Our victim was stretched out on the shower curtain the killer had thoughtfully brought in from the bathroom. There were signs of a struggle. There were also signs that the victim had lost the struggle; to wit, the corpse.
The man, a white male in his late twenties
(Problem. Big problem. The other vics were a white female age 47, an African-American female age 24, and a white male age 32.)
was pale in death, with a surprised expression: how did it come to this?
“Now that’s classy,” George said admiringly, hands on his hips as he surveyed the bleak scene. “After we nail this guy and beat him to death, I’m gonna shake his hand.”
“You are crude and horrid.”
“Yep.”
“And somewhat correct.”
“Which is what you really hate.”
I gave him a sour smile; like little George Washington in the fable, I could not tell a lie (this inspirational adage could never be proven and is considered apocryphal). It was the most original MO we’d seen in our careers,
(and lives)
filled with death and blood and loss. I could acknowledge the killer’s originality without giving him or her or them kudos, something George could not.
“Cause of death,” Lynn began, pointing. The victim was wearing swim trunks
(Is that supposed to be a joke? Whose?)
and nothing else, making it easy to see the nick in his thigh. The killer had clipped the femoral artery. Death would not have taken long.
“Not fucking around,” George said. “Not this guy. See? Cut’s at an angle, not straight across.”
Lynn blinked, but she wouldn’t give George the satisfaction.
“Arteries are sphinctoral—they are designed to close off if damaged in a certain way.” I mimed a straight slash, then an angled cut. “The killer made an angular slash, which would have prevented it from closing off.”
“Great,” she said glumly, which I understood. We disliked serial killers as a general rule. We really disliked smart ones. Smart lucky ones were our least favorite of all.
“But the femoral.” George was walking around the body, chewing on his lip as he stared down at the mess one human being had left of another. “Umm. Maybe he didn’t have time to wait around after slitting wrists? You can bleed out from a femoral cut in about three minutes. Did he not have enough time in his schedule to wait for the wrists?”
“He didn’t bleed out,” I observed.
“Of course! How could I not have seen. The killer used foul language and he died of a heart attack.”
I pointed. “There is blood, yes. We could all smell it.”
“You bet! That’s how I knew it was Friday morning,” George agreed.
“But not enough for him to have bled out. I think the ME will find he died from hypovolemia.”
“I’m gonna have to ask you to explain that.” It was a point of pride that Lynn never seemed to mind giving me the satisfaction. Judging from the scurrying techs and loitering cops, and how they were edging toward us while pretending to be engrossed in other things, Officer Rivers wasn’t the only curious party.
Good. We all wanted the same thing.
“Just once can you go along with my assessment and not haul out some weird thing about murder only you know about?” George bitched. “Sure, justice may never be done, but I’d feel better about myself.”
Most of us wanted the same thing.
“Our vic did not succumb to exsanguination … the human body holds about five-point-six liters of blood. There isn’t near that amount here on the curtain—”
“Fucking metric system.”
“Only about six quarts.”
“Um…”
“A gallon and a half,” I almost snapped.
“Finally, language I understand. Okay, you’re right. There’s not enough here. So unless the killer took a bunch of blood with him for his car radiator à la Seinfeld—”
“À la what?” Lynn asked. She had less experience keeping George from his tangents.
“There is no sign he, she, or they left with a gallon of blood. I think our victim succumbed to hypovolemia. The body loses enough blood to shut down. It’s all balance—it is chemical balance—and if the blood level drops too quickly it throws the rest of the mechanism off. He did not bleed out; he likely died of sodium deprivation.”
“She’s right,” a new voice said. We turned and looked, and I was so startled I nearly tripped over the corpse.
Dr. Gallo was standing in the doorway, not quite entering the crime scene. He was leaning in, and if he went much further he would topple over.
“What in God’s name are you doing here?” I was so startled, my voice was harsher than I intended.
“I’m the one who called you guys,” Gallo replied. He nodded toward the body. “Wayne Seben was one of my patients.” A beat of silence. “I didn’t kill him. If you were wondering.”
“Well,” George said. “Now we are.”
chapter nine
Dr. Gallo explained while I tried to calm my heart rate. It was odd enough crossing paths at yet another crime scene; to see him on Moving Day was horrid.
The moment I heard his deep voice, looked into his dark eyes—eyes so black it was nearly impossible to tell where the pupil left off and the iris began—the strange feelings this man alone called up in me came surging back.
Why now?
“… knew he had suicidal ideation but wasn’t…”
Why on Moving Day?
“… called me…”
Why was he at the scene of yet another murder?
“… came over and found him.…”
How much could any one person take of blood and death and promising lives cut violently short before they could no longer keep hold of sanity?
“… tried to call Adrienne, but the service offered to switch me to yours.…”
“You called us?” George asked. “All right. Now we’re getting somewhere. And Adrienne…” George looked at me and arched a dark brow. For several annoying reasons, not only did Dr. Gallo not know that Cadence, Adrienne, and I were multiples, but he thought our name was Adrienne. George could ruin everything
(Ruin what? There is nothing to ruin!)
with one sentence.
“Nobody calls her Adrienne anymore,” my sociopathic partner explained. “Mostly she goes by Special Agent Jones.”
I shot him a look of amazed gratitude.
“SAJ for short,” he finished, pronouncing it “sag.”
“Oh. Okay. Anyway, Sag, I told this to the cops when they got here, and they said I should hang around and give you my statement. Okay? Sag?”
As Dr. Gallo’s back was to him, George took the chance to stick his tongue out at me. I could only gape in admiration at the trap he’d so neatly set for me … and Dr. Gallo!
“Ah,” I managed after a few seconds. “Yes. That was sound thinking. I, uh, may be outgrowing that childish nickname and likely will stop using it soon.”
“Say it ain’t so, Sag! We’ve all been calling you Sag forever. I don’t think I could ever get used to some dumb new nickname like Cadence or Shiro. You could always go back to Adrienne, Sag, but I think Sag suits you better.”
“Something to ponder at another time.” How I got that sentence out through tightly gritted teeth was a mystery to me, but I was grateful. “Dr. Gallo, it sounds as if you agree with my hypovolemia theory.”
“Yes. You’re right.” He nodded down at the body. “There isn’t enough blood here. I don’t think he bled out, and I don’t think the killer took a bunch of blood with him. I think you’ll find the rest of his blood inside him.”
“Wow, creepy. But who cares?”
I sighed. “My partner has sociopathic tendencies when—”
“Not who cares he’s dead. Who cares if he bled out or died of not enough salt in his body? Either way”—George pointed at the late Wayne Seben—“dead guy.”
“Yes. That is the one fact thus far
that we cannot deny. What we do not yet know is the killer’s intent.”
George pointed again. “Dead guy. That’s the intent right there.”
“Yes, yes, but did he, she, or they want or need the victim to bleed out?”
“This isn’t the only one like this you guys have found, huh?” Due to personal and professional interest, Dr. Gallo knew more than the average physician about the shenanigans serial killers could get up to.
“Sorry, Doc. Can’t say.”
“Are they all like this?”
“Sorry.”
“Hmmm.” While Gallo ruminated, George and I traded glances. Did we want his fine brain engaged, wondering about our Sussudio serial killer? Or would that create more difficulty at another time? It was already inappropriate that he was still at the scene. But he’d behaved inappropriately at several JBJ scenes, which had indirectly led to JBJ’s capture. “Given what you were wondering—the blood and all, bleeding out versus hypovolemia—okay. So you’ve got a serial killer. This is his signature?” He pointed at the corpse. “Kills them by making it look like suicide, but not too much like suicide, since he’s not hiding. Quite the opposite. He’s showing you something.”
Dr. Gallo’s eyes. Cadence and I had noticed them straight off. Terribly dark, and about as easy to read as an oil slick. This was not to imply that they were off-putting or ugly. He had a tendency to blink slowly, like an owl; it gave the impression that he engaged in deep thought before speaking—something quite rare in our society. He seemed to always be on alert, always ready, whether to save a life or fend off a mugger or enter a crime scene and get tackled by half a dozen cops. That alertness manifested as an almost predatory state of mind. In another man I might have found that troubling, even frightening. But I did not mind that quality in Dr. Gallo, a man I knew had endured enormous tragedy and loss and yet kept going. And I liked that his mien was not easily read.
He had dark hair, too. It looked black but was not—only Asians have true blue-black hair. It was deepest brown, and almost the same color as his eyes, and he had recently had a haircut. Three weeks ago it was past his collar; now the dark strands stopped just above it. Gallo was lean as well as muscular, like an excellent swimmer. He was dressed in what I thought of as his typical outfit: a pale blue T-shirt and scrub pants, both so oft-washed that they were velvety yet fragile. I assumed he had driven a car; December was too cold for his Honda motorcycle. His leather jacket was years old, thoroughly broken in and comfortable-looking.
Dr. Gallo was careful, unbearably sexy, predatory, and poor. Or had grown up poor. He was far too careful with his belongings to have grown up otherwise. I found it interesting that—
Wait.
Unbearably sexy?
Oh.
Oh, dear.
“Sag! Wake up, Sag!”
I blinked and flinched away from George’s snapping finger. “Stop that or I shall snap it off. I was thinking.” Did they buy it? They did; they were all waiting. Oh. I should probably think of what I would tell them I’d been thinking about. “So was Mr. Seben supposed to bleed out? Or did he, she, or they wish to bring about acute hypovolemia? And if he, she, or—”
“Sag, can we just call him him until we catch him or her or them? You’re driving me apeshit with that stuff.”
“If he wanted to bring about hypovolemia, why?”
“If we knew why, we’d know who, wouldn’t we?” Lynn murmured, and of course that was the question. She sounded focused on the conversation, but she could not stop staring at Dr. Gallo. “Hi. The guys inside said you called this in, but I was outside waiting for Shiro.”
“Who?”
“I’m Officer Rivers.”
To my relief, Gallo dropped the question of who, exactly, Lynn had been waiting for. “Max Gallo.” They shook. “Mr. Seben was a patient of mine, sort of.”
“Gallo.” Lynn’s brow furrowed. “I know that—oh. Oh! Your nephew. He was murdered by the JBJ killer. I’m so sorry. I heard from these guys that you were a big help.”
“I wasn’t.” He smiled down at her, an expression that turned his narrow, watchful expression into a thing of beauty. “But you’re kind to say so.”
While Lynn and Gallo discussed JBJ, I drew George to one side. “Sag? Sag? You are a wretch.”
“Yep.”
“A despicable human being.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Occasionally brilliant.”
“Say it twice, Sag.”
“I shall make you pay for this eventually, while also acknowledging your cleverness.”
My partner feigned wiping away a tear.
“I mean it,” I threatened.
“Oh, I believe you. But … worth it. Yep. I’m standing by that: worth it. Now, can we get back to that pesky murder?” He raised his voice so Lynn and Gallo could hear. “Gallo’s right, Rivers. He was a huge pain in our ass. Can we get back to this dead guy, please?”
I stared. It was beyond strange for George to be so businesslike and focused. Perhaps these were the early warning signs of … I don’t know … viral meningitis?
“How is he making them help him kill them?” George continued, and of course, that was a much better question than any that had come earlier. Because this man, this dreadful killer, had a gift for coercing cooperation from his victims, or making the crime scenes look as if he had, as if the victims assisted in their own murders.
Just … dreadful, really. There were no other words.
chapter ten
“Aw, jeez, again with goddamned BOFFO?”
We all turned at the sound, and the techs stopped pretending to be busy and actually became busy. Because Special Agent Greer was upon us, and mighty was his annoyance.
“We heard you guys had no clue how to catch bad guys, so we figured we’d come over and help you out. You’re welcome.” George grinned. Law enforcement was one of many perfect jobs for someone who thrived on and lived for confrontations. Also politics, door-to-door sales, and collections.
(A terrifying digression: George paid for college by working for Cutco. Cutco is a company that makes and sells knives. Their salespeople go door-to-door. George Pinkman talked his way into peoples’ homes with a big bag of knives and sold them potential murder weapons. Do I have to add that he was their top salesman three years running? I do not.)
“And you!” Greer added, appearing doubly peeved.
No. Not me. Greer had meant Cadence, and the silly man couldn’t tell us apart. How a law-enforcement officer could confuse a near-six-foot blue-eyed blonde with a barely-over-five-foot Asian-American with black hair and eyes was frightening to contemplate.
Not to mention, Dr. Gallo’s silent presence made the situation that much more startling. I was both pleased and irritated to see that Lynn had drawn him off to one side, leaving George and me to weather the wrath of Greer.
“Talk to you guys a minute?” Greer asked, a silly rhetorical question.
“You know, you could, except we’re busy taking care of this pesky serial killer thing,” George said with a bright, bright smile. “You know, the one your bosses gave to our boss, who gave it to us? Which is why you don’t have it? Which is why I’m wondering what your fat ass is doing here?”
“Stop!” I commanded before Greer’s jaw had dropped open to retort, and his hand dropped and clenched into a fist. “Of course. We all want the same thing.” Lie. “We’re all professionals.” Um … lie. “Come, we’ll step outside.” Truth!
George could kill Greer. But one never knew; Greer might get the upper hand. Then I would have to avenge my partner’s death by killing Greer. Then I would have to turn myself in to the authorities for killing Greer. Then, at best, my sister Adrienne would set fire to the jail. Somewhere in that turn of events, Dr. Gallo would flee the state, horrified and/or driven insane by the violence he had been a helpless witness to. None of these things would lead to the capture of the killer, which was paramount. More important than Greer’s pride. More important than Georg
e’s lack of mental muzzle. More important than my inappropriate fascination with Gallo.
So we stepped into the hall, and then around the corner by a soda machine, and the time needed to do that was necessary because, as I mentioned, Greer and I had not met. But Cadence had had a memorable encounter with him. I could not recall something that had not happened to me. But I could see it through Cadence’s eyes, and I had just enough time to do so.
* * *
It would have been a memorably unpleasant day anyway, and I had to meet up with the FBI guys who’d been told (told, mind you, not asked) they would now have to play nice with BOFFO. Past experience had taught me this would be trouble. Cops tended to be territorial.
Which is why Special Agent Greer greeted me with, “Are you kidding me with this shit or what?”
“It’s nice to meet you, too.” I was busily pulling on bootees and gloves. “I’m Cadence Jones.”
“And I’m pretty damned annoyed they’re calling you weirdos in.”
I just looked at him. I hated confrontations. Why couldn’t everybody just be nice all the time? I sort of hoped Shiro would come out and smack him around. Okay, not really. Wait. Yes, really.
“Why are you staring at me?”
“Uh … sorry.” Stupid Shiro who wouldn’t show up on command. “Listen, you get that it’s not my fault, right?” I heard my tone: anxious. Trying to soothe. Pathetic. Shiro! Come out already! This guy can probably smell my wanting-to-please, like a dog smells fear, or Snausages. “I mean, it wasn’t my decision or anything. You get that?”
“BOFFO? Friggin’ False Flag Ops? They’re handing this unbelievably tragic mess over to the nuthouse inmates?”
Was he asking me or telling me? “Um. Yes?” That seemed safe enough.
Shiro? Hellooooo? Anybody home?
Darnitall! Therapy was starting to work a little too well. It had been focused, of course, on fewer blackouts, and fewer kidnappings of my body by my sisters. But according to my doctors and, more important, my boss, Michaela (who had no investment in stroking me), I had created Shiro and Adrienne to help me in stressful situations. I created them when I was little, when I watched my father run over a Canada goose with a riding lawn mower and then get murdered by my mother. So where the gosh heck fiddly darn were they?
You and I, Me and You Page 3
