Nothing Sacred (FBI Agent Dan Hammer Series Book 1)

by Douglas Wickard

  “Without sounding morbid, the other girl…”

  “What other girl?” She cut Dan off before he could finish. “Another girl?”

  “Earlier this evening…”

  “What?”

  “A girl was found stumbling around out on Old Towne Road. Some guy saw her weaving in the wooded area out there. He brought her over to MUSC. She’s alive.”

  “What kind of world do we live in?” Marjorie threw her hands up into the air. In despair? Confusion? Dan couldn’t guess. He didn’t have all the answers.

  “When human beings, people, can do this to one another…I just don’t know.” Exasperated, Marjorie clicked on her recorder, picked up the tweezers and once again turned her attention back to the body.

  “This body was found at the same location.” Dan added. “Further back off the road, about a half mile into the woods. We may have a serial here.”

  Marjorie continued to work, probing crevices, ignoring the last piece of information Dan gave her. People dealt with denial differently. Marjorie had a daughter, around the same age as this girl. Alice must be at least eleven or twelve by now.

  “No forced entry, vaginally or rectally. Thank God for that.”

  “Trajectory?”

  “She was exposed when this occurred. Her clothes were off. I’d be hard-pressed to tell you what kind of instrument was used to cut her. The laceration edges aren’t clean, like from a razor or a knife, but they’re not jagged either. It would be difficult to calculate the path since she wasn’t wearing clothes, but I would guess the perpetrator was right-handed. That’s worth something, isn’t it? She was tied down. Restrained. Whoever did this was on their knees, bending down in front of her. Impossible to get height and weight…did you check the scene?”

  “It was dark. I have to go back. I’ll check the area better when it’s light.”

  “One thing I will say, whoever did this, did a good job. That’s for sure. Sick bastard.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “She sure as hell lost a lot of blood. That’s my first guess. Trauma, massive blood loss, shock.” Once again, Marjorie withdrew her tweezers. In their grasp was a small glass vial. “I’ll be God- damned.”

  Dan moved in closer. “What now?” Dan could smell baby powder on Marjorie’s neck. Summer mornings perched up against overstuffed pillows, lying naked in Marjorie’s king sized bed watching her as she applied scented talcum to her back. Her chest. Her thighs. At the time, Dan thought it was for him. Now he understood why. It masked the acrid stench of death.

  Marjorie had opened the vial and removed the bloodstained fabric. She held it up toward the spotlight. “For his sins…” she read aloud.

  “Let me see.” Dan looked. “The other girl in the hospital… same thing. Hers read, ‘For her sins…’”

  Marjorie deposited the piece of fabric into another empty sample container, closed the lid and slammed it onto the tray. “What a miserable fuck! Whoever did this to these poor girls should suffer. He should have his penis lopped off and be left to die. Bastard!” Ben pulled away from the examining table and took cover.

  Dan held Marjorie in his arms for a brief second. It felt comfortable again. Safe. Like time had never passed. Ben was growing progressively nervous from their open display of intimacy.

  Marjorie backed away. “Thanks, Dan, but, that’s not necessary.” She walked toward the sink, pulled her surgical gloves off and threw them into the sealed trashcan. Red signs with a large blaring triangle warned of biological hazards. “There’s really nothing more I can do here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Am I not speaking English?”

  “I need some sort of identification. I want to find out who this girl is. Where she came from. Did you notice any tattoos, scars, recognizable body marks? What about serology? Fiber samples? I’ll send everything out today. To Washington, if I have to. At least give me a blood type.”

  “I know my job, Dan, and I just don’t know what else to tell you.” She pushed short blond hair around her ear with an index finger. She did it a lot. It annoyed Dan now, and it annoyed Dan then, when it mattered. “I can take some tissue, some root hair samples, if you like, but that will take time at the Lab. You know as well as I do that all this is useless in the long run without positive identification from a family member. Other than that, there’s not much more I can do. What we’ve got here is simply a Jane Doe on our hands.” Marjorie glanced at the clock hanging on the wall. She was losing patience, back-peddling, treading water like an athlete. This had upset her more than she was letting on. Dan understood. It upset him, too. Or, maybe she enjoyed the tables being turned. Her power struggle with Dan continued, even now in this chilly, deadly environment.

  “Dental records?” Dan was grasping at straws. “Anything?” He didn’t want this girl buried without somebody close to her being notified. Her mother, her father, somebody needed to know. “She deserves protocol, Marjorie. For the record.”

  “I don’t have a problem with protocol. I just don’t want to do it now, at five thirty in the morning. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”

  “These are unusual circumstances. They merit everything we can muster. I haven’t slept yet, either.”

  Marjorie turned her back on Dan. “Oh, so that’s why you look like shit.”

  “Will you need me for anything else?” A muffled groan came from the other side of the room. Dan hoped it was coming from Ben.

  “Put the body in 102. You can leave then. Thanks, Ben.” Gone were the niceties. Out the nonexistent windows.

  Dan realized he was cold. Freezing, actually. How low did they keep the temperature in this room? He shivered from the subnormal temperature or maybe just pure exhaustion. He leaned back up against the counter and massaged his arms. Circulation techniques.

  “Come on, Dan. Follow me to the office. I need a cigarette. It’s warmer in there. You’re turning purple.”

  “I need your help, Marjorie. More than just a report or a determination on a death certificate. I need this information entered into the computer ASAP. Later this morning, hopefully.”

  VICAP (Violent Criminal Apprehension Program) was a computer program designed by the Behavioral Science Unit at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. Upon entering specific information about a violent crime, a comparative analysis could be made available, immediately almost, to other police agencies across the country that, online, could alert authorities whenever a serious crime was committed of a similar nature. Dan felt this dead girl and Angie Kessler warranted consideration. A violent act. A violent crime. Luckily, Charleston had recently installed the VICAP terminal. Dan was one of the fortunate candidates who volunteered to take the trip to Quantico and undergo the three week training program on proper data entry procedures.

  Then again, Marjorie was right. Maybe he was getting overly excited about the prospects of being involved in something bigger than the usual local misdemeanors that blew through Charleston on a regular, more boring basis.

  “What? You want the FBI involved?” Marjorie pulled a pack of cigarettes from her scrub gown and lit up, exhaling a long plume of smoke toward the NO SMOKING sign.

  “I want to finish what we started.”

  She choked on some smoke. “There was a time, Dan, I would have longed to hear those words come from your mouth. Now, you’re a little late.” She ran some water into the sink, lowered her head and took a sip. “But, let’s not get into that right now.” She looked in Ben’s direction. He’d been busy, securing Jane Doe’s body into the refrigerator. He returned to the room wiping his hands with a paper towel. He stood awkwardly in the doorway, staring down at his feet, fiddling with his large, clean hands.

  “Dr. Dunlap, is there anything else you’ll be needing?”

  “Moral support. Stick around.” Marjorie’s deadpan was stunning.

  “Play fair.” Dan intercepted. “We’re both on your side.”

  “What do you mean, play fair? I am playing fair.
Don’t you think I understand your concern? It’s commendable. Really. But there’s nothing more I can do right now.”

  “Whoever is responsible for these grotesque killings…”

  “Killings? One killing. Done weeks ago.”

  “… is probably plotting his next move, right now, as we speak.”

  Marjorie pulled her scrub sleeve up and checked the time. “At five thirty in the morning? I doubt it. I really, really doubt it.”

  Dan hated when she patronized him. What he despised more was her ability to level him. In seconds, Marjorie could make him feel like an insecure Altar Boy, caught with his pants down and running nude up and down the church aisle during service. Dan had reached his tipping point. That was it. “Enough, Marjorie.” Dan had met his limit. Even he had one. He caught the gray of her eyes at point blank range and communicated that “don’t fuck with me” look. She knew the look. She’d seen it before. Meanwhile, the extremes of Marjorie’s emotions both baffled and intrigued him. One minute she was enraged, on the verge of a breakdown, and the next she was detached, emotionally removed, taking pot shots at a killer.

  She took another deep drag from her cigarette, exhaling as she talked in a molasses-thick, phony Southern accent. “Aren’t you being a bit overeager about all this? I mean, really Dan. This isn’t a Hollywood movie. It’s not like Hannibal Lecter is on the prowl, terrorizing our quaint little seaside town of Charleston.”

  “Somebody sure is.” Dan reached for a clean pack of sterile gloves. He ripped open the package. Un procedure-like. He pulled out the contents. Each glove had its own protective wrapping. Opening it like a book, he offered them to Marjorie. “Now, can we finish this autopsy?”

  Marjorie walked toward him. Reluctantly. She flipped her cigarette into the metal sink. It sizzled and died. One at a time, she slipped her hands into the appropriate glove. Light powder floated to the floor. Hopefully, so would her ego. “Say ‘please.’”

  “Pretty please. With a cherry on top.”

  She approached the metal examining table that once held the body of Jane Doe. Ben took a deep sigh, already aware of what his next chore would be. “Well, you heard the man, Benny.”

  The room fell quiet, except for the constant hum of the frigid air conditioner pumping glacial air into the room. Ben retrieved the body, rolled it back into the room on a gurney and hoisted it up onto the table.

  Marjorie stood to the side of the body. She slowly unfolded the white sheet covering Jane Doe. Adjusting her surgical mask over her face, she reached for another scalpel from the metal pushcart and positioned herself at the head of the table. She began the autopsy by making the customary Y incision. Dan assumed his usual stance against the counter.

  “You owe me for this one, Hammer.”

  Dan nodded in agreement. Or victory.

  With a click, she turned on her pocket recorder.

  Dan’s kind of girl.

  match

  Outside Dakar

  Senegal, Africa

  1981

  13

  Lifeless.

  The terrain is abandoned. Daylight falls earlier out here, far from the hectic pace of the City. Gray shadows whisper to one another. They frighten me as I crouch lower to the ground and hold my mother’s hand.

  The giant branches of the cottonsilk tree sway back and forth. They bow playfully, enticing me to run outdoors, climb up into their large thick limbs and take cover. They seduce me into reaching my ruddy hands and feet around their immense trunks and shimmy my small body all the way to the top. There, I can see the world. There, I can play God. Scream if I want to. I can cry out, loud and clear, far across the deserted land. Maybe then, somebody will hear me. Maybe then somebody will see me. Save me. Save us.

  I hear a noise in the distance. Through the haze of dust and heat, the horizon holds a sky soaked with blood. I feel it is an omen.

  A cloud of noisy smoke appears against the horizontal plain and approaches our small hut. I stand up. I cup my hand and squint through the small circle. Perhaps my prayers have been answered. Perhaps it is Papa coming to rescue us. Or, is it them? No, it wouldn’t be them. They would come on foot, not by a white man’s engine.

  I examine my mother. I look closely at her dry, chafed hands. I inspect each line and indentation. I compare hers to mine. A trace of color remains on her short, bitten nails. Pink, the color of life.

  She is wearing her Batik gown. It was her request. In happier times, she wore it. For celebrations. Festivals. Sewn in our native colors, the gown is threaded in lavender, purple and orange. Now, it is all that remains of her past. Beautiful and alive, the colors dance, full of Spirit and electricity, while all around her nose and mouth flies are abuzz.

  Flies understand death. Like vultures.

  I wipe my mother’s cracked lips with warm, milky water. It was all I could find. Yesterday, when the tribesman left us, they did not supply us with food or water. I wonder if it is my mother’s fate to die in my arms. I must stop thinking thoughts like this. Mother is alive. She is safe, even if her eyes are closed. They’ve been shut for most of the day now. Little beats of pulse pump weakly beneath the fragile skin. Her breath is short and shallow. I monitor her chest carefully, the rise and fall of her breathing. Each time she breathes, I count secretly to myself. Every so often she stops. Then, my heart beats faster. My hands begin to sweat. I grow nervous and anxious. Don’t leave me alone. I do not want to die. Not out here. Not like this. I stand tall beside her. I try not to smell the strong odor coming from her bony body. In desperation, I try holding her. My tears fall heavy upon her face. I wipe them off. Quickly. How selfish of me to need comfort. I fear I am a horrible child. A dreadful mistake. That this entire situation is all my fault. Then, as if by some Divine intervention, Mother breathes again, her chest rises, and the colors of her gown dance and sing. I am saved.

  My Mother’s keeper...

  The screeching of brakes, and the purr of an engine running without movement. Then footsteps, heavy and fast, walking in my direction. If it is Papa, how did he know where to find us? So far from the city. So far from Dakar. So far from England. Wasn’t that their wish? To never allow anybody to find us. To punish us. To make us suffer. Like the others. I huddle my body behind the wooden slat, scrunched low in the dusty corner and wait. Large black ants carry weight a hundred times their size across the dirt floor.

  Footsteps grow closer.

  I lean to the side of the window and peek out.

  It is Papa. I remember the pictures. The ones Mother showed me. The ones she kept buried, hidden deep in her travel case under her bed. The ones she was never allowed to display. To anybody. And the letters… the beautiful handwritten letters on lovely paper.

  “Our secret,” she whispered. “Our bond. Our blood.”

  Blonde wavy hair blowing in the wind. Just like the yellowed photographs. Only now, his hair is shorter. I watch Papa shield his face against the sand. The squall. I try picking her up. I wrap my skinny arms around her wasted torso, but her body is too rigid, too hard. I will take her to safety myself, if I have to. Now, Papa is here. Papa will help. I know it. Mother will be fine.

  Mother lifts her head in my direction. She opens her mouth to speak. She is in extreme discomfort.

  I am doing the best I can to stop the flies. I am trying, Mother. She does not want to be seen like this. She does not want Papa seeing her in this way. Not with flies buzzing around her face. I understand. I touch her brow with a piece of my shirt soaked in the cloudy water. Her body is a volcano of fever. A fine mist of sweat erupts on her forehead. My Mother’s skin, once so beautiful, and so clear, the color of java and cocoa beans all mixed together. Now it hangs on her body like loose wallpaper, pale and ghostly. I am sure Papa will remember how Mama used to look. I will ask him, later, when we are all safe.

  I run to the open doorway. I scream out to my Papa. “Please, hurry. It is almost too late.” My voice knows no boundaries of pain. Papa is coming. Like a beautiful white
angel, Papa arrives to transport my Mother and me to safety. I sprint back to the table. I trip over the clay pot filled with the milky water.

  Mother grabs my arm. Forcefully. She takes my wrist and pulls me close to her. Her eyes open. She stares deep into my soul. She opens her mouth to speak. Her breath is stale and sour. My eyes grow soft.