taken off the Mermaid Lounge Web site. “I hate to bring it up again, but the investigation is ongoing and we have some a few more questions.”

  “Certainly, Lieutenant.”

  “Your brother positively identified Terry at the Medical Examiner’s office. Understandably he said that it didn’t look like her.”

  “It was Terry, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, of course. But I’m just wondering if I could e-mail you some recent photos of Terry. After you’ve taken a good look, I’d like to call you back and hear what you have to say.”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “Please just take a look then let’s talk.”

  She agreed and he e-mailed her the photos. While he waited for her to call back, he dialed Dana on his office phone. There was no answer. She had caller ID and had decided not to take his calls. Shit.

  Five minutes later his phone rang. “Are you sure these recent photos weren’t doctored?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a pause. “Then she had cosmetic surgery.”

  “Based on what exactly?”

  “Based on the fact that her face is different.”

  “What specific changes do you see?”

  “Well, it’s obvious. Her cheekbones are more prominent and her eyes are more open and her brows are slanted upward. But I don’t believe it, because she never told me, which wasn’t like her. This is a major change, yet she never asked my opinion.”

  He heard hurt in her voice. “Did she ever mention going to a resort spa called Pine Lake Resort in Muskoka, Ontario? It would have been early May. She was up there for a week.”

  “No, she never told me. Why was she up there?”

  “We’re not sure. She apparently went alone and without telling anybody. She also paid in cash so there was no paper trail. Some of the staff remembered her and identified her, but they say she kept a low profile because her face was bruised and swollen.”

  “What?”

  “Our first thought was that she had been in a car accident, but that didn’t check out. Then there was speculation that she had been abused by someone.”

  “Was she?”

  “Not that we know of. And that raised the possibility that she had had significant facial surgery and went there to recover.”

  A long silence filled the line. Then Mrs. Morgan said, “All I know is that three months ago she told me she had decided to get breast implants. But she said nothing about facial reconstruction, and that’s what these photos look like.”

  They did, and that thought had crossed his mind when he first saw the Mermaid Lounge photos.

  “Also, that kind of work would have cost thousands of dollars. And she said nothing.”

  “That’s unfortunate, but she clearly wanted to keep it secret.”

  “So what does that mean? How does that relate to her death?”

  “I’m not sure that it does.” But his gut was telling him otherwise.

  83

  They were all wrong. Every one of them.

  The Hewson woman had the proper eye structure and cheekbone width, but the brow was too wide and the chin was Munchkin-sharp. Plus her eyes were the wrong hue and her hair had a tawdry fire.

  The Murphy woman had a good length of jaw that calibrated closely with the lower half of the computer template. But her brow was ridged and low and she had refused implants in her cheeks, which would have filled her out and approximated the heart shape he had sought.

  The same with the others—there was always some element that threw off the balance and fell short of the perfect 1.618 phi ratio of cheek-to-cheek width to crown-to-chin length—all had fallen short, including the Farina woman, whose brow was too wide.

  He had Lila’s complete portfolio from the days she had modeled hot chocolate to the promo portraits that Harry Dobbs had sent around. He also had some glorious color and black-and-white close-ups like those of Greta Garbo by Clarence Sinclair Bull or Grace Kelly by Yousuf Karsh. Those he had scanned and downloaded into his computer; then using software developed for 3-D facial recognition by security firms, he converted the images into digitalized templates based on approximate calibrations of her skull structure and the dimensions of her eyes, nose, brow, and jawline. That rendered a skeletal frame upon which to create a muscle-based morphing capability to determine where potential candidates were lacking—where flesh should be enhanced by implants, where bone may need to be reduced, where features needed to be fleshed out or reduced to achieve the exact likeness. In the ten years since he had looked for potential candidates, he found only a handful of women who came close—whose faces did not need a suspicious amount of refashioning to satisfy his needs.

  And over the decade, he had made some changes but not in his requirements. No, some things were absolute. Changes in technical matters, strategies, and approaches. He had also, of course, made some basic changes in himself, divining the true source of his needs and the solution for gratifying the imp in his soul. A gratification that was nothing short of destiny.

  And this Markarian woman was the answer.

  84

  It wasn’t until one o’clock that Saturday afternoon when Steve finally heard back from Chief Nathan David of the Wellfleet P.D. Because the file photo of Marla Murphy was grainy, Steve had asked for a sharper, more recent likeness. David had placed the request with the family, saying that the case had been reopened. The family obliged and sent him a photo taken shortly before her death. It was the image attached to Chief David’s e-mail.

  Steve opened it with no expectations. He clicked on his printer then got
the Stubbs file to include it. When the printer was finished, he looked at it.

  At first he wasn’t sure that David had sent a photo of the same woman. So he opened the file and removed the grainy original. In that one she had blond hair. But what caught his attention was that her features looked different. Her nose looked broader and longer, her eyes were more squinty, and her lips were thinner. It was the same woman as in the grainy older shot. But the face in the recent photo was pretty—voluptuous, more balanced in features. She also had red hair.

  He picked up the phone and called Chief David and thanked him for the photo and pointed out the difference in the woman’s likeness. “I’m just wondering if this is the same woman, Marla Murphy.”

  David put the phone down to get the files. Then he returned. “Yeah, it’s Marla Murphy.”

  Steve strained to keep his voice neutral. “Any report that she had cosmetic surgery?”

  “Not that I know of, but I see what you mean. I thought it was just the hair.”

  “Can you tell me the next of kin?”

  He named the deceased’s sister, a Sarah Pratt-Duato.

  He thanked David and hung up. For a few seconds he sat there looking at the photos and feeling a strange premonitional awareness build. Then he called the number David had given him for Marla’s sister. “Is this Sarah Pratt-Duato?”

  “Yes.”

  Steve identified himself, said the case had been reopened and that he had a few questions for her.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  He explained the discrepancies in the photographs. “Did your sister have cosmetic surgery? She looks younger and her features don’t match up.”

  After some hesitation she said, “I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore but, yes, she had some face work done. She was in a profession that puts a premium on physical appearance, and she had yielded to the pressure.”

  “A news reporter.” Steve felt a small shudder pass through him as if the temperature of the room had dropped twenty degrees.

  “Yes. As you can imagine, to make it in that profession you have to move from station to station, and all they seem to hire these days are superstars or pretty girls. And she was not a superstar.”

  “Of course. And what procedures exactly did she have done?”

  “The usual for women her age—Restylane injections, eyelid work, abrasion therapy. She also had a nose job even though I don’t think she needed one.”

  Steve’s mouth was suddenly dry. “Do you know when she had the cosmetic surgery?”

  “A few weeks before her…her murder.” She gave emphasis to the word.

  He named the approximate dates.

  “Yes, about then. I don’t remember exactly since she kept it quiet until I saw her and it was obvious. Of course, in her business, nobody wants to know. It’s just the image that’s for sale.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’d like to add that my sister did not commit suicide and wasn’t into any perversions as reported.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Thank you, and I hope you get the so-and-so.”

  “One more question if you don’t mind. Do you know the name of the surgeon?”

  “She never said.”

  Steve thanked her, put the phone back onto the cradle, and just sat there looking at the last photograph of Marla Murphy before she was strangled with a black stocking.

  She looked like Dana with red hair.

  85

  “I love your hair.”

  Aaron Monks opened the door to the black BMW to let Dana inside. He had arrived at three o’clock that Saturday dressed in cream—chinos, windbreaker, matching shirt, light shoes. Because it was a cool afternoon, Dana had on slacks and carried a fleece-lined jacket and cap for the ride.

  Aaron drove them to the marina where Cho and Pierre met them on the Fair Lady. She joked about her being his own Eliza Doolittle.

  “Yes,” he said, and chuckled politely.

  The harbor was overcast, so they sat in the aft salon where Aaron put out some appetizers and a bucket of champagne. The cabin doors were left open for the view.

  Aaron was particularly animated, like a kid on an outing. He made small talk. He did ask if she had kept her promise not to reveal their date, and she had. Not even Lanie knew. Especially Lanie who would have told everybody in greater Boston, probably called the News Seven hotline. So she wouldn’t have to make something up, she had turned off her cell phone.

  They took their drinks as the boat pulled into the harbor. Dana loved the Boston skyline, which looked like a miniature in shades of gray against the dark clouds. She hoped it wouldn’t rain. Aaron said it was not in the forecast. In fact it was only a passing cold front and clear all the way down the eastern seaboard. He’d be heading that way the next day for Martinique.

  The boat moved south toward Cape Cod at a high speed. It was a very powerful boat that made for an exhilarating ride.

  In about an hour they passed Plymouth Harbor where the Mayflower had landed. But instead of heading northeast toward the lower Cape, Pierre put the boat on a course toward the canal. He cut the speed and they passed under the Sagamore Bridge, then the Bourne Bridge, and out to open water, passing Falmouth and Woods Hole on the right. Aaron kept up a running commentary about some of the places they were passing.

  At a couple of points on the trip Dana asked where they were going. Each time Aaron acted mysterious, saying “You’ll see.”

  They passed a series of islands in the Elizabeth chain. Aaron pointed out Naushon and several smaller ones all owned by the Forbes family. Then they passed Pasque Island, which was covered mostly by poison ivy, and Penikese where a reform school was located. Then Cuttyhunk, which was open to the public. To the east lay Martha’s Vineyard, its lights twinkling like fireflies against the clouds. They continued westward toward a low-lying hump that emerged from the surface like the back of some prodigious sea creature.

  “Homer’s Island,” he said. “Known as the exclamation point at the end of the Elizabeth chain.”

  “What’s there?”

  “Vita Nova. A place I’ve leased.”

  As they grew closer, Dana made out lights of the harbor and buildings along the ridge beyond. They continued along the northern flank where large gracious estates hugged the bluffs.

  After several minutes, they pulled into Buck’s Cove above which Aaron pointed to Vita Nova, a large dark mansion that sat high on a bluff overlooking the U-shaped cove and the large dock where they tied up. At the end of the dock was a wooden staircase that led up to the house. Except for a small dinghy, no other boats were in dock and none moored in the cove.

  “Where are your friends?”

  “They’re already here.”

  “Oh, island residents.”

  “Some are, and others will arrive by ferry on the other side. Cars aren’t allowed on the island, so everybody gets around by golf-cart taxis. It’s quite charming.”

  “But I thought you’d said there’s only one ferry a day that comes in the morning.”

  “They’re coming by private ferry.”

  “Oh.”

  86

  Steve called Dana, but she wasn’t home. Nor did she answer her cell phone. He left a message to call him as soon as possible.

  He stared at the blowups of Corrine Novak in disbelief. The last shot before her death showed a red-haired younger woman with tighter skin, more fetching open eyes, a chiseled nose, bee-stung lips, a smooth, tapered jaw, and other differences he couldn’t put his finger on. It may have been the lighting and angle differences, but she could have been Dana’s sister.

  It was a little past one and he was certain that Captain Ralph Modesky was not at his office at the Cobbsville P.D. But he called anyway. A desk sergeant named Eames answered. Steve identified himself and said it was urgent that he reach him. The sergeant said that he thought Captain Modesky was at a luncheon. “Then, Sergeant Eames, I’ll need his cell phone in addition to his home number.”

&nb
sp; Steve heard hesitation. The sergeant probably shared the same small-town mind-set that they were not going to be pushed around by the big blue bullies from Beantown.

  “I’m not sure Captain Modesky will appreciate a call at this time. It’s a public event.”

  “So is the New Hampshire Union Leader, The Boston Globe, and every other news organ in New England should word get out that a desk sergeant held up the investigation of serial murders.”

  Eames read off the numbers.

  On the second ring, Steve reached Modesky, who let him know he was at a muckety-mucks function. “I’ll be quick. It’s about the Novak case.” He explained the differences in the woman’s photographs. “Do you recall if she had ever had cosmetic surgery?”

  “Is that important?”

  “It might be.”

  “I can’t imagine why. Yeah, I think her father said something about that.”

  “You’re saying she had some face work done.”

  “That’s what I said. So what’s the problem?”

  “It wasn’t mentioned in the autopsy report.”

  “Because it wasn’t relevant to the cause of death. Is that it?”

  “Not quite. The autopsy chart that asks for scars, blemishes, et cetera. They’re filled in with none.”

  There was a gaping silence. “Lieutenant, nose jobs are done inside, through the nostrils, so nothing was there to pick up, and she died by strangulation so nobody went looking up her nose.”

  “Uh-huh, but from the photos it looks like she had some work done on her eyes, plus her lips look plumped up in the later photo.”

  Modesky made an exasperated sigh in Steve’s ear. “I don’t know, Lieutenant Markarian. Maybe the plastic doc was very good. Maybe the M.E. missed the scar. Most likely he didn’t and just dismissed it as irrelevant to the case and entered none, okay?”