Extreme Instinct jc-6

by Robert W. Walker

  McEvetty quickly stepped in, saying, "We heard about your case in Las Vegas, but this time the victim's male, an over-the-hill guy by all appearances. Nothing like your victim in Vegas, so-"

  "But you didn't know about the writing on the mirror in Vegas, did you?" she asked. "Thought you'd have a little fun since we flew all the way to Page anyway. Is that about it, McEvetty?"

  The Arizona-Utah agent took in a deep breath, released it slowly, and said, "Sorry. We thought it was, you know, unrelated."

  "You thought?" she replied sarcastically.

  Brightpath, ignoring them, said, "Dead guy's name was Melvin"-he checked his notes-"Melvin Bartlett Martin. That's according to both the seared wallet left on the table beside the bed and according to the agents here, who got their info from the night clerk."

  McEvetty added, "Martin had the room all to himself, but he dined with another man, according to the waitress who served him last night."

  "Left the lounge after purchasing that bottle of wine sitting over there unopened," Kaminsky added, pointing at the 1989 Chardonnay label.

  "It didn't pop from the temperatures in here?" asked J. T.

  Brightpath shook his head. "Epicenter of the fire was over the bed. Never got that hot the other side of the room. Not even to burn the wallet on the nightstand."

  Jessica nodded, replying, "Just like our fire murder in Vegas."

  McEvetty raised a meaty finger to his lip and said in such a tone that Jessica saw a lightbulb go on over his head, "Let's check the wine bottle for prints."

  "And dust the whole room, and scan it with an infrared laser, if you can get hold of one, for signs of any human secretions," Jessica added, thinking it most likely a waste of time. Still, they must be thorough and hope that this madman would continue to make mistakes, as he had in leaving his prints in the messages and his voice on tape only a few hours earlier, and in leaving his shoeprint, laden with black soot, in the baby-blue-carpeted hallway here in Page, Arizona.

  "I'm not so certain your theory about this monster's right, Jess," J. T. muttered in her ear. "I mean about him getting off sexually on burning corpses. Wouldn't that mean he'd need a woman, a female victim? And what about the time element?"

  "No, he doesn't need a female victim, not necessarily," Jessica replied, "not if they're all so much kindling for his fantasy, no. As for time, he's spent quickly, perhaps even before he does them. He may get off on the anticipation alone."

  "So, in essence, it appears this guy doesn't care what sex his victims are."

  "You can't use your own sexual excitement barometer to gauge this guy against, John. He's obviously not interested in them in any sexual sense you and I can fathom," she replied, searching cursorily over the body for any signs of blunt-force injury, but she was unable to see much in the smoke-laden light. "I give him this much," she began. "He's intent on remaining a faceless bastard, careful and controlled, so…"

  J. T. leaned in, for she was as much as talking to herself. "So?" he asked.

  "So, I guess you're dead right, J. T." John Thorpe's big, round brown eyes grew larger. "How's that?"

  ''We've got to crack this code of his." She now looked at and pointed to the message left by the killer. "It's got to make sense to someone somewhere. This guy has had to've talked to someone about himself, his fantasy, his sexual needs, his plans, his obsession-madness… and maybe his interest in numbers and words such as 'traitors' and violents.' "

  "We could send it around to our university consultants, our arcane friends in academia. Who knows? Maybe one of them will recognize something. Maybe a mathematician…"

  "I was thinking the same, but we also want to touch on medical people, mental facilities in particular. Maybe we should go public with what we know, spread it across the tube and the headlines. Somebody's got to know something about this nutcase, and we need information now, before he phones-kills-again."

  "Obviously our documents guys aren't having much luck with the first message," he replied.

  "But now this"-she again pointed at the new message-"may spur them on. Let's do both-send it to Quantico, as we did the other, and forward it on to our contacts at Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Stanford, all the major universities in the network, and our medical lists."

  She turned now to McEvetty, a bearded, rugged-looking man who might well have been wearing buckskin and rawhide, he so looked the mountain man type, and she said to him, "Do you have a photographer on hand?"

  "Jake's just waiting word. He's having a doughnut and coffee at the coffee and gift shop off the lobby. They opened early for us."

  "Send for him. Get photos of everything, starting with the mirror, and have them send up some coffee. I need something pleasant to smell in here. What about that secretion search, Captain Brightpath? Do you have the wherewithal, or do we call for help?''

  "On it," he responded, going for a phone.

  "So, what're you waiting for, McEvetty?" she scolded.

  "Yes, ma'am, ahhh… Doctor." McEvetty's moist eyes, very like those of a doe or an ox, seemingly saying that he much admired her show of strength in the face of such horror.

  She turned once more to J. T. and asked, "Can you take care of getting the information around? The photos of the handwriting, the shoeprint cast, what we've got here, and route it all to-"

  "Sure. I'll get on it; that is, unless…"

  She studied the hesitation in his features, glad to have her confidant and familiar friend alongside her. "Unless what?"

  He whispered, so the others would not hear, " 'Less you really want me to handle the body, Jess. Burn victims are tough, I know."

  Drowning victims in the water for long duration aside, burn victims in which the entire body, head to toe, was covered in the creosote of superheated human tissues and fat represented the most difficult cases for the forensic medical person, no matter how toughened or jaded. The corpse repulsed the physician. And this did not make for the best of working relationships or conditions. Usually Jessica felt a sense of bonding with the victim, a close-knit relationship in which she shared secrets with the deceased, down to the pallor of the skin, the size and shape of every organ, inside and out. But how was this possible here? Here such a bonding was virtually impossible when looking into so completely annihilated a face and human form, when having to look into the mask of a creature molded of fire. All this was true, despite a generalized and sometimes overwhelming sense of empathy with the victim's pain, felt even more strongly if you had prior knowledge that the victim was alive when put to the torch.

  Jessica could not deny the powerful impact on both the doctor and the forensic process such a thoroughly repugnant, desecrated body meant. It was just shy of dealing with an exhumed body, a years' old cadaver from a grave, and in some regard worse, for the odor of burned flesh was worse than the odor of decay.

  Jessica dropped her gaze from J. T., sheepishly whispering in reply, "I'm fine here. Go on with Brightpath. Be sure we get all the equipment we need here."

  Jessica relocated her black valise, and next she located a scalpel, the one given to her by her father. She'd pulled down her mask earlier, and she placed it back over her nose and mouth, her white lab coat now having a patina of soot.

  Jessica stepped closer to the mummylike corpse, inching closer until she stood abutting the blackened bed and the blackened east wall. She now meant to go to work gathering immediate samples for later lab work. She was all right, she told herself, but her thoughts over the ungainly thing at her fingertips continued.

  The men in the room watched in a kind of rapt awe.

  Most victims of complete burn such as this meant ample cause to rush through an autopsy. And in the rush, vital clues could be lost, and often were. Most certainly the coroner's usual care, precision, and thoroughness were impeded, if not breached completely. A good forensics man or woman knew this going in, so Jessica fought the overwhelming desire to be done with the body as quickly as possible, but Jessica also well understood the all-too-human re
sponse to the catastrophic annihilation of the body, its tissues and organs, to fire. She also understood J. T.'s chivalrous gesture was not without reservation, that he would prefer to make other vital arrangements and leave the autopsy to her. Despite his outward gallantry, she guessed that Thorpe was inwardly pleased that she hadn't jumped at the chance to trade places.

  "Are you sure, Jess?" He was pushing his luck now.

  "Damn it, J. T., I'm sure… I'm okay here. Now get going. You've got phone calls to make, people to wake up, and get that damned photographer out of the coffee shop and up here."

  "If you want me to take charge here, Jess… just say the word."

  She grit her teeth. "Now you're getting on my nerves."

  "Whataya mean, Jess? I'm just trying to show a little sensitivity. You women always want a show of concern, but you also want to be treated like equals. Suppose I asked McEvetty or Kaminsky here about how their morning's going." He shrugged and frowned, a bit tired of her show of bravado in the face of a death so without integrity as this. And for a moment the others saw and heard what amounted to a married couple arguing about nothing. They had worked many cases together, elbow to elbow, but usually J. T.'s help came in the safe confines of a well-lit lab back in Virginia. "What?" he repeated, his voice giving way to anger.

  "Go, get photos of this bastard's message. Get copies to Santiva and to the academics and the nuthouses, okay? I'll see to the body."

  J. T. nodded, folding her hands in his like they were an omelet. "Whatever you want, Jess."

  She bit her lip and held back a curse, finally bursting with, "What I want has very little to do with anything these days, John. This motherless… monster is using me, and I don't like it, not one fucking bit do I like it. Get that photographer in here and take care of that decoding angle for me, okay?"

  "You didn't cause this, Jess," he reassured her, studying her constricted features. "And nobody can believe you did."

  Ignoring this, she turned to the bed and the body, which in the fire had become an unrecognizable lump of extraneous waste dumped here like one might find back of a plastics factory: Body in repose, hands and arms, feet and legs arched inward in what firemen called the "fetal fire position," the dead man frozen in a moment of excruciating pain, the gaping fissure of the mouth, the gaping holes where the eyes had been, all worked in tandem to create a mask of grimacing, tortured distress, the agony visible through the newly formed body armor of blackened tissue.

  The mattress had created first a thick, black, choking smoke when the flame from the butane torch ignited it along with the body itself, the result discoloring the bedpost, walls, and ceiling, and then the mattress had exploded into flame due to the gases released. Again this meant the killer must also be using a mask or filter of some sort, if not a small oxygen tank. She made a mental note to follow up with an exhaustive list of professions that employed such materials and instruments.

  Other units on either side of the fire room, and even those overhead, were also scorched, but only slightly, due to the fast action of the FBI having contacted local authorities, and the fire department's subsequent action to contain the fire. Still, Melvin Martin-his unopened, label-scorched bottle of wine standing upright and mocking him-now melded with the charred furniture, a part of the soaked and sopping material left in the aftermath of the fire, followed by the fire hoses. He and his mattress one object now, and not just an object of pity… He had literally been soldered to his mattress and box spring. Martin's remains could not fully be separated from the chemicals and sodden materials adhering to him. This could only be done in the morgue with great care and handling and swathing and bathing, to make him as presentable as possible for burial, for his family's sake.

  She left the side of the body, grabbing hold of her valise for something solid to hold on to, and she again stepped from the room to retrieve some air from the hallway. It was the worst condition she'd ever seen a human body in, and working over such a fire-desiccated body was no simple task. It would take several takes.

  Everyone watched her. She even saw some pity in McEvetty's stony eyes. "Like a Pepsi, maybe?" he asked. "Or maybe a boilermaker?" he joked.

  This only sent her back into the room sooner. She now placed her valise on the soupy mattress of the bed and snatched open a second pocket to pull forth a pair of fresh rubber gloves, indicating that if anyone needed a fresh pair, she had plenty to spare. She then located a notepad from deep within her valise, and on the ruled and printed pages of her autopsy report pad she began the tedious work of checking boxes for cause of death, condition of the body and premises.

  It's going to be a long and difficult autopsy, she thought, and somehow she couldn't help but feel partially responsible for Melvin Martin's death, despite consoling words to the contrary from J. T. or anyone else. That in some sick, twisted gyration of logic Chris Lorentian and Melvin Martin had to die because of her, because of who she was, because of some morbid and as yet undetermined connection between the Phantom and the M.E., because this killer, in fixating on her, had somehow made her his accomplice, his confederate. The cruel, sadistic bastard.

  She at once wondered how many other law enforcement agents and agencies across the country would soon be viewing it the same way. She wondered if perhaps she'd become a liability for the FBI since becoming the serial killer hunter celebrity that Dr. Coran had evolved into. Maybe J. T. was wrong; maybe she did cause this storm, due the publicity she'd been receiving on the sensational cases she had been involved in over the years. And if that held true…

  "Why's this sicko fire freak calling you on the telephone, Dr. Coran?" asked McEvetty, who returned to the room with his partner beside him. The question was posed in so casual a manner, as if he might be asking after her preference in dishware, as if he actually expected her to have a full-blown, informed answer.

  J. T. suddenly returned with the photographer and proceeded to give him orders to "shoot everything."

  Now McEvetty stared across from where he stood on the other side of the bed and body. Beside him, his partner, Kaminsky, held an eager look on his face as well, also anxious for an answer to McEvetty's question when suddenly he seemed to realize the foolishness of both his partner's question and his expectant stare.

  Kaminsky stood Abe Lincoln tall, bony, angular, lean, a sure ad for the Marlboro man, but somehow he fit into his white shirt and suit with a quiet grace lacking in McEvetty altogether. Both men gave off the appearance and aura of native Arizonans, mostly via the ruddy complexions, averted eyes, and wrinkles cut like scars, but whereas McEvetty weighed in large and bullish, Kaminsky was-while just a hairbreadth taller-much thinner and more light-footed. In a coarse way, McEvetty appeared always to be sporting a perpetual, scowling frown, whereas Kam maintained a quiet if cynical elegance.

  "No doubt you two've already exhausted any off-color remarks or dark humor you most assuredly needed to get out of your systems before my arrival? Where's the usual detectives' banter, boys?" She'd heard laughter coming from within the black hole of this place when she and J. T. had first been guided here by the night clerk and the state patrol officer.

  "Kam's working hard on getting in touch with his feminine side these days," joked McEvetty. "Ain'tcha, pard?"

  "Shut up, Mac." Kam turned his full attention on Jessica. "Don't mind McEvetty and his stupid questions, Dr. Coran," Kaminsky said in a conspiratorial whisper. "His feet were so big when he was born that-''

  "Shut up, Kam."

  "— that there just wasn't no other place to put them but in his mouth, and he's gotten so used to the condition. Well, it just comes natural to him."

  Jessica smiled in return and began going over the body with a handheld magnifying glass, complaining of the poor light. Still, she easily saw what she needed to see. Like Chris Lorentian's nearly cremated, baked body, there were wounds to the head, but no bullet holes, no quick and painless death, unfortunately. Poor old Melvin had died a torturous, horrendous death as a living marshmallow, and
for no other reason than to satisfy some sick bastard's idea of kicks.

  It was then that Dr. Karl Repasi stepped into the room. Jessica didn't at first see him, although she heard J. T. asking someone, "How did you get here? When did you arrive?" And Jessica hoped it was Warren, but when she looked from the cadaver, she saw that it was Repasi.

  "I'm here to assist in any way possible," he informed Jessica. "I got word from Bishop about the killing here and got a plane out of Vegas."

  "This takes you some distance out of your way, Dr. Repasi," she replied, keeping her eyes on her work, wondering what his game was.

  "Arizona's my territory. Now this bastard's come to my home state," Repasi answered and stepped closer for a professional look over her shoulder as Jessica examined the crinkled, crumpled, fire-blackened outer layers of the body, a kind of brittle-to-the-touch, breakaway armor.

  Jessica and J. T. exchanged a glance, accepting Repasi's reasoning for the moment. He was the M.E. for Phoenix, Arizona. Still, Phoenix was a long way from Page.

  Repasi found a question lurking in his head that he had to ask: "What do you think, Jessica? Same MO? Fingerprints in the written message? Identical scene, except this one's a man?"

  "Cause of death is often hidden by fire, as you know, and as you've said many times, Doctor, we have to be sure, but on the surface, yes."

  "The way I heard it from Vegas is that you heard this one's dying words on the phone? That he-"

  "That he was smoked while I listened in."

  "Then you know he was, like Chris Lorentian, conscious when he got it; burned alive."

  "What is it you want here, Karl?" she asked point-blank.

  "Just to offer my services. That's all. Everyone knows you've got your hands full with this. That you need help, more help than Thorpe can give you. So, tell me, what can I do to help?"

  She glanced up at J. T., seeing that he was not pleased, and she said, "All right, Karl."