by Mary Burton
She was flamboyance and showmanship rolled into a tight, seductive bundle. She clearly enjoyed the limelight.
He refocused on the still, lifeless face now stippled with small brown spots, the skin drooping. In the nearly thirty-four hours since she’d died, rigor mortis had come and gone. If left alone, her belly would soon bloat as the microorganisms broke down all the tissues in her body. In a Chicago winter she would remain fairly intact for months. In Texas heat, her flesh would be stripped to bones in two weeks.
Dr. Ryland pulled back the sheet. The blood had been washed away from the single chest wound resting squarely between her enhanced breasts. The bullet hole didn’t look savage or destructive, but if this killer had used a hollow-point bullet like the Samaritan, then her insides would be hamburger.
The doctor took several pictures for his files before tugging the microphone down a little closer to his mouth. He stated the date and time, named the victim, and listed the personnel present at the autopsy. “The technician pulled hair fibers from her body when prepping it for autopsy. The samples have been bagged and sent to the Forensic Department.”
“Good,” Mazur said.
After a detailed external examination, which inventoried a couple of scars on her left leg, an appendix scar, and a scroll tattoo at the base of her spine, he reached for the scalpel and made a Y-incision above her breasts and down the center of her stomach to her belly.
Kate watched without blinking as the doctor peeled away the flesh and cracked the exposed rib cage with a set of bone cutters. A couple of times she leaned in to get a better look, lingering until she was satisfied.
When Dr. Ryland lifted the rib cage away and set it beside the body, Kate tilted her head as she peered into the body cavity.
Dr. Ryland pointed to where the heart should be. The destruction was total. “No doubt a hollow point. Death was immediate.”
“Why aim for the heart?” Mazur asked.
“There’s symbolism in that,” said Dr. Hayden. “I believe each woman reminded Dr. Richardson of a mother, wife, or lover. He doesn’t damage their faces, but he obliterates their hearts.”
“What’s Richardson’s love life look like?” Mazur asked.
“I’ve not been able to identify any girlfriends. He did frequent prostitutes, though none I spoke to reported any violent behavior.”
“What about his mother?”
“She died when he was seventeen. No reports of abuse, but she was arrested for prostitution several times. There appears to be no other family to interview,” Kate said.
Dr. Ryland probed his scalpel into eviscerated muscle until he located a flower-shaped slug. He dropped it into a stainless-steel pan for the detective to study.
“It’s a hollow point,” Mazur concurred. The slug had bloomed into razor-sharp petals, which on impact delivered all its kinetic energy to the target rather than punching cleanly through it. “It did its job. Ripped her apart.”
Kate frowned as she stared at the slug. “Disturbing.”
“You worried about your arrest now?” Mazur challenged.
She shook her head. “Richardson’s attorney, Mark Westin, will use this to his client’s advantage. Mr. Westin is always looking for an advantage when he bargains.”
It always sucked when the guilty walked. “Whoever is copying your guy is doing a good job,” Mazur said.
“Yes, he is,” she said.
When Dr. Ryland examined the patient’s uterus, he paused. “She had uterine cancer. The mass is significant and has metastasized. I don’t think major medical intervention would have saved her.”
“Is that a first?” Mazur asked.
“None of the other victims had cancer.” Kate studied the woman’s manicured hand. “They also didn’t come from money as she clearly did. How old was she?”
“Thirty-nine,” Mazur said.
“She looks older,” Kate noted.
“She might have hidden the effects of her illness with makeup, but that would’ve soon changed,” Dr. Ryland said. He studied the blue-green veins trailing her arms. “There’s no sign of needles used for chemo or scars from surgery.”
“Could the killer have known she was sick?” Mazur asked.
“I don’t know,” Kate said.
Dr. Ryland continued his examination of the subject’s remains. There were no indications of recent trauma to the body. An X-ray revealed an old break and damage to her right knee, likely some early arthritis. There was no indication of sexual assault; however, he did find traces of semen in her vaginal cavity. She’d had consensual sex within twenty-four hours of her death. The samples were sent off for DNA testing.
The doctor shook his head. “Sexual intercourse wouldn’t have been comfortable given the size of her cancerous tumor.”
“Research shows sex is an affirmation of life,” Kate said. “Run a toxicology screen. If she was as sick as you say, then she’d have needed heavy-duty meds to function. Dr. Ryland, will you call her doctor to see if she was under treatment?”
“Of course.”
“Again, the victim’s medical history was not the motivator for Richardson. Her driving on the interstate was enough,” Kate said. “Again the ballistics report will be key.”
The doctor concluded the autopsy, repacked the organs, and sewed up the chest. The examination had taken over four hours. “I’ll keep you two posted.”
“Thanks,” Mazur said.
Mazur and Dr. Hayden moved to the outer locker room, stripped off their gowns, and met in the hallway. She dumped her surgical gown in the bin and reached for her backpack.
“So where do we go from here?” Mazur asked.
“Get me a strong cup of coffee and a conference room, and I’ll brief you and your team on the Samaritan killings.”
CHAPTER FIVE
We met in the café near the River Walk. I wanted people to see us together and know that I can be fun and kind. Especially when I want something.
San Antonio, Texas
Monday, November 27, 2:30 p.m.
Fatigue crept into Kate’s limbs during the short drive between the medical examiner’s office and the criminal justice building. Sugar and caffeine had kept her fueled for a short while, but until she had a decent night’s sleep, outrunning the exhaustion would be hard.
Out of the car, backpack on her shoulder, she followed Mazur to the building where the police department was headquartered. After another set of stairs, she arrived in the bull pen of the investigation unit.
The floor resembled countless other police department jurisdictions she’d visited. The same drab cubicles lined the walls, and similar desks paired in half a dozen sets took up the center of the room. Worn chairs for the detectives and slightly older ones for suspects had her wondering what national clearinghouse supplied all these law enforcement agencies.
Fluorescent bulbs hummed above, casting an unnaturally bright light, and blended with the familiar sounds of phones ringing, chair hinges squeaking, and the jumble of quiet conversations and intermittent heated exchanges. Common smells of aftershave, bottom-of-the-pot coffee, and an occasional unwashed perp all collided to create their own unique funk.
She suspected the break room came equipped with vending machines to sustain cops during an investigation’s long hours. If she wasn’t dropping quarters and selecting chocolate or crackers, she was ordering a burger at a drive-through. High stress and long hours on the go mixed with sugary carbohydrates, smoking, and little exercise made for the perfect heart-attack cocktail.
Mazur was fit, and his trim waist was either a stunning stroke of genetic good luck or the result of self-discipline. She guessed the latter. His bearing and cropped hair suggested military service. His age she guessed to be late thirties or early forties, and a subtly confident swagger implied he’d been a cop for at least ten to fifteen years. He knew his job and didn’t need to prove himself to anyone.
She noted no wedding band on his left ring finger, but many cops didn’t wear a band.
Less the world knew about them the better. Still, without realizing it, Mazur occasionally ran his thumb over the back of that finger. She suspected a recent divorce, which jived with the fit body. More time on his hands mixed with anger issues.
His clothes were neat, crisp, and in accordance with his salary: off the rack. He cared about his appearance because it instilled discipline, not because he was fussy. No signs of a tattoo, but of course the suit hid much, and calluses on his palms and his deep tan suggested he liked the outdoors.
“I require a fresh pot of coffee,” she said. “If you point me in the right direction, I can make it myself.”
“You’re right to be cautious. These guys don’t know how to make it.”
“Few do, but I’ve mastered a variety of machines and make an excellent cup.”
“That bravado, Dr. Hayden?” he asked.
“Do I strike you as a person given to exaggeration?” she asked.
A slight grin tugged the edges of his lips. “No, Dr. Hayden, you do not. I’m going to gather the troops,” Mazur said.
“Perfect.”
He was teasing her again. Establishing a rapport between them was important. Humor was his icebreaker. Coffee was one of her bonding strategies. Most cops lived on the sludge that passed for coffee, and a decent cup of joe was always a welcome treat.
A few officers glanced up from their work at her, and she sensed the judging process was underway. There were no smiles or welcoming comments, but frowns and a few eye rolls. No one relished bringing a Fed into his or her shop. Pride ran high in law enforcement, and no one wanted to admit they couldn’t handle the job. The fact that Mazur had brought her in so quickly suggested an open-mindedness that his colleagues didn’t share.
In the break room she passed the dented vending machine and set her backpack in a chair. She quickly cleaned out the black coating in the coffeepot and reloaded the machine. Soon fresh coffee perked. She moved to the machine and fished her credit card from her pocket. She chose crackers and a chocolate bar.
As the machine burbled, she washed the mugs in the sink and wiped down the counter. She chose the most generic mug, guessing it didn’t belong to any individual. There were few transgressions worse than taking a man’s coffee mug.
When Mazur reappeared she was sitting at a table, eating the chocolate bar and sipping coffee. Beside him was a tall redhead. She was early to midthirties with pale freckled skin, and she wore skinny jeans with a loose white blouse tucked only on her right side and brown cowboy boots. The identification badge hanging around her neck read Detective Jane Palmer.
Palmer and Mazur were an interesting mix. While Mazur appeared to be by the book, Palmer looked as if she didn’t mind bending a rule or two. She was fit and, judging by her straight posture, proud of it.
“Dr. Hayden,” Mazur said. “This is my partner, Detective Jane Palmer.”
Detective Palmer extended her hand to Kate. “Pleasure to meet you. Sorry I missed you at the autopsy this morning. I was stuck in court.”
Kate shook her hand, noting smooth palms and trim French-manicured nails. No sign of a wedding ring, but a gold-and-onyx college ring winked on her right hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“I hear, and can now smell, that you know how to make coffee,” Detective Palmer said. “That’s a prized commodity in this shop.” She moved to the counter and picked up a blue Disney Frozen mug. “And you clean. I could marry anyone who cleans.” She paused to sip. “And makes great coffee.” She nudged Mazur hard in the ribs with her elbow. “Why don’t you ever make me coffee? You’ve been here six months and not one cup for me.”
Mazur shrugged. Six months. So he was newer to the team than she’d realized. Perhaps the cool reception they’d received wasn’t just a product of her presence. He was an outsider who’d brought in a Fed. She’d bet money his hire had sent ripples through this department, and though he was still in the proving stage of the job, he didn’t seem to care about winning points with his associates. His heart was not rooted to this squad or this city.
“What’s your secret to a great cup of coffee?” Detective Palmer asked.
“Cleaning the pot and machine,” Kate said.
Detective Palmer laughed as she shook her head. “Who’d have thought?” Palmer’s phone chimed with a text. She glanced at the words and frowned. “Dr. Hayden, you’re the wordsmith, right?”
“Forensic linguistics is my specialty.”
“What do you say to a guy who texts, I might have time this weekend to see you?”
Each detective had his or her own style of breaking the ice. While Mazur appeared easygoing and patient, Palmer used humor to build alliances. “Might? Does he have a job that keeps him on call?” Kate asked.
She cocked a brow. “He’s an accountant.”
“It’s not tax season.” Kate stared at Palmer. “You know what he’s saying.”
Palmer nodded, eyes narrowing. “But how do I respond?”
“Tell him, ‘Making plans and with luck we might catch up. Have a great week.’ And add an emoji. A smiley face.”
Palmer typed the words, then hesitated. “The smiley face isn’t my style.”
“It’s effective.”
“Dating 101 over?” Mazur asked as he filled a paper cup with coffee.
Palmer shrugged, pushed a few buttons, and slid the phone in her back pocket. “Just because you don’t care about a love life, Mazur, doesn’t mean the rest of us live a monastic existence.”
He stiffened a fraction as he filled his own cup. “The other detectives and cops are headed into the briefing room.”
“Of course,” Kate said.
She followed them into the windowless briefing room equipped with rows of chairs and desks, a podium for the speaker, and a whiteboard on the wall. Ten other officers, all in suits, filed into the room. Two older cops took seats in the front. They each had short gray hair, wore sport jackets, no ties, with khakis and cowboy boots. They were the veterans of the squad, the ones who didn’t welcome change. A couple of other young detectives, who were introduced to her as Santos and Davis, stood in the back, arms folded. They were the young bucks in the proving stages of their careers. Still hungry, still aggressive, and most likely hadn’t been happy when an older, more experienced detective from Chicago had joined their team.
Kate arranged files on the table beside the podium just as a six-foot-three man with white hair and a thick mustache entered the room. He wore a gray suit and cowboy boots.
“Mind telling me what a serial killer is doing in my jurisdiction, Agent Hayden?” the man asked.
“And you are?” Kate slid on dark-rimmed glasses.
“Chief Luke Saunders,” the man replied.
“He runs the show,” Mazur said. His tone shifted, not quite deferential, but respectful and suggestive of a paternal relationship. The chief, she guessed, had been the one to buck protocol and hire the outsider.
“I’m not sure what you have yet,” she said.
“I thought you’d locked up this clown,” the chief said.
“I have. You have a copycat or an accomplice.”
The chief cursed. “So we’re the lucky sons of bitches.”
“That’s correct,” Kate said.
The chief frowned. “This isn’t PC, but I’m asking the question anyway. How old are you?”
“I’m thirty-four.” She spoke loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. “And in case you’re wondering, I have a size five shoe and I wear a petite four in dresses. I’m five foot two and weigh one hundred and one pounds as of my last physical. If any of you have other questions or remarks about my size, please go ahead and ask now.”
The chief eyed her, then grinned. “I like you. You’ve got grit.”
Kate’s gaze did not waver. “Thank you.”
The chief took a seat in the front row and folded his arms over his chest. “Go ahead and get us up to speed.”
Until Mazur’s call yesterday, she’d been almost certain Ch
arles Richardson had acted alone. She had suspected it was a matter of time before she found evidence linking him to the three other killings and disproving any theories that there could be a second shooter. Now, she had no choice but to admit he hadn’t been working alone. What, or rather who, had she missed when she’d been digging into Richardson’s background?
She lowered her gaze to her files, which were organized to the point of OCD. She’d been teased about them more times than her size, but she wasn’t concerned. Given her constant travel, the system enabled her to juggle multiple cases at one time. She set up her computer and prepped it to show slides.
Mazur moved beside Kate, and the room grew quiet. “This is Dr. Kate Hayden with the FBI.” He ran through her credentials and explained why he’d called her. “I’ll turn it over to you, Dr. Hayden.”
“Thank you, Detective Mazur,” Kate said.
No welcomes, no smiles, no nods came from the group, so she pulled a green color-coded file marked Samaritan. Moving toward the whiteboard with it, she removed a picture of the first Samaritan victim and attached it to the whiteboard with a piece of tape. She repeated the process four more times until images of the five women were lined up in a neat column that stretched from the top to the bottom of the board.
She pointed to the first picture, which featured an attractive blonde with a lean face who wore heavy eye makeup and large gold hoop earrings. “Victim one was Delores Canon, a forty-one-year-old waitress who was shot on a deserted stretch of road fifty miles south of Duluth, Minnesota. She was last seen at a Quick Mart gas station, where she filled her tank and bought a bag of potato chips and a soda. That was May 1, 2015. A video of the shooting was texted to a phone left on the victim’s lap. When local authorities inspected her car, they discovered a rag shoved in the exhaust. Initially, suspicion turned to her estranged boyfriend, but he was cleared after he proved he was in California during the shooting. The gas receipt put her at the service station an hour before her death; however, surveillance cameras at that station weren’t operational. There were no witnesses to the shooting. The case soon went cold.”
