by Mary Burton
The doctor ran his gloved finger along the blackened and cracked skin of the right biceps. “If you look closely, you’ll see the remains of a sleeve tattoo. The technician took multiple pictures, so hopefully we’ll be able to digitally enhance it.”
“Smells like the killer doused her body pretty good with accelerant,” Bryce said.
“I can’t imagine carrying gallons of gasoline up to that spot,” Ann said. “Could the killer have transported the gas up earlier?”
“Very possible,” Bryce said. “Or maybe he had the victim carry them.”
“Did you find the accelerant containers?” Ann asked.
“No.” The only solid clue Bryce had now was the bent and twisted photo Ann had found. He would drop it off with the forensic department as soon as they left here. It was a long shot, but it could not be ignored.
The doctor walked around the body, taking time to conduct a visual inspection, which revealed no shadows of ligature marks or additional injuries.
Jessica set down her camera and worked the limbs until the rigor broke up and the muscles and sinew loosened, allowing mobility in the joints. She then placed her hands on the body’s curled shoulders, pressing gently until they lay flatter against the gurney.
With the body now more fully supine, the doctor made incisions on either side of the breastbone and then over the rib cage and the abdomen. The Y cut made, he peeled back the dark flesh to reveal the pink-gray underside.
Bryce homed in on Ann’s blank expression. He could read her no better than when she’d been wearing the mirrored sunglasses at the crime scene. However, her deliberate, slow in-and-out breaths suggested a struggle behind the cool, detached facade.
With the media on her tail most of last year, she could have remained sequestered on her parents’ ranch or left town for good. But not only had she stayed—she was here, facing what he guessed were some of her own demons.
The doctor reached for large bolt cutters and snapped each of the ribs. The rib cage, the body’s natural armor for vital organs, was finally freed, and he lifted the arching bones and cartilage as one unit and set it on a tray Jessica held out.
Bryce had stood at many autopsies and witnessed all manner of trauma—organs lacerated by a knife blade, a liver or gut chewed up by a hollow-point bullet, bones crushed by blunt-force trauma, or body cavities discolored and swimming in pools of poisoned blood. This was the second time he had seen internal organs cooked and shriveled.
The doctor pointed to a darkened mass. “This is the liver, and as you can see, it’s been sliced several times. The victim would have bled out in minutes.” He shifted his attention to the victim’s heart. “The knife blade nicked it slightly.”
“She was inches from her killer when he struck,” Ann said. “Jane Doe was comfortable with him.”
Dr. Christopher continued the examination, removing the heart and then the lungs, which showed no signs of smoke inhalation. That suggested the fire had been set postmortem. The doctor extracted contents from her stomach. “She had a hamburger and fries within ten to twelve hours of her death.”
“There are a couple of fast-food establishments in Anaconda that serve burgers,” Bryce said.
“Maybe someone will remember her, assuming the killer didn’t purchase the food,” Ann said.
Without comment, the doctor shifted his attention to the skull and traced his finger along the top of the forehead. “Note the scalpel marks along what would have been the hairline,” he said. “And also notice that the lines are neat and straighter than the last.”
“Practice makes perfect,” Ann said.
“This killer appears to be a quick study,” Dr. Christopher said. “His work was not as clean on the Helena victim.”
“But we are definitely dealing with the same guy?” Bryce asked.
“Unofficially, I’d say it’s the same guy,” Dr. Christopher said. “Note the way the scalpel imprint hooks sharply around the ear toward the cheekbone. It was the same in both cases. It’s an unintentional pattern or tell.”
The autopsy continued for another hour. The doctor confirmed the victim had not been sexually assaulted, and there appeared to be no signs of torture. He removed the plate from her ankle and wiped it. “I’ll have to clean it up to get the full serial number. I’ll track it.”
“Anything else?” Bryce asked.
Dr. Christopher shook his head as he looked at the body. “Until her death, Jane Doe had been a healthy young woman.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Bryce said.
“Yes, thank you,” Ann added.
Bryce met Ann in the changing room and noted she was quick to strip off her gown. Pulling off her gloves appeared painful, and he bet the latex had stuck to her wounds and was taking fresh skin with it. However, she did not complain and carefully, as if to prove she was fine, removed her purse from the locker.
Neither spoke as they made their way through the building’s lobby. He pushed open the main door, and he followed her into the bright sunshine. The air smelled sweet and pure.
“You okay?” he asked.
“When Gideon said he was taking Nate camping, I pictured a movie, wine, maybe reading a book for pleasure. I was thrilled because I don’t think I’ve had a moment to myself in a couple of years.”
He did not respond, letting her coiled emotions unwind.
She cleared her throat. “However, I can’t imagine doing any of those things now. As tragic as I find this case, I also find it fascinating.”
“Really?”
“It’s one thing to read journals and theorize about killers in a sterile office, but it’s another to see, smell, and touch their handiwork.” A faint smile tipped the edges of her lips. “I wonder what that says about me.”
“Maybe you’re more cop than scientist. Do you have conclusions?”
“I do.” She went silent, as if ordering her thoughts and assessments. “I don’t believe this killer was motivated by the fire. As we know, there are offenders who are sexually and mentally stimulated by flames. This killer used the fire to both destroy the victim’s identity and, as we have theorized, attract attention.”
“Go on.”
“The fatal cuts were to the heart and liver. The killer was standing close and thrust the knife upward quickly. She bleeds out in a manner of minutes. It’s quick and efficient. No signs of sexual assault, no broken bones, no apparent trauma that would have caused excessive pain. The killer was not motivated by the victim’s suffering.”
“What juices his batteries?” Bryce asked.
“Perhaps the victims look like someone familiar to the killer, such as a mother, wife, or girlfriend. The killer may or may not have stopped to analyze his motivations, but he keeps killing because the act is fulfilling.” She stared up at him. “All theory at this point.”
“Killer male or female?”
“Ninety percent of serial killers are male. But ten percent means a female is possible.”
“Local or passing through?”
“When I see the files of the Kansas case and especially the Knoxville case, I might know better.”
“Do you have theories regarding the removal of the face?” he asked.
“Our faces are a big part of our identity. All you have to do is look at social media. Destroying the victim’s face is stealing something very intimate.”
“The picture you found doesn’t appear to be a selfie. And it can’t be posted.”
“Maybe that’s exactly why the killer used a Polaroid camera. The images mark the event, but they are untraceable. He likely has pictures of his Helena victim.”
“The pictures are also trophies?” Bryce asked.
“Yes. That’s one of the easiest prizes to collect,” she said.
“I’ll deliver the picture to the lab now, and then I’ll head into Anaconda, visit the burger joints, and determine if anyone saw Jane Doe.” He nodded toward her hands. “How are they doing?”
She held them up and gave him a view of her
palms. “They sting, but I’ll survive.”
They were scraped raw, and the right hand had a gash. “Damn. I have a first aid kit in my car.”
“They’ll be fine.”
He shook his head. “It’ll take five minutes to clean them and put on ointment. Car’s right here.”
The expected argument did not materialize, and she walked with him to his SUV. He opened the back hatch and reached for a red first aid tackle box he always kept stocked. Since the marines, he had been a stickler for having his kit ready.
He tore open a packet of cleansing wipes and motioned for her to extend her palms. She did, looking a little chagrined. Her uneasy expression vanished as soon as the pad touched her flesh. She hissed, and she tried to draw her hand back, but he held it steady, feeling the rapid beat of her heart thrumming in her wrist.
“That’s the worst of it,” he said as he carefully wiped around the largest of the gashes.
“Serves me right. If Nate had done something like that, he’d be in time-out until he was thirty.”
“Thirty? That’s mighty harsh.”
“Maybe, but it was stupid, and I’d hate to see him do something like that on this camping trip.”
“Gideon will keep a close eye.”
“You’re not saying anything I haven’t told myself one hundred times since they left. He needs to get out and enjoy himself. He needs to be a kid.”
He discarded the wipe and opened a second, and this time she raised her other hand without prompting. This palm was not as badly scraped as the first.
He smoothed antibiotic cream on her palms, careful to hit all the spots, before he replaced the cap. “Good as new. Do you have antibiotic cream at home?”
“I’ll grab some at the store this afternoon. I’m still stocking the new place.”
He handed her the tube. “Take this.”
“Not necessary,” she said.
“If you buy new cream, give it back to me. If you don’t, you’re covered.”
“You’ve done first aid before,” she said.
“When you command young men in the field, you’ve got to be ready for anything.” He shook his head, a grin tugging his lips. “They’re pros at finding ways to get hurt.”
“Do you miss commanding men?”
“Sometimes. Keeping up with that many eighteen- to twenty-year-old soldiers is a younger man’s game.”
“What about the travel?”
“For the most part, I’m right where I want to be.”
“Good.”
“And you?”
“Me?”
“None of my business, but I’m surprised you stayed in town after last year.”
She reached for her sunglasses. “This is my home. Nate’s home. And I don’t scare easily.”
“No, ma’am, I don’t believe you do.”
“You’ll call me if you pull a print off that photo.”
“You’ll be the first,” he said.
Elijah Weston stood in the unfurnished home that smelled of fresh paint and pine cleaner. As he crossed the glistening hardwood floors of the living room, his footsteps drifted up toward a vaulted ceiling with faux beams. The fireplace was not large and was covered in a veneer of stone, but it was impressive to look at. The kitchen was not the eat-in kind, but it was a hell of a lot bigger than the small, greasy kitchenette of his mother’s trailer and the cramped 1970s avocado-green version at the halfway house. The gleaming windows let in lots of natural light, and the wide patio doors looked out onto a lush backyard that was enclosed by a white privacy fence.
“What do you think, Mr. Weston?” the Realtor asked.
Her name was Sue or maybe Susan, and she lingered by the open front door. Curiosity combined with traces of fear, suggesting the desire to make money warred with the temptation to run away from the town’s convicted arsonist.
Sue or Susan knew as well as most in town that he had sued the state of Montana for wrongful imprisonment. The state, instead of taking the case to trial, had settled for $2 million. The monetary payout may have seemed large, but given that he had spent a decade in prison, it felt paltry. As much as he wanted to fight the state and bloody its nose, he’d opted to take the money. Time to get on with living.
“I will buy it,” Elijah said.
“Buy it?” she asked.
“Time to invest.”
“Do you want to discuss financing?” she asked.
“It’ll be a cash offer.”
“Seller is asking five hundred and twenty thousand dollars.”
“I’ll pay four hundred and eighty thousand if they agree to sell it to me by close of business today.”
“That’s forty thousand off asking. Will you negotiate?”
“The house has been on the market sixty-one days, which in this town is a lifetime. It’ll cost me at least fifty thousand to bring the house into this century, and given that the seller has removed the furniture, I’d say he is already on to his next property. Do you want to put in the deal, or do you want me to find someone else who will?”
“No, I can do it,” Sue/Susan said quickly. “I’ll draw up the papers right now.”
“Perfect.” He turned his attention to the backyard. There were trees to be cut and weeds to be pulled, but the idea of being outside appealed to him. Being in a box had created a new addiction to sunshine.
“Why this house?” the Realtor asked. “Single men don’t usually move into suburban neighborhoods.”
“It’s an excellent school district, and there’s a large yard that backs up to woods. When it’s renovated, I can flip it for thirty percent more.”
Her face relaxed, as he had expected it would. He had fed her the explanation that she needed to hear. It would also be the story she would tell her friends.
The truth was, he had chosen the house for one simple reason.
It was close to Ann and Nate.
CHAPTER NINE
Missoula, Montana
Thursday, August 19
7:15 p.m.
What was it about the victims that had drawn the killer?
The question rumbled in Ann’s mind as she walked toward her front door, carrying two shopping bags. She had finally made it to the home goods store and bought the rest of what she needed. What was not in stock the cashier had ordered online, which meant she should have her items in a couple of days. That suited her. She had no desire to spend the evening unpacking dishes.
A soft breeze brushed her skin as she fished in her purse for her keys, which had already sunk to the bottom. Her fingers finally brushed the metal, and she quickly unlocked the door.
Tonight, she would chill. Have a glass of wine. Heat up the to-go meal from a small Italian restaurant and think about the two murder cases that would not leave her alone. She flipped on the lights and tunneled through the room between the unpacked boxes. It takes time to make a house a home, she reminded herself. Rome was not built in a day.
She set her bags on the kitchen counter. The pasta dish went in the microwave, and she twisted the wine bottle top off with a quick turn.
She filled a paper cup with the red and, after a sip, determined it was passable. Moving around the first floor, she closed all the curtains and shades. Other than the school district, the instant privacy of the existing drapes had been a big selling point for the house.
Her phone buzzed with Maura’s number. Grateful for the distraction, she answered, “Maura, how’s it going?”
“It’s great. I found a few items at the Beech Street house I thought you might like to have. Can I stop by?”
“Sure.” What did this near stranger think was important to her? “I’ll text you my address.”
Fifteen minutes later, headlights swept across her front window as the cleaner parked behind her car. Ann set her wine down and opened the door to see a smiling Maura carrying a box. “Come on inside.”
“Great.” Maura stepped into the foyer, her gaze sweeping the barren room. “I thought you might like these
. They seemed personal.”
“Set them on the kitchen counter. I’ll go through them later.”
“I have the truck loaded, and I’m headed to the charity center. If you have a quick look, I’ll haul off what you don’t want.”
She could not imagine wanting anything. It was all she could do to save what she did. “You don’t have to wait.”
“Honestly, it’ll be more efficient if you have the time to do this now. I’ve done enough of these moves and know the faster you can get through miscellaneous items, the better. They have a tendency to clutter our lives.”
That was why she had left them behind. “Can I pour you a glass of wine?”
“Yeah, sure. It’s been a long day.”
“Does red suit?”
“Always.”
Ann filled a paper cup and handed it to Maura. “No glassware yet.”
“Thanks.” Maura held up the cup. “I have boxes full of real glasses in the truck. I can bring them in now.”
“No, I don’t want them. Making a clean break, if you know what I mean.”
“I hear you. I’m on a journey of self-discovery myself.” She took a sip of wine.
Ann held up her cup. “Here’s to one foot in front of the other.”
Maura gently tipped her paper cup toward Ann. “Amen.”
Ann peered in the box, and her gaze went directly to a small teddy bear. Nate had named the bear Montana Mac, and it had been his favorite when he was four or five. Guilt jabbed her as she wondered how she could have left Montana Mac behind. “Where did you find this?”
“It was in the kitchen in one of the lower cabinets. I figured it was a favorite hiding place.”
She straightened the bear’s black, off-kilter nose. “The bottom kitchen cabinet was Nate’s space. He used to pretend it was a spaceship.”
“He and his little buddy must have been on a trip when he forgot about him.”
When Ann had made the decision to move out, she had done it quickly, fearing if she thought too much, she would change her mind. She had packed some of her clothes and Nate’s and driven straight to her parents’ ranch. In all the confusion, Nate had never asked about Montana Mac or, if he had, the request had been lost in the noise of her own guilt and worry. “Thanks, Maura. Good save. What else do you have?”
