by Dee Davis
But this time the killer had cut out her tongue.
He picked up the last of the photos. The latest victim was nothing like the other two. Younger by maybe ten years, she couldn't be more than eighteen. Her overly mascaraed eyes stared vacantly up at him, her hands crossed almost vir-ginally across her chest.
Another kid on the streets with nothing to lose—except her life. The body appeared to be the least marked up of the three, but that didn't negate the horror.
Even in death, pain seemed to radiate from her. As if her soul were still there, calling to him from the photograph.
Which was, of course, nonsense.
He put down the picture, rubbing the bridge of his nose. It was late, and he wasn't getting anywhere. Tomorrow, after the M.E. was finished with her, they'd know more. Like maybe her name. And why she'd been dumped there.
Maybe her murder wasn't connected to the others. She was younger, softer somehow. And the others had been found at the scene. This girl had obviously been moved. Still, there were commonalities between the three. The use of a knife, the missing body parts, and the impersonal savagery of the rape. But there was one major difference.
The music.
When the first two women had been found, there'd been Sinatra music playing, an endless recording of soft swelling notes, the love song forming a poignant counterpoint to the brutal violence that had ended their lives. He looked down at the picture of the third woman.
There'd been no music—at least not in the alleyway— but then she hadn't actually died there, and D'Angelo had the feeling that when they found the murder site, they'd find the music. It was a marker of sorts, the reason the press had dubbed the perp the Sinatra Killer.
He blew out a breath, and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. One thing was definitely for certain; there was twisted logic in every move a guy like that made. Which meant he was still out there somewhere, waiting, watching, and sooner or later, he was going to strike again.
The only real question was when.
Chapter 2
“So, how was the date?” Molly Parker shot Sara a pointed look, blue eyes sparkling. A true redhead, Molly was round and freckled, and one of the kindest people on earth. Friends since college, Sara couldn't imagine her life without Molly.
Just at the moment, however, she was questioning the fact. “It wasn't a date. It was a setup. An ambush actually.”
“I think ambush is a bit strong. I gave you a heads up.” Molly waved her coffee cup in the air for emphasis, nearly colliding with a passing waitress.
Kerby Lane Cafe was packed. A mishmash of Austinites that included buttoned-down business types, scrubs-clad personnel from the nearby hospital, and the usual collection of bleary-eyed college students. A throwback to Austin's hippie days, Kerby Lane was still staffed by free spirits, making breakfast a truly cultural experience.
“Yeah, about two minutes before he knocked on my door.”
“I'll admit my methods may have been a bit guerrilla, but hell, it was the only way we could think of to get you to actually go.”
“We?” She choked on the word, automatically reaching for her water glass.
“Bess and Ryan and me.” Molly wrinkled her nose. “Well, really Bess. Ryan did say he thought it was a bad idea.”
“Now there's an understatement.”
“That bad, huh?” Finally a little remorse.
“The only thing good about it was when it ended.”
“All right. Fine.” Molly held up her hands. “I was just trying to help. You haven't been out with anyone since Phil was in town.”
“Molly, I didn't go out with Phil. For God's sake, he was Tom's best friend. If anything, we were consoling each other. There was nothing romantic going on at all.”
“I didn't mean to imply …”
“I take it the date wasn't a success.” Bess Haskins neatly slid into the vacant chair across from Molly. Tall and gorgeous, Bess was the kind of woman you wanted to hate. Except that she was so darn nice, you simply didn't have the option.
“And then some.” Molly lifted her eyebrows in defeat.
Bess leaned forward, frowning at Sara. “Judging from the circles under your eyes, I'd say it was an unmitigated disaster.”
“It wasn't much fun, but not enough to keep me from sleep. I'm afraid that honor belongs to my mystery caller.”
“I thought you were going to get Caller ID?” There was a hint of rebuke in Bess's tone and Sara felt a twinge of guilt.
“I was. I mean, I am. I guess the truth is I haven't been all that upset about it.”
“Well, maybe you should be.” Molly nodded to underscore the thought. “Have you thought about contacting the police?”
“It's just phone calls. What could they possibly do?”
“Maybe nothing,” Molly said stubbornly, “but I still think it's worth a try.”
“I agree with Molly.” Bess toyed with the corner of her menu, eyes narrowed in thought.
Sara raised an eyebrow in surprise. Molly and Bess were seldom on the same side. A massage therapist by day, Molly spent her nights working in the Austin theater. Which meant drama was her middle name. By contrast, understated was the best way to describe Bess, who worked tirelessly behind the scenes as Texas Today's chief financial officer.
So, the truth of the matter was that although they were friends, they were seldom in agreement about anything. Bess's no-nonsense sensibilities often clashing with Molly's free-floating artistic notions, the battleground leaving Sara stranded somewhere in the middle.
Except this time.
Sara braced herself for the siege.
“I think you should talk to Tony. That way it's not exactly official, and there might be something he can do that the officer of the day couldn't.”
“I'm not going to talk to your husband, Bess. He's a homicide detective, for God's sake. I can't foist my little problems off on him.”
“Of course you can.” This from Molly whose expression hovered somewhere between exasperation and concern.
“And tell him what?” Sara knew she was being obstinate but she hated being railroaded, even when intentions were good.
“Everything.” Bess shrugged. “At the very least, he'll be able to suggest things you can do from your end. Look, if nothing else, it will give you a little peace of mind.”
Sara shook her head, accepting the inevitable. “All right. You win. I'll talk to Tony.”
Not that it was going to do a bit of good, but it would get her friends off her back, and if by some miracle Tony could help, then all the better. The caller didn't really scare her, but his calls were intrusive and Sara cherished her privacy.
“Looks like we nailed cause of death.” Rupert Garcia looked up from the dead woman's body, scalpel in hand. “She definitely bled out. Based on what I'm finding here, I'd say she'd been dead a couple days before the old guy found her. I can probably give you a more precise time after I finish the autopsy.”
D'Angelo nodded, keeping his focus on the M.E.'s face. Tony, on the other hand, was watching his work with interest. Tony had always been fascinated with the macabre. “Got an I.D.?”
“Nothing yet. Without fingerprints, it makes it a little harder. I'll send off her DNA, although odds are, unless she has a federal record or has spent time in prison, there won't be a match. And of course I can work off dental records, but that's going to take time.”
“And time is exactly what we don't have.” Eric blew out a breath, trying to contain his frustration. “Anything to link us to a perp?”
Garcia shook his head. “Whoever did this knew how to play the game. There are traces of latex, so he definitely wore gloves, but other than that, there's not a sign of him. No semen, no hairs, nothing personal at all.”
“Just like the other ones.” Tony watched as Garcia efficiently sliced through the victim's tissue. “Except he moved the body. Which means he's changed his M.O.”
“But not his signature.” Eric frowned down at
the body, automatically depersonalizing it.
“I've never been exactly clear on the difference between the two.” Garcia looked up from his calculated carving.
“An M.O. is learned behavior,” Eric explained. “It's what the perpetrator does to commit the crime. It often changes as the killer refines his routine. So, by definition, it's dynamic. A signature is what the killer has to do to get off or fulfill himself. And that never changes. It's the reason why he does what he does.” He shot a glance at the plastic-clad bat lying on an adjacent table.
Garcia followed his gaze. “The rape and mutilation.”
“If I had to call it, yes. All three women were the victims of object rape. Which implies anger as opposed to the need to control, which is more prevalent with contact rape. And when you couple the anger with the overkill,” he nodded toward the stab wounds, “I'd say our guy is one unhappy camper.”
“But we can't be sure it's the same guy.” Tony, as usual, was the voice of reason. “There's the dump site to consider. It's possible we've got ourselves a copycat.”
Eric shook his head. “Could be, but my gut's saying no. What about the amputations?”
“Based on the diameter of the wounds, I'd say he's using a surgical knife or scalpel. Which is a change from the last two. The first vic's amputation seemed almost impulsive. Spur of the moment. The wounds were jagged, and there were hesitation marks. The second was more controlled, but the weapon of choice was still a knife. But this last one,” he waved at the woman's hands, “is clearly more surgical. Like maybe he's been practicing.”
“That fits the pattern. These guys are always trying to perfect their routine. Hell, by definition a serial killer is a successful killer. He's gotten away with it. And every time he repeats the act, he just gets better at it.” Eric studied the woman's body. “Did he use the scalpel to kill her?”
“No. Definitely a larger-blade knife. You can see the serration marks.” He pointed at a gash on her abdomen, the torn skin almost ruffled-looking.
“What we need is to find the murder site.” Tony crossed his arms, his eyes narrowed in thought. “You got anything that could connect her to a location?”
“Yeah, actually, I had better luck there. I found two different fibers. Forensics identified the first as cotton from a sheet. Cheap one, according to the report.” He tipped his head toward a file on the table. “And the second was a carpet fiber. Low grade. The kind used in apartment complexes.”
“Well, that should narrow it down.” Tony grimaced, obviously disappointed.
“There were also traces of disinfectant. Could be someone tried to clean the scene while she was still present. Anyway, the good news is that it's unique. A biodegradable mix made locally by a company called Earth Free.”
“Only in Austin.” Tony's sarcasm was tempered with a hint of excitement. “How many clients you figure they have?”
“Of the low-rent variety? No more than a hundred or so. It's not easy to be ecological on a budget.” Garcia lifted the victim's head with one hand, scalpel in the other. “It's a start. And for the moment, I'm afraid it's all you've got.”
“It's enough. We've got a possible link to the first two murders, and a lead on figuring out where she was killed. With an I.D. we might have enough to pull it all together.”
“I'll let you know if I find anything else.” Garcia made an incision, intent now on the autopsy.
Tony pulled Eric toward the door, his mind obviously already on the next step. “Odds are that if the vic really is a hooker, she's got a sheet.”
“And you're thinking if we go through the computer records we might just get a hit.”
“It'll be time consuming, but it's a straight sight better than waiting for dental records on a Jane Doe. And we can go at it from the other side by getting a client list for Earth Free.”
They walked out into the sunlight, the glare blinding after the subdued lighting of the morgue. D'Angelo reached for his sunglasses. “Want to flip for who gets stuck with the computer?”
Tony smiled, a wicked glint shining in his eyes. “Not necessary. You're not exactly noted for your tolerance of the Birkenstock set. You'd be better off back at the station with the computer. No sense in getting all those ecological left-wingers up in arms.”
“Great.” Eric put on his shades, and pulled out the keys to his car. Truth was he hated desk work almost as much as he hated liberals.
Sara had been standing outside police headquarters for almost fifteen minutes, trying to convince herself to abandon ship and skip the whole thing. As a kid, she'd learned that the cops weren't always your friend, just as she'd learned that the system didn't always live up to the hype. Reality was sometimes a long harsh ride from propaganda.
But she wasn't a scared kid anymore, and she wasn't here as a part of the system. She was here to get help. And if nothing else, she'd promised her friends she'd do it. Still, walking into the building was proving to be a lot harder than she'd thought it would be. In her life, nothing good had ever come from crossing that threshold.
All the more reason to cross it now.
Besides, it wasn't like she was confessing to murder or something. She simply had a crank caller. Millions of people received calls like that every day. Squaring her shoulders, she walked toward the building.
“Sara? Is that you?”
She pivoted at the sound of her name, her gaze traveling across the plaza searching for a familiar face. Nate. With a smile she changed directions, coming to a stop in front of her friend. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.” Tall and angular, Nathan Stone had missed being handsome by a hair. A burgeoning writer, he was paying his dues by working as an assistant at the magazine, filling in wherever he was needed. “Ryan wanted me to find you. Your phone's not on, so I'm playing message boy. The mayor's shoot is off.”
She frowned, then nodded, understanding dawning. “The press conference.”
“Exactly. Satchel's stuck in Fredericksburg, so Ryan wants you to take pictures. I've been assigned to assist. He thinks maybe there's a tie-in to the story you've been working on.” She was doing a photo essay on teen runaways, focusing on prostitutes in particular.
“Works for me. Always glad to have you on my team.” Sara glanced down at her watch. “Is the press conference still scheduled for two?”
“Yeah. I just thought if I could catch you early, maybe we could grab some lunch.” His smile was playful, but she could see the shyness hiding in his eyes.
“I can't. I have an appointment.” She tilted her head toward the building. “I'm meeting Bess's husband. I've been getting some prank phone calls.” She shrugged, striving for nonchalance. She liked Nate, had even confided in him a time or two, but she didn't see any value in getting into her personal life in the middle of the busy plaza.
“I didn't think the police would do anything about prank calls.” He frowned, narrowing his eyes in thought. “Still, I guess it's worth checking out.”
“That's what Bess and Molly thought. I've got to say I agree with you, though. I think it's just a huge waste of time.”
“You want me to come?” He looked like he'd rather walk across a parking lot filled with broken glass.
“No. You go have your lunch. I'll be fine. I'll meet you at the press conference.”
“You got it.” His smile was back to genuine. “Good luck in there.” He waved, and turned toward the parking lot, his lanky gait making him look almost adolescent.
She turned back to face the building. She didn't need luck. It was only a conversation after all. And besides, Nate was right. There wasn't a thing anyone could do to help her. Certainly not the police. She'd just have to weather the storm. Sooner or later the caller would lose interest and move on to something more entertaining.
Jane Doe had a name. And a rap sheet. He'd have to wait for confirmation to be certain, but fortunately for him Lydia Wallace looked much the same in death as she had in life. In and out of foster care
for most of her young life, the girl hadn't been a stranger to hard times. On her own for the last few years, the sheet showed a series of arrests for solicitation and drug use.
Eric hit the print button and waited for the machine to spit out a hard copy of her file. Hopefully he'd find something that would give them a lead on where she'd been killed, although kids like Lydia weren't exactly known for frequenting the same places.
Still, everyone had a territory. And all they needed to do was establish hers. Then, with a little help from Earth Free, they'd be able to narrow down the possibilities. Police work was like a puzzle, and each piece had to be linked to the others before a complete picture emerged. And it took patience. Lots of patience.
But then, that's what he was good at.
At least professionally.
Personally, he wasn't as good at putting it all together. He'd given marriage his best shot. He and Lauren had tried, but in the end, it simply hadn't worked. The job just took too much out of him, and Lauren had deserved better—had demanded it, actually. He smiled, his thoughts bittersweet. The fact that he'd failed her still rankled, despite the passage of time.
The phone rang, and he reached for the receiver, his thoughts turning back to the case. The past was the past. And best he could tell there was no need to keep reliving it. Lauren had a new life and he had his work. All's well that ends well—or something like that.
“D'Angelo.”
“Any luck?” As usual, Tony didn't mince words.
“As a matter of fact I was just running her sheet. Name's Lydia Wallace. Small-timer, but a constant fixture in night court.”
“Told you she was a pro.”
“Looks that way. Hopefully that'll play in our favor if she was killed on home turf. How are things coming at Earth Free?”
“They offered me herbal tea.” Tony's disgust carried solidly across the telephone lines.
