Drop Dead Perfect

by Rick Murcer

  CHAPTER 23

  Joannie watched the door swing open. Two men entered, both wearing black masks. It took all the control she possessed not to burst into tears. Or worse, let go of her bladder. The smell of stale urine now made sense. Her lips quivered under the tape.

  Holding her breath, she watched as the first hooded man strolled over to the wall farthest away from her. He carried himself with a certain grace that was hard to ignore even in these circumstances. It was Kyle. No mistaking that gait. A second later, the music began to play. The theme from Somewhere in Time gently emerged from speakers she couldn’t see, but the sound was sinless. This piece always got her attention.

  The other man moved toward her. His walk was similar to Kyle’s, but not exactly the same. Her first thought was that he was a wannabe. That he wanted to be Kyle. He leaned close to her. Through the slit in the hood, she felt his warm breath. She tried to stretch away.

  “Don’t be afraid, Joannie. I can see the fear in your eyes, and that’s the last thing any of us want to see. You have no reason to fear. Love is devoid of fear. And I love you. We love you. Certainly you understand that, don’t you?”

  It was the same voice that she’d heard before. Again, not Kyle’s voice, but close.

  What in the name of God is going on?

  Joannie stared back at her velvet-tongued captor and suddenly grasped what she had to do to have any chance of getting out of this. Love? That was what this was about? Love? This delusional twosome thinks this is about winning her love, her very heart.

  She might have an edge that could get her out of this unholy prison. She’d minored in theater while getting her undergrad and everyone had told her that was a total waste of time. Going to Hollywood to try to make it as an actress would only put her in the unemployment line or waiting tables, or hooking, to make ends meet. She’d been good, but she eventually conceded that her friends were probably right and became a nurse. But at this moment, they were dead wrong. Acting just might save her life.

  Softening her expression, Joannie gazed at the cloaked face in front of her and slowly nodded. Her eyes indicated she understood, after wavering just the right amount of time. She had to make it look like she’d gone from unsure to somewhat trusting. Hesitant trust, but trust just the same.

  Praying that she’d buried her true emotions behind her facade and that she could continue to do so, she waited for his response. Slowly he leaned ever closer, until he was inches from her nose, his hazel eyes penetrating to her very soul. She let him see what she needed him to see, hoping it was what he wanted. His hand reached out and stroked both sides of her face. She remained steadfast, confident, hiding the reaction that would probably get her killed.

  Abruptly, he stood and motioned to Kyle.

  “I think she’s ready. I want to talk to her, to hear what she has to say.”

  There was a hint of excitement in his words. She’d passed the first test.

  Kyle came around to his partner’s side and removed his hood. “If you think so. She’s seen me already, so no reason to keep this on. If she’s the one, it won’t matter. If . . . Well, if she’s not, it won’t matter then, either.”

  Kyle flashed the other man a quick grin. Joannie almost lost the composure she’d sought so desperately to find.

  Kyle Black was crazy.

  “The one. It has such a deliciously mysterious ring to it, doesn’t it?” the other man answered.

  Kyle bent down on one knee and smiled at her.

  “Joannie, I’m going to take off the gag and the duct tape, and that will allow you to speak. If you scream, I’ll put it back on until you’re ready to be reasonable. Understand?”

  She nodded, trying to create an impression of utter calm.

  Two minutes later, her mouth was free. He’d been so gentle removing the tape and residue. His touch soft, his care not to hurt her was like that of a lover. There was no question that he felt something for her, or at least the idea of her. She shivered. Can this situation get any more bizarre? She decided not to reflect on that.

  Running her tongue over her lips, she felt how dry they were. The taste of the tape lingered, as did the odor of it. Who would have thought the smell and taste of duct tape could be such a blessing . . . Except they were. Somehow, they reminded her that somewhere the world was normal, and duct tape was part of that world. Stupid, maybe, but anything she could hang on to helped.

  “Can I get you anything?” Kyle’s partner asked.

  “Wa-water?” she said.

  “Of course.”

  He pulled a bottle from his jacket and gave her a sip, then another, then another.

  “You’ve been here a few hours. Not long enough to dehydrate you, but we also didn’t want you to be uncomfortable waiting to . . . Well, do you have to go to the powder room?”

  “I’d like to do that, too,” she said.

  Even though she had no real urgency, it would be good to get up and walk, and maybe get a feel for where she was. One look at his face said that wasn’t going to happen.

  “We planned for that. Your chair has a panel we can slide back, and you can use the bedpan. You may not be able to feel it, but there’s no bottom on your panties. Forgive me for getting so personal, but it was necessary. We wouldn’t want you wandering around now, would we? Not until you’re ready.”

  He reached around to her left hand and moved it over a small metal button and depressed it, using her fingers. She felt the cooler air rush up to her as the panel moved away.

  “You can use it anytime you like.”

  Good God. These two had thought of everything. Her heartbeat rose, despite her effort to keep calm. Anyone who thought things out like this was driven. The question was, Driven to what?

  While she and Kyle had been out to dinner, a reporter on the television had chattered about a kidnapped woman’s murder, showing her picture. The image of the young lady found in the park popped into her head. There was no doubt in her mind now that Kyle had brought that woman here. Had he also been the one to kill her? She chose not to dwell on the answer.

  Joannie pushed the button, and the panel slammed shut.

  “I’ll take care of that later. Okay?”

  “Of course, darling Joannie.”

  By now, Kyle was standing a few feet behind her would-be suitor, arms folded, wearing a curious look of anticipation.

  The masked man said, “I have some questions for you, dear Joannie. But first, do you have any for me?”

  Okay, girl. You better win an Oscar for this. Nothing else matters.

  “What’s your name?”

  He cocked his head to the right, and she watched his smile through the hood’s opening.

  “Good question. You can call me Damon.”

  “All right. Damon, it is,” she said, returning the smile. “Damon. Why am I here?”

  “To fulfill your destiny—and mine.”

  “Can you tell me what that means?” she asked, as dread coiled itself ever more tightly around her.

  “Yes, darling Joannie, I can. Kyle, my brother, found you for me. I love you and want you to be part of my life forever. To live with me. To let me take care of you. To be the one special woman in the entire world to me . . . and to have my children.”

  CHAPTER 24

  When Ellen and Brice had met with Lelani and shared their thoughts about the killer’s possible motives, the FBI profiler had taken a few notes.

  Her words still echoed in Ellen’s mind. “While I appreciate your input, and you may have stumbled on a few things, please don’t share those thoughts with anyone. I haven’t completed my profile, and I don’t want other cops to start going down the wrong path here.”

  She wasn’t being rude, exactly, more like condescending, in an FBI sort of way.

  Brice’s response had been brilliant. “Listen, Agent, as a detective, and
speaking for FT Harper as a talented CSI, we didn’t stumble on anything. We know what the hell we’re doing and, frankly, your input is far more an educated guess than something to hang our hat on. You know, like actual evidence.”

  Ellen wasn’t used to anyone speaking for her, but it made her feel good that Brice was standing up for her. She could have kissed him.

  The special agent’s response, with a wry smile, was predictable.

  “Again, you may be right, but I’ve seen a few of these, so all I’m asking is that you trust the process, and I’ll try to keep in mind that this case needs all of us, okay?”

  “Fair enough,” Brice had answered.

  They’d stared at each other, and then the agent had begun to walk away, but only after reminding them that she wanted to be informed if anything important developed, even before the next meeting. Then she left, saying she had hours of research to do. That had been fine with Ellen—and Brice, as far as she could tell. She had to get to the lab.

  Brice walked her to her vehicle under the pretense of asking more questions.

  “Nice job,” she said. “It takes talent to piss off the Feds.”

  “Hey, I have the knack,” he answered.

  “So what did you want to ask?”

  He looked at his feet, then, as if making up his mind, he met her eyes with his.

  “Do you believe me to be hard to work with?”

  “Are you talking about the incident at Oscar’s scene?”

  “Yeah, that too, but in general?”

  It was difficult not to smile at him. He seemed like a boy needing his mom’s approval, yet she was as sure as the wind that she didn’t want to be his mother. She was flattered that he cared what she thought. She understood how hard it could be sometimes to make a connection with people, and it had to be difficult for a man like Brice to communicate.

  “Brice, I think you’re a great cop. As far as hard to work with, no. But I will say I’m looking forward to that cup of coffee and accompanying talk, okay?”

  “Okay. I know you’re chomping at the bit to get back to the lab, and I’ve got a case to work. But thanks, Ellie.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said, and touched his hand.

  She jumped into her SUV and tore out of the parking lot, making a beeline for her second home.

  She barged through the doors of her kingdom with more purpose than ever before. She had two murder scenes to analyze and Oscar’s death to solve. Oscar’s and death in the same sentence was terribly wrong.

  Walking toward her office, Ellen scanned the main floor. Today her world of beakers and centrifuges had a different feel. There was an intensity to the normally subdued activity. At any one time, there were generally twenty techs on a shift. Today it seemed like twice as many. Big Harv and the rest of the brass weren’t fooling around.

  As she sat down at her computer, Ellen glanced in the large mirror near her door just over the file cabinet, and then she stared at her reflection.

  The image in the mirror looked different. Her auburn hair was in place, her oval face pleasant to look at, especially without those damn frown lines that had increased since Joel left. Her violet eyes seemed to belong to her again rather than the ghost of a woman she’d been forced to accept each morning after the divorce. Maybe it was her high knee to Joel’s balls or her conversations with Brice. Maybe both, but she was far more herself than she’d been. Oscar’s death had been tough to take, and she hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before. Yet the angry edge she’d been harboring for so long was absent. Her therapist had said she just might wake up one morning and be a new woman. Ellen was tough enough; she just had to believe it.

  “You in this world, Ellie?”

  Ellen looked at the man in the doorway.

  “Good morning, Steve. No, I guess I wasn’t. Just trying to get my mind in order. We’ve got a million things to do, and time is what it always is—in short supply.”

  “Yes. That’s the norm, right?” asked assistant supervisor Steve Jansen. He was a short man, good-looking, with neatly cut black hair and strong shoulders. His eyes were hidden behind thick, red-rimmed glasses. It was his geek trait. All the techs joked about their geek traits and took pride in them.

  But he was intelligent and possessed the patience of a saint when it came to long, tedious tests, like DNA and fiber comparisons.

  “There’s another young woman missing who may be part of this. We don’t have any time to waste,” she said.

  “I heard. Another reason we have mucho staff working.”

  “Like I said, it always boils down to time. Time we never seem to have,” she said.

  “Of course you’re right. That’s why we started on the first batch of evidence bags last night and brought in more help. We didn’t really have to force anyone into overtime. People volunteered when they heard about Oscar. Some of the staff took the department up on a counseling session or two, but they’re all back. He was one of us. We’re doing double shifts and are happy about it.” Steve lowered his voice. “He was a good CSI, non–meat eater or not,” he said, giving her a half grin.

  “He was,” she murmured, surprised she could speak through her tight throat.

  Ellen shook off the emotion, sat up straight, and exhaled. “Let’s find out what happened and make this easier on all of us. I want Oscar to be proud of us.”

  “One crew is working on the first murder scene, although they’re not absolutely sure what you want with the bags of dirt that look like . . . bags of dirt. The other four techs are working on Oscar’s crime scene. Also, Oscar had two bags from the second woman’s scene in his kit—one had a fiber in it and another had some black dirt. Not sure what we should be looking for on those, either.”

  Ellen’s mind came alive. She felt inside her pocket and brought out the second cell phone, staring at the one belonging to Clara as she did. She carefully placed Holly’s next to it.

  “At the first crime scene, we found what appears to be Clara Rice’s cell phone buried in a plastic bag about thirty feet from the body. The second one, Holly Seabrook . . . Her phone was much closer to her body but also buried. I’ll be processing the phones, but to answer your questions, have the techs search for traces of metal in the dirt that may not belong to the specific geological table indigenous to that area, as well as fibers, or maybe even insects, in any and all stages of life and death that might not be indigenous to those samples.

  “We’ve got the geological reports for those areas, so we need to make that comparison. There were fibers on the victims’ dresses that have to be compared to the database. I also found three or four hairs at the first scene that have to be analyzed. I know I found some at the second one that looked to be the same color, at first glance anyway, but without those bags—the ones that went missing out of Oscar’s van—well, you know that my guess won’t stand up in court.”

  “All right,” Steve said, “that gives us some focus. You also sent one evidence bag that contained a plastic bag and a candy wrapper. Is that for fingerprints?”

  “Yes. It’s a long shot but we’ve got to go there. I also want to see the ME reports as soon as they come in. Both women had their necks broken, and I think identical vertebrae were fractured. Oh, and send someone downstairs to the morgue with the OCT laser scanner and see if we can get any latent fingerprints from the bodies or their clothes. That’ll get us going full bore for now.”

  “Got it.”

  Turning to leave, Steve stopped, exhaled, and cleared his throat. “What about Oscar’s . . . scene?”

  “I’ll talk to those crews. I’ll be diving in as soon as I get these pictures processed. Meanwhile, I need an update on everything they have: ballistics, pictures of the angles of shot penetration, skid-mark measurements, and IAFIS reports to see if we get fingerprint matches. I especially want a close analysis of the netting in the back and how the evidenc
e bags were cut away from it. Blade marks can be useful. I’ll want the autopsy report . . . Everything. Everything. Then we all need to meet at the end of this shift to compare notes.”

  Steve frowned and took a step in her direction. “Why?”

  “Big Harv thinks these crimes could be related because the evidence disappeared.”

  “Really? What do you think?” he asked, surprised.

  “We don’t get paid to think. We just do our job and see where it leads. Having said that, it could go either way, this could be some random act or not. We have to do our best to find out.” She was on a roll. “Let’s get two people working on the camera system to see if we’ve got leads for vehicles or images clear enough to get the FBI’s facial-image crew involved.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said the woman pushing through the door.

  Detective Sanchez stood a few feet in front of Ellen’s desk. She was wagging her finger at Ellen and had a smirk painted on her round face.

  Just when Ellen thought that her ever-present anger might have begun a disappearing act, her buttons finally free of annoyances pushing them, she realized she was wrong. Seeing Sanchez in her lab, her world, her sanctuary, was all it took.

  She got up, moved around the corner of her desk, and grabbed Sanchez’s lapel.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” she yelled.

  Her right hand hung down by her side, then acted of its own accord as it curled into a tight fist.

  Ellen then stepped away from her desk and swung as hard as she could.

  CHAPTER 25

  Detective Brice Rogers walked toward Ellen Harper’s office, Bella Sanchez at his heels. He stopped to shake hands with a forensic tech he’d known in the academy. As they began exchanging pleasantries, his partner rolled past him, headed straight for Ellen’s office. As he turned back to his old team member to ask about his kids, it hit him.