Blind Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  'Tattoo Man's become quite the celeb corpse since arriving at Quantico. Everyone wants a look at him. I peeled a section of his skin for ink and tattoo experts to have a look at.” She now fingered some of the books on her shelf, still reclaiming her invaded space. “You wouldn't believe the lineup outside the autopsy room to get a look at this guy's skin.”

  Santiva laughed heartily in response. “Speaking of horror, gentlemen, Dr. Coran is currently involved in a most inter­esting and weird case of murder, and a particularly brutal one at that.”

  Jessica picked it up from there, adding, “The man died of rabid dog bites to sixty percent of his body, and he was con­scious the whole time. I see no blunt trauma, inconsequential organ disease, and I rather doubt that toxicology will report anything but inconsequential blood alcohol and barbiturate levels.”

  Santiva grimaced. “So the man was both alive and lucid when the animals attacked him.”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Prelim autopsy report will indicate that he died of the attack, the shock setting in before the rabies could take him out. But believe me, it was one slow, agoniz­ing death.”

  “So then, it's true that someone actually set him up to die in this gruesome fashion?” asked Eriq, shaking his head over the image.

  “No longer just possible, highly probable,” she replied, pushing back in her chair, working out the autopsy kinks. “Someone loaded those dogs with the disease and used them as lethal weapons, turning them into voracious, mad wolves. After having been bitten ninety to one hundred times, escap­ing over that junkyard fence, Mr. Tattoo Man would've been paralyzed with pain. There was no way out, no escape.”

  “I've had any number of peculiar cases over the years my­self,” put in Sharpe, who now sat alongside Copperwaite, “but such a death ... horrible.”

  Copperwaite tried on a smile for Jessica, adding, “We can match your American horror stories horror for horror over the centuries. We've been at it a great deal longer.”

  “Is that so?” She looked at Sharpe for an answer. While Sharpe's penetrating gaze engaged her, the other man fiddled with a notepad and pen as if trying to learn their use for the first time. He flipped through the pad, obviously searching for some questions he'd meant to pose. Stuart Copperwaite, In­spector Sharpe's right hand, as you Yanks would say, she thought she heard him thinking.

  “So, you gentlemen of the Yard have come calling on the colonies for help,” she quipped.

  “Stuart and I have come a distance on this crucifixion case, you see. Awful business.”

  “Indeed, you've come a great distance.”

  “To ask for your assistance, Dr. Coran.”

  “But you have it already.”

  Sharpe, obviously a man of few words, tossed a manila file folder he'd been holding close to his chest since she'd walked in the room. The file came cascading across her already clut­tered desk, crime-scene photos spilling from it, crime-scene shots of crucifixion victims—three in all.

  “Three bodies? There've been three now?” she asked, her quick perusal of the photos confirming the answer.

  'Two men and a woman,” said Sharpe.

  “And you're certain it's the same killer at work in all three deaths? “Same MO.”

  “Precisely,” added Copperwaite, “detail for detail.” Jessica's whiskey voice took on a tone of doom. “Then it's a serial killer you're after, one who crucifies his victims. I knew about the woman found in the park, but I thought it a freak thing, a onetime incident, not likely to be repeated.”

  Copperwaite lamented, “So hoped everyone.”

  “Would you have a concerted look?” asked Sharpe, his finger jabbing at the file folder filled with pictures of the vic­tims.

  “Yes, let's have a look,” she replied, bracing herself for the crime-scene and autopsy photos, for even though she'd studied thousands, such images still caused her stomach to grip and her throat to go dry.

  The crucifixion-death autopsy photos proved no exception, each more ghastly than the one before it. Obviously, no crosses in the photos, no shots of the primary crime scene, only the remains of the victims, which had been left at various dump sites.

  Sharpe now added another file for Jessica to look over, this one displaying full-body shots and facial features of each vic­tim, the Christ-wounds, including the side wounds clearly vis­ible in these shots which detailed the wounds to each extremity as well. Jessica now put aside the horrid photos of the crucified victims, saying, “Your killer seems to prefer a more mature victim, I'd say.”

  “Yes, average age comes in around fifty,” agreed Sharpe.

  “And he's not particular as to the victim's sex.” Jessica stood and paced to the window. “During my career, gentle­men,” she began. Her eyes fixed on a troop of young and energetic FBI cadets doing evening calisthenics out on the lawn to the barking rhythm of a drill instructor. “I've seen asphyxia death in all its myriad forms, from asphyxiation by water to choking by hand to autoerotica and old-fashioned self-inflicted hangings, but this ... This is absolutely unusual and rare: murder by crucifixion.”

  “Exactly how rare is it, Jess?” asked Santiva.

  She pointed to the books he'd been thumbing through. “I'm willing to bet my pension you found nothing in your research, Eriq.”

  Jessica looked out across her office. It had recently been enlarged as a kind of thank-you from Quantico's powers that be, a rare FBI reward—an office rivaling the size of Santiva's own. Hers looked out across several partitioned laboratories where practitioners of the forensic arts worked like so many alchemists each day and night.

  Jessica leaned forward in her chair, one hand on her pul­sating temple. With the other she lifted another book from the shelf, doing her own quick reference, then held it up and said, “Nothing ... not a word on death by crucifixion. It just isn't in the modern literature of death investigation. It's rare, quite rare in the long history of murder and homicide annals, yes.” She continued, waving an arm. “Extremely rare busi­ness, especially since the Dark Ages. So few cases in fact, most books on forensics and pathology say not a word about it, as you found in rummaging around through my books, no doubt.”

  “Rare indeed,” replied Sharpe, “but it would appear, Dr. Coran, that someone the other side of the Atlantic is in dire straits to change all that, perhaps make it a bit less than rare?” The man's commanding voice, filled with bell-like resonance, along with his British accent, fell soft and pleasant on her ears.

  'Tell me, Dr. Coran,” continued Sharpe, “what have you learned about crucifixion death since we last spoke on the phone?”

  “Interesting thing about crucifixion, gentlemen ...”

  “Yes?” asked Sharpe.

  “The weight of the body on the outstretched arms interferes with exhaling, due to the intercostal muscles which—well, suffice it to say that in a hanging state such as crucifixion breathing would become impossible. The normal rhythm of inhaling and exhaling would painfully and slowly cease due to the exertion of pressure on the lungs and the inability to lift the rib cage.”

  “Rib cage?” asked Copperwaite, fingering his own ribs.

  “In normal breathing, we lift our rib cage to bring in air. A man on a cross, arms overhead, he can't do this. Exhalation is impaired as well, given that it's passive and due to gravity pulling at the body.”

  “Meaning the death occurs because you're unable to exhale properly?” asked Sharpe.

  “Inhale, unable to inhale, so as to make the counterpoint of exhalation work. It's a tandem operation. Can't inhale, can't exhale, simple as that.”

  “Now I have it.”

  Jessica leaned forward in her seat, contemplating for a mo­ment before going on, thumping the pen extended before her. “Any labored exhalation at all would become diaphragmatic, useless you see ...”

  No, they didn't see. She saw that in their eyes, not unlike the vacant black stare so often given to her by young Yon Chen.

  She stepped to a chart of the human muscles a
nd pointed, pinpointing the exact location within the intercostal muscles of the chest to which she'd referred. She added, “Over a pro­longed time, this undue pressure, pressure the muscles were never designed to withstand . .. Well, this would lead to im­paired respiration and finally asphyxia.”

  “I would've thought the pain, shock, and trauma”—San­tiva's Cuban features winced with the words as he spoke— “from the nails driven through your hands and feet alone would kill a man.”

  “A good Catholic boy like yourself, Eriq, and you don't remember how long Christ took to expire on that cross?”

  “Guess it slipped my mind. Maybe I didn't want to know.”

  “Some say three hours, some say three days and nights.” She turned to face their guests. She felt a bit like a female Sherlock Holmes, knowing the men wanted her to wave some sort of magic wand and instantly tell them their case repre­sented an easy and simple matter to be cleared up in no time at all.

  “Have you any leads whatsoever on the first crucifixion killing?”

  Copperwaite bit his lip. Sharpe definitively shook his head and said, “We're in a dark closet.”

  Jessica said, “It sounds like an interesting case. And of course, if there's any assistance I can lend, why, you have it, of course.”

  Eriq told her, “Scotland Yard is requesting our—rather, your—assistance on this troubling case.”

  “Then you will take on the case, Dr. Coran?” asked Sharpe directly.

  Jessica looked from Sharpe to Santiva who said, “I prom­ised these gentlemen our best, Jessica. And I promised you a trip to London some time back, if you recall. This is your opportunity to work with Scotland Yard on the biggest case since ... well, since Jack-the-Ripper.”

  “I suppose you've already sent two burly Secret Service men to my apartment to pack my unmentionables for me,” she quipped. “No, but I gave it some thought. It's an excellent oppor­tunity for the bureau and the Yard to work hand-in-hand, something both agencies need more of, especially since the success you had taking out the Night Crawler with Scotland Yard's help.”

  Jessica remembered the case only too well. Copperwaite said, “Everyone's seen reports on how you tracked down that Night Crawler monster in international wa­ters off the Cayman Islands.”

  Richard Sharpe bit his lip and nodded. A long sigh like a memory escaped him before he added, “And two years ago when you cornered that madman in your famous National Park, how you brought an end to that terror. Disgusting fel­low, that one, torching his victims after locating you on the phone to treat you to their screams for mercy.”

  Jessica looked quizzically across at the two Britons, saying, “I had no idea that British law enforcement paid so much attention to my cases.”

  “Your cases have been taught at the Yard,” Copperwaite stated. “Every copper in London knows about you, and how you defeated Mad Matthew Matisak, and some of them other maniacs you've brought to justice. Some of your cases read like a ... a Geoffrey Caine horror novel, I daresay.”

  Eriq now laughed and asked, “So, Jess, how soon can you be packed?”

  “Packed for London? Me?” She stared off into empty space. A smile colored her features as she wondered how she might get her long-distance lover in Hawaii, Special Agent James Parry, to meet her in London. They had continued their relationship against all odds far longer now than anyone imag­ined possible, until their last spat. London might be the an­swer to rejuvenate their passion.

  Sharpe remarked, “It's a serious problem we have on our hands, no doubting that, Dr. Coran. We've put it out on the wires, Interpol, CIA, your FBI, anyone anywhere who might have seen the like of it.... Well, as you see, we're anxious for help from any quarter, and if you can see your way clear to helping out the Queen, you see ...”

  “The Queen?” It sounded so quaint, she thought. “You mean I should go to London for God and Country?” she asked. “And the Crown,” added Copperwaite in deadpan.

  “One hell of a case,” repeated Santiva. “Think of it, Jessica. Serial murder by crucifixion. You know anyone else in our organization ripe for this kind of case?”

  “No ... no, I don't.” She nodded and said, “I'll do it, and I hope your trust in me, gentlemen, is not misplaced.”

  “Not at all likely,” countered Sharpe, whose grin brightened his dour countenance and the room, making him look like the quintessential father figure. Something most pleasing in his manner, something she found appealing, attractive.

  Together they took Santiva's private car to the airport, and along the way, Santiva kept assuring Jessica from his front passenger seat that J. T. could handle the Tattoo Man case. The Britons, as if abducting her, crushed her between them in the backseat. They'd stopped at her apartment only long enough for her to throw a single bag together. She'd forgotten her umbrella.

  “Three deaths so far, and silence for a time?” she asked Sharpe.

  “Yes, that's the state of it,” replied Sharpe.

  “Perhaps the number three is significant to the killer?” She raised a hand to her head, running fingers through her hair, biting the inside of her cheek in thought. “So, you've come for a forensic profiler.”

  “That and all the advice and information your Behavioral Science Unit can provide,” Sharpe replied. Sharpe had thick, graying hair, once a deep, reddish black. He appeared a man who kept a strict regimen, his tall frame and hard body rivaled Sean Connery, Jessica thought. That's who he reminded her of, the actor and Otto Boutine, a kind of combination of the two. Otto had been her first mentor in the FBI Behavioral Science Unit. They'd fallen in love, and Otto had died saving Jessica when he threw himself between her and Mad Matthew Matisak. It had been in Chicago, Illinois, the first major case she'd ever worked, thanks to Otto, and now it seemed like forever ago.

  As the car made its way to Dulles International Airport, Jessica wondered what specifically about Richard Sharpe there was to compare to Otto, and quickly decided it must merely be the man's physical appearance.

  Copperwaite, while younger, had slicked down hair and carried a hefty, stocky man's girth and barrel chest, thick hands and fingers, his eyes like melons with the seeds clear and alert, while Sharpe appeared his opposite, a man of height, who wore his hair in a shaggy but comfortable mess, his hands and fingers gracefully long, making her wonder if he didn't play a musical instmment. His eyes held a deep sadness, that of the wounded. There was certainly some mis­ery and mystery there, but he rarely met her eye to be so examined.

  Her gaze challenged Sharpe's to meet her own. He did not. In fact, the man's broad shoulders and stone-sculptured phy­sique notwithstanding, his eyes seemed hardly able to hold her look, perhaps out of some almost boyish shyness that might have been cute in another context.

  “So as it sums up, we know precious little about crucifixion deaths,” commented Sharpe, “but there must be some litera­ture, even if ancient, somewhere on the subject.”

  “No one I know has had any experience with it ever, at all,” she replied, “not my father, or my old teacher, Asa Holcraft, no one.”

  “That's just it. No one, obviously, either side of the Atlan­tic.”

  “Well, I do know that Jesus died of dehydration and as­phyxiation brought on by the weight of his body collapsing in on his windpipe and lungs during the most well-known of all crucifixions,” Jessica stated, trying to make right her ear­lier, lame response. “I know a bit about crucifixion motifs in art, Raphael and all that. Took Art Appreciation 101 in col­lege, you see, and well, even Picasso's little known, dark work.... Well, I guess that's of little consequence here. You didn't happen to find a tau cross or depictions of angels, the sun, or the moon anywhere near the body, did you? There was that gash at the ribs on his left side.”

  Sharpe's naturally narrow eyes widened. “In point of fact, yes. Each body had been bled like Christ with something the coroner suspects to be a spearhead. Just as in the Bible.”

  “You needn't think me psychic. I caught a glimpse of the wou
nds in the photos.” Frowning, Jessica pushed on. “The question becomes: Why crucify the victim when drowning or simple strangulation would accomplish the task more effi­ciently and certainly more easily? Unless ...”

  “Yes?” Sharpe eagerly encouraged.

  “Unless the bastard wants to enjoy a prolonged kill, or the ritual of the crucifixion itself. It might take hours, even days before a person would expire, depending on the stamina and perhaps the weight of the individual as the most important variables here. Age, of course, is a major factor.”

  “We've had three victims, all nailed to makeshift crosses, or a single cross, somewhere hidden. One cannot say with any degree of certainty which it might be, of course,” said Sharpe in a tone so level, he might have been referring to tea and crumpets. Jessica at once admired his detachment, the man's bearing and professional sureness, his professional sense. At the same time, she understood the veneer of jaded cynicism and cold aloofness essential to maintaining one's own safety net in such matters, one's own wall of defense. Most people found her own professional air a “bitch act”— both officious and off-putting—when in fact, she required the necessarily stout and impenetrable wall of detachment to go about the business of death investigations every day. If she were to get by with the same dignity and bravado of her male counterparts, she knew detachment to be the only cure-all.

  “So, I take it we do not have the crosses to work with, only the dumped bodies,” Jessica said as the car entered the airport grounds. “At this point in my career, having seen so much human suffering and brutality, little remains to truly shock me. However, these crucifixion deaths do, even from this dis­tance.”

  Sharpe shook his head. “We're scouring for the cross, but frankly, we don't know where to look.”

  “And the nails or spikes used?”

  “No, the bodies are dumped with the spikes removed, but we've sized up the weapon, that is the spikes, through cal­culations made against the wounds.”

  “Nails driven through the palms and into the crossbar, here,” added Copperwaite, indicating exactly where on his own left hand, pointing and saying, “precisely in the center of each palm. At each wrist and the ankles, rope bums occur where the victims were anchored before the spikes were driven.”