The only signs of any foul play at all were the burst blood vessels in her eyes.
It wasn’t exactly going peacefully in her sleep, but as far as Reed could tell, it was about as close as a murder ever got.
Leaving the file open, the photos of Rosen lying on the examination table in plain sight, Reed slid it across the polished wooden surface. In its place he grabbed up the report from the criminalists, going through everything Earl and his crew had been able to find, which amounted to not much. They had managed to determine that the murder weapon was a throw pillow from the living room couch and that the killing had occurred in the bedroom, the body never moved.
As for forensics, they had not found a single fingerprint other than the victim’s anywhere in the house. The most useful thing they had managed to pick up was the outline of a footprint on the textured linoleum of the kitchen floor, determining the killer to most likely be male, and probably, a pretty big guy.
Reed rolled his eyes as he lifted the file and piled it on top of the coroner’s report. He was looking for a tall man. Not exactly the kind of thing he could take to a judge for a warrant.
First on the agenda for the day was to swing back past the coroner’s office and speak to Solomon. Before turning in, Reed had asked Grimes to lean on them for an expedited autopsy, something Reed hated doing but knew the office wouldn’t object to. Department policy was to pursue anything that looked like a serial killing first, and thus far the events of the previous two nights seemed to have all the earmarks of one.
At least enough similarities to justify the concern.
Rising to his feet, Reed walked to the sliding glass door overlooking a small deck. Overhead the sun was high above, beating down on a pair of lounge chairs and a charcoal grill, the grass of his yard appearing even more brittle than it had the day before.
Folding his arms across his chest, Reed ignored the promise of another sweltering summer day and focused on the scenes he’d witnessed the previous two nights. While it was true that a clear pattern had emerged and that a repeat killer appeared to be working in his jurisdiction, it didn’t have any of the usual hallmarks of a serial.
Gone was any of the usual anger that was paired with multiple deaths. There was no blood at either scene, and in at least one instance it appeared an effort had been made to save the victim.
In both incidents the killer called 911, a move that usually meant someone was looking for notoriety, wanting their victims to be found, or at the very least wanting to stick around and watch the show. Thus far, though, no contact had been made by the individual, either to the police or to the media. In addition, Billie had followed his trail away from the site of Soto’s killing, a spot that afforded no view of the first responders arriving.
The combination made no sense. He was missing something.
Rule one in any murder investigation was always, always, victimology. Don’t just focus on the crimes themselves, dig deeper, try to determine why they were committed to these specific people.
So far, both scenes had been handled in a way that bordered on intimate.
That had to mean something.
Chapter Fifteen
Reed told Billie to stay in the hall across from Solomon’s lab and left her lying flat on her stomach. The cool temperature of the basement and the tile floor beneath her ensured she would be happy for the next few minute while he went inside.
The odors of formaldehyde and decaying bodies hit him as he entered, together forming the omnipresent scent of death that Solomon seemed to barely notice, though he couldn’t imagine dealing with every day.
Wouldn’t want to even try.
Compared to the hallway outside, the temperature in the lab was even cooler. For the first time in weeks Reed didn’t feel the slightest discomfort from the heat.
The room he now stood in was a carbon copy of the original morgue downtown, stainless steel examination tables, each with a powerful, overhead light, rolling tables with surgical instruments and larger tools for autopsy, and a row of cold lockers on the back wall, the noise of exhaust fans always struggling but failing to remove the foul smells.
Unfortunately, the lab, as always, also seemed to have a capacity crowd awaiting the skilled hands of Dr. Solomon and her staff.
The majority of the 8th Precinct’s jurisdiction was known as The Bottoms because it sat below the water levels for the nearby Scioto and Olentangy Rivers, though many believed the moniker to have a much more sinister origin.
Working the night shift as a detective, Reed was firmly of the same belief.
The Bottoms was rising on the statewide lists for both crime and poverty, already worse than Cincinnati, Akron or Toledo, trailing only some of Cleveland’s very worst spots.
“Good afternoon, Detective,” the doctor said, snapping Reed from his thoughts. Positioned in the middle of the room, she was mid-autopsy, a halogen lamp above throwing down a harsh white light as she hunched over her newest charge, displaying the scene in far more detail than Reed would have preferred.
“Good afternoon, Doctor,” Reed said, realizing his body clock was so far off that he had no idea what time it actually was. “How are you?”
Solomon paused, looking up at him through the plastic shield hanging down over her face. Spatters of bone dust and bloody clung to it, the same for the blue examination gown she was draped in.
She said nothing.
She didn’t have to.
She was finishing up on Ira Soto, the dark skin glowing beneath the bright light. A sheet covered the lower half of her body, the top portion bearing a wicked gash from her shoulder to her pelvic bone, the line coming at a diagonal across her breast plate and dropping straight down over her abdomen. Thick sutures held the skin together across the portion of the body Reed could see, Solomon at work on closing the other half of her chest.
Reed was glad he had arrived late enough to miss the part where her thorax was spread open wide, or even worse, where a set of pruning shears were used to snip through her ribs.
Even as a detective with a decade of experience, there were still some things he never grew accustomed to seeing, or wanted to.
“I’m early,” Reed said, knowing that Solomon probably received the body no more than four or five hours before. “Should I stop by later or tomorrow?”
Again, Solomon looked up at him, an eyebrow cocked beneath her shield. “From what I hear, we both know you don’t have that kind of time.”
The comment surprised Reed. “Word’s getting out, huh?”
He realized the inanity of the question even as he asked it, knowing full well how the departmental gossip mill worked.
In the last 36 hours alone, dispatch, first responders from police, fire, and emergency medical services, and a host of coroner’s office personal had come in contact in some way with Esther Rosen. Human nature being what it was, every last person would have been curious in one way or another. From there, those people had friends, families, colleagues, all eager to hear and share the latest news.
Even without the media being involved, it didn’t take long for a good story to start making the rounds.
The unusual murders of two women on consecutive nights certainly qualified as that.
Without waiting for an answer to his question, Reed asked, “Anything good coming from the talk I should be aware of?”
“Complete speculation at this point,” Solomon said, pushing the curved needle through a fold of skin and drawing the heavy filament line up a few inches. “Lot of junior detective work right now. You know the drill.”
Reed did, all too well, probably better than Solomon. He let it go without comment.
“If you don’t mind an oral report I can give you the rundown now,” Solomon said, “send a written file over later.”
“Works for me,” Reed said. He didn’t have a pad or pen with him, but was reasonably certain he could hang on to anything major Solomon was about to share.
“Okay,” Solomon said, her voice ta
king on a detached tone, shifting from colleague to teacher. “Victim presents as a 49-year-old African American woman in reasonably good health. No concerns for her heart, same for her kidneys and lungs. Could have stood to lose 10 pounds or so, and the hearing aid in her ear when she arrived suggested she had some auditory deficiencies, but otherwise, she was a strong, healthy woman.”
Reed nodded. Just like Esther Rosen, this woman’s life had ended prematurely, her reward for taking care of herself, to be cut down by someone with a twisted agenda
“TOD appears to be about 14 hours ago, official COD carbon monoxide poisoning.”
“Yeah,” Reed said, nodding slightly, thinking back on the elaborate scene in her garage. He raised a hand to his chest and traced a finger along his sternum, moving it up and down several inches. “Was her, um...”
“Sternum fractured?” Solomon asked, picking up his gesture and finishing the thought for him. “No, but her face was.”
Reed felt his eyebrows rise, waiting for her to continue.
“Orbital bone was cracked and her jaw was completely dislocated,” Solomon said, rising up to full height and gesturing to the head of the table, the needle and thread still clutched in her hand. “Single blunt force blow to the cheek.”
“Damn,” Reed whispered, trying to fit it with everything he already knew. “So one night he tries to revive the victim, the next he beats the hell out of her?”
“Based on what I see here, it was only one blow,” Solomon said. “No signs of defensive wounds, no ligature marks to suggest she was bound in any way.”
Reed worked to comprehend the new information. “We found the dog out back in the bushes, so the killer probably waited until she took it out. Lay in wait for her, hit her once to subdue her before moving the body to the garage.”
Reed tried to picture the scene playing out in his head, envisioning the concrete patio behind Soto’s house, imagining the killer springing from the darkness and subduing her.
“Any idea what she was hit with?”
Glancing down to Soto, Solomon said, “Wound seems to indicate a fist.”
“Any shot at DNA?”
“Unclear,” Solomon said. “I bagged the skin and called for a pickup from the crime scene unit, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
Chapter Sixteen
The parking lot outside the precinct wasn’t as quiet as the previous night. During the week, the majority of the administrative staff shut down their computers a few minutes before 5:00, milling about with their coworkers before starting a mass exodus for the door. By 5:15, over half of the staff was nothing more than a vapor trail, most of those remaining trickling out soon after.
On days Reed needed to use his desk, he aimed for arriving after 6:00, knowing he would see the building mostly deserted. Only rarely was he stopped for awkward conversation or a case consult, the few who worked the non-peak hours having a mindset that matched his.
The clock on the dash displayed 6:06 as Reed parked in the rear of the lot. It took another six minutes for Billie to reduce a bottle of water to nothing more than thick ropes of drool hanging from her cheeks.
Together they stepped inside the precinct, both of them hot and sweating. The onset of evening had done nothing to squelch the heat, the night ahead promising no reprieve from the sweltering weather.
Inside, the building was only nominally cooler as Reed led Billie across the front foyer and up the stairs, her toenails clicking against the hardwood floor. Using the short lead, he could feel the heat passing through her thick coat against his leg, hear her panting as they climbed.
At the top of the landing Reed paused, considering going to his desk before thinking better of it and drifting to the right. More than once he had tried to slip by undetected, only managing to earn himself a severe tongue lashing that lasted twice as long as the encounter he was about to have.
As with most things, it was better just to get it over with.
It took only a moment for Jackie Randall to hear them approaching, a celebrity gossip magazine raised before her. On the desk beside her was a red and white container from Kentucky Fried Chicken, grease splotches visible on the top flaps. The scent of it hung in the air around her, Reed glancing down to see Billie’s tongue flick out over her nose.
Less than an hour after dinner, and she was still hungry.
At the sight of them, Jackie’s bright pink lips parted in a wide smile, her too-white teeth gleaming behind them. She dropped her magazine and stood, gaining no more than a couple of inches in height. She pressed her fists into her hips, a halo of white-blonde hair shifting above her head with each movement.
“Well, if it’s not Reed Mattox coming in here to see me,” she said, almost yelling the words, her voice echoing through the deserted floor.
“Hey there,” Reed said, a reluctant smile crossing his face as he sidled up to the desk, Billie dropping to her haunches on the floor beside him. “How’s it going?”
Despite the fact that Jackie was at most a year or two older than him, Reed couldn’t shake the notion that he was addressing his grandmother each time they spoke.
“I’m good,” Jackie said, the smile still set to full luminosity, “but you know me, I’m always good. Must be working here that does it.”
The comment drew a sharp snort from Reed. “Yeah, that must be it.”
Defying what Reed thought possible, the smile on Jackie’s face grew a touch larger. “And how you doing?”
The look faded from Reed’s face as he glanced down to Billie and back up again. “Oh, we’re alright I guess. Getting by.”
“Anything coming together with the Night Stalker?”
Biting back a wince at the fact that a name had been awarded to the killer he was chasing, and a terrible one at that, Reed forced his face to remain neutral. His earlier conversation with Solomon was still fresh in his mind, highlighting how fast gossip could travel through a police station.
In his experience, that speed was accelerated by a considerable factor when someone like Jackie became involved.
“Well, that’s what we’re here to work on,” Reed said. “We’ll be down on the opposite end for a couple of hours. Hope it doesn’t bother you too much.”
“Not at all,” Jackie said, the mega-watt grin back in place as she lowered herself into her seat and pulled the magazine back over before her. “Apparently, another Hollywood A-lister is cheating on his wife. Should make for some good reading.”
Without comment, Reed retreated back to the opposite end of the building, dropping the lead to the floor and allowing Billie to walk free beside him. Together, they cut a path through the maze of desks until coming to his in the corner.
As a matter of course, Reed tried to spend as little time in the precinct as possible. Compared to the other desks, his was virtually barren, housing only an aging desktop computer, a keyboard and a short stack of files.
Once upon a time he had a lamp as well, but it had long since disappeared, along with the high-backed chair with good lumbar support he preferred.
Both had gone missing months before, back when he was still the new guy in the building, and such antics were to be expected. Since proving himself on a major investigation nothing else had vanished, though nothing had found its way back to him either.
From what he heard, it was far worse in other precincts.
Starting with the top file, Reed rifled through to find the report from Solomon. By and large, it contained the same information she had given him that afternoon, adding only the detail that the blow to her cheek had been strong enough to dislodge two teeth, sending them down her throat where they were later retrieved.
A low whistle slid across Reed’s lips as he considered the type of blow it would take to inflict that kind of damage.
Even starting to get a little older, Ira Soto was nowhere near the age where osteoporosis usually set in. Barring some sort of bone disease or defect, no single punch should have broken a bone, dislocated a jaw and remove
d two teeth.
No punch by itself anyway.
Making a mental note, Reed set the file aside and took up the one beneath it. Twice as thick as the previous one, it contained a full workup from Earl and his crew, covering everything from the water spot Billie found to the duct tape on the exhaust pipe of Soto’s car. Along with it were dozens of photos, all from various angles and showing assorted degrees of magnification.
Attached to the top page in the file was a pale blue Post-It note, just four words scribbled across it in Earl’s stilted handwriting.
Not a damn thing.
“Shit,” Reed muttered, peeling the note away and pressing it onto the desktop.
Quickly, he swept through the contents of the file, the sum total yielding exactly what Earl said it would. No fingerprints. No DNA. Three spots of blood on the back patio, all confirmed to be from Ira Soto.
The duct tape yielded pine needles, grass clippings, some bits of mulch, indicating nothing of value to the investigation.
The tape and the hose were both brand new, the hose wiped clean of prints. It had been cut down to size with a sharp knife of some sort, a single slice, no serration marks in the rubber.
An analysis of the dog and the rock had also turned up nothing, the blood on the stone belonging to the animal.
Again, Reed thought the dog was too loud and needed to be silenced.
Flipping the file closed, Reed shoved it away. As far as he could tell, whoever was doing this was extremely good or extremely lucky. He knew how to avoid detection, managing to subdue two victims, and a dog, without being seen or heard.
Of course, neither of the victims lived in a high-traffic area, and both were older women living alone, making them easy targets, but still.
Leaning back in his chair, Reed laced his fingers behind his neck. While he couldn’t be certain if the killer was good or lucky or a little of both, he could definitely sense that each murder had been carefully planned.
The Good Son: A Suspense Thriller (A Reed & Billie Novel Book 2) Page 6
