Stone Cold

by James Glass

“Is that all you’ve got, Gunner?”

  “Is that all I’ve got? You’re joking, right?”

  He lifted the photo and set it on the table and pointed to the next one. “We also lifted several smudged fingerprints from the chair your victim was in. I think your killer tried to wipe them off, but he missed one.”

  Gunner rifled through the pile and handed me a photo. I examined the grooves and whorls of the finger. Like a locomotive, the case seemed to be picking up steam. A jolt of adrenaline shot through my veins.

  He scratched the back of his neck. “I was about to run it through AFIS. Maybe we’ll get lucky and your guy has a record.”

  We walked back to a computer with a scanner attached to it. He placed the fingerprint on the scanner and pressed a button. “Now we play the waiting game.”

  The fastest I’d ever seen a match come back was twenty-one minutes. The longest being two and a half hours. I was aiming for the former.

  My cell chirped. It was Francisco. “You find something already, partner?”

  “I didn’t get the chance. We have another body.”

  Chapter 14

  1:30 p.m.

  Frogs croaked from somewhere nearby. Mosquitoes swarmed around my head. I used a hand to bat them away. The bloodsuckers seemed to return in larger numbers as I focused on the corpse. Our victim sat half-kilter on a wooden bench along the running trail at Eugene Creek, his clothes soaked from the rain.

  Maggots and blow flies had taken up residence around the eyes, mouth, and nose. His arms and legs bound by rope. The lips were sewn together with twine. He stared straight ahead as if remembering the last moment of his life.

  “Who found the body?” I asked a patrolman standing outside the crime scene. His left eyebrow twitched. His entire body seemed twitchy—feet shifting, long arms crossing then dangling until he hitched his thumbs into his belt. Then his face turned a shade of green. He took a step back and puked. Hands on his knees, he said, “Sorry about that.”

  “Nothing to feel sorry about, officer. We’ve all done it.”

  The patrolman used a gloved hand to wipe his mouth. “A couple of hunters discovered him at daybreak.” He spit several times. “They wanted to try and get out before the rain came again.”

  My boots sank in the mud as I ducked under the crime scene tape, and the mosquitoes followed my every step. I should have grabbed the insect repellent. At least the torrential downpour had stopped.

  “Any ideas why the killer chose this spot to leave the victim?” Lieutenant McVay asked me as he approached. His khaki pants were slimed where he had slipped on some rotting leaves.

  I looked at the angry, dark clouds. “He probably knew it would rain, washing away any evidence along with it.”

  McVay scrubbed the stains on his pants with his fingertips. “Do you think he was killed here?”

  I shrugged. “Hard to say. If the tongue is cut out like the last victim, it would have left a lot of blood on his clothes.” I crouched. “His right palm has a fresh gash.”

  “Defensive wound?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Next to the body was a Ziploc bag with a folded sheet of paper inside. A rock about the size of a child’s fist had been placed on the top right corner to hold the bag in place. A gust flapped the bag. With a gloved hand, I removed the rock, set it next to the body and raised the bag eye level.

  “What do we have here?” Francisco asked as he ducked under the tape. The medical examiner, Soriano, followed, carrying a black case the size of a small suitcase.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Ray said, setting the bag on a swath of grass near the bench. “This place is hard to find on GPS.”

  “I agree,” my partner said, fanning his face. “By the way, who yacked, man?” He wore an immaculately fitted navy blue suit, his jet-black hair with the fresh look of stepping out of the barber's chair. Although Iʼd told him to wear boots, his spit-shined black shoes somehow managed to avoid most of the muck and mire.

  McVay hitched a thumb toward the patrolman. “Guess he hasn’t seen many mangled bodies.”

  Having seen far too many, I ignored the remark, opened the bag and unfolded the paper.

  For I will tread them in anger, and trample them in my fury: and their blood shall be sprinkled upon my garments, and I will stain all my raiment.

  Our killer had transitioned from carving a note on this victim’s body to typing them on a sheet of paper. Maybe he was changing his signature. Or trying to make it look like someone else killed this victim. There might be a hidden message. I read it again.

  Francisco looked over my shoulder. I detected the faint scent of cologne from his shirt. Or maybe it was his neck. My nose couldn’t identify anything specific other than it smelled musky. It wasn’t strong enough to overpower the stench of the deceased, but it helped.

  “What do you make of it?” he asked. His neck was the color of caramel and looked as smooth. I didn’t know why these feelings of…of… actually I couldn’t even classify them because the last time I felt this way about someone it was my ex-husband Michael and that didn’t turn out too good.

  He repeated the question.

  My face flushed. I blinked several times trying to compose myself.

  Stop and get back to business, Rebecca.

  “The killer used the word them twice,” I said, my voice a bit shaky. Even under stress, my mind stayed with the case. Thank God for small miracles. “There could be another body.”

  McVay blinked at the news as if I had thrown water in his face. He took a step back, but his boot remained in the thick mud. A hole at the end of his sock revealed his big toe.

  “If you’re correct…” he paused while he hopped. He was having some difficulty getting his foot back in the boot. “That would mean we might have a serial killer.”

  Francisco hooked a finger at the body. “Any ID on him?”

  I shrugged. “We were waiting for the expert.”

  Ray smiled and stepped toward the bench. “I guess that’d be me.” He reached into the back pocket of the victim’s jeans, retrieved a wallet, and pulled out the driver’s license.

  “Jason Grogan. Resides at 2525 Patricia Drive, Virginia Beach, Virginia.”

  “Let me see that,” Francisco said. “I’m going to call dispatch. Maybe he recently moved here and hasn’t gotten a Florida driver’s license.”

  I scanned the lake behind us. Several ducks swam near the shore. “We might want to call in the divers.”

  McVay rubbed his chin. “Good idea. I’ll get a hold of the sheriff’s department. See if they can give us some bodies for a search party.”

  I turned to him. “On second thought, let’s wait and see what the background report from dispatch has on… Grogan. If he just moved here, we might find the other body at his place.”

  Ray snapped several pictures of the victim. “You mean if there’s another body.”

  “There’s a thought,” McVay said.

  I nodded, but my gut told me we were looking for a third victim.

  Francisco returned. “Dispatch doesn’t have anything on Grogan. I did find a business card with his cell and home number. No answer on the cell, but when I called the house his wife, Tina, answered.”

  “Did you tell her about her husband?” McVay inquired.

  “Yes, but not before I asked her if he was down here with anyone. She said her husband and a man named Eric Baxter came here to hunt. Eric owns a small cabin near here. She gave me the address.”

  I walked toward him. “Good work, partner. Let’s roll.”

  McVay pointed at us. “Be careful. We don’t know if Eric is our killer or not.” He paused. “On second thought, I’ll get several patrol units out there to provide backup. You two don’t enter until they arrive.”

  ****

  Raindrops pounded the sedan as we pulled along the side of the dirt road behind two patrol vehicles. It seemed the clouds were pissed.

  Four officers stood on the porch of the cabin, the
front door open. One of them waved for us to approach. As we stepped out of the car, wind gusts drove the rain sideways, stinging my face. I used my hands to shield me from the wet projectiles, while Francisco used his jacket as we rushed to the porch.

  Even from the front steps, the foul stench of decaying flesh emanated from inside the dank, wet cabin.

  “Maybe it’s a dead animal,” my partner suggested.

  The patrolman who waved us up shook his head. “Not this time, detectives. The deceased is in the kitchen. I hope you haven’t eaten breakfast.”

  I ran my hand through my dripping hair. “Worse than the other victims?”

  He cocked his head to the side. “Maggots and vomit. Not to mention some of the critters have eaten away at his flesh. His eyes…well, take a look for yourselves.”

  “Did any of you touch anything inside?” I asked, using the sleeve of my shirt to try and wipe away the wetness on my face. “Shit! We forgot the crime scene kit. It’s still in the car.”

  Francisco took his coat off and handed it to me.

  “Such a gentleman,” I mocked, placing the coat over my head. It didn’t upset me he didn’t offer to go back to the car, but it would have been nice. “Wouldn’t want you to get your hair wet, Prince Charming.”

  They both laughed.

  When I got to the car, I grabbed a black case about the size of a box fan, ran to the porch, and handed my partner his rain-soaked coat back.

  Chapter 15

  2:45 p.m.

  The patrolman remained outside as Francisco and I stepped into the cabin. Yellow light cascaded from track lighting. My first glimpse surprised me. Instead of a dilapidated wood shack turned into a man cave, the floors were covered with various rugs. The furniture Iʼd guessed to be a hodgepodge of garage sale purchases turned out to be name brand quality and in good shape. A three-sectional couch and matching recliner. Several deer heads peered down from the wall above a fireplace, their dark eyes keeping a vigilant watch. On a shelf above the fireplace was an assortment of pictures. Each depicted the hunters with smiling faces, kneeling on the ground, their rifles strapped over their shoulders, hands grasping the antlers of the deer theyʼd killed.

  The only signs of disarray in the room were empty beer bottles scattered on top of a glass-top coffee table. Francisco gestured with a finger. “If we’re lucky, maybe the killer left prints on one of the bottles.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  We followed the stench into the kitchen. The floor between the sink and dining room table had standing water. Two large water jugs leaned against one leg of the table. A chair had been knocked on its side. In another sat the victim, Eric Baxter, staring at me with dark, hollowed-out eye sockets. His lips were sewn shut with twine. Blood covered his face, neck, and torso. Maggots and blow flies had taken up residence along the edges of his mouth and nose. There were teeth or claw marks along the outer rim of where his eyes used to be. Flesh had been eaten away along some of his extremities. Parts of the intestines protruded from his abdomen. Francisco coughed up phlegm. He wiped his mouth with the back of a gloved hand. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve heard of scavengers eating a corpse, man, but until now never witnessed it.”

  A knot twisted in my gut. “Me eith—” I rushed to the back door, slammed it against the side of the cabin and puked on the steps. I cupped my gloved hands and filled them with the rain and rinsed my mouth out several times. My nasal passages stung from the vomit. The images of the body flashed in my mind. I wished I could go back in time and un-see it.

  When I walked back in, the medical examiner had arrived. He winked at me. “Been there, done that, Rebecca.” He clasped his hands. “Now who’s hungry for some eggs?”

  I raised one hand in the air, the other still on my knee. “Please, Ray, I’m not in the mood.”

  “Oh,” heʼd said, smiling, “you thought I meant like over easy or sunny-side up.” He reached into his bag and removed a plastic evidence container. “I meant larvae eggs, oh, and blow flies and maggots. You know, to determine time of death.” He put the container back in the bag and retrieved his camera. “But first we must document.”

  He snapped shot after shot of the body from different angles. Two men and a woman wearing white Tyvek suits walked in from the Crime Scene Unit to begin the tedious process of collecting evidence, dusting for latent prints, and documenting the crime scene.

  The lieutenant walked over. His face scrunched from the sight of the corpse then turned to my partner and me. “Detectives. Why don’t y’all get out of here. CSU and the ME can handle the scene. I want you two to contact next of kin. Maybe the family can help us identify a suspect.”

  My feet were moving toward the door before he finished the sentence.

  Chapter 16

  3:55 a.m.

  After Francisco took me back to get my Jeep at the lake, we decided to head over to the precinct and see if we could find any connection between our three victims. If this was the work of a serial killer, and it certainly began to look that way, we needed to curtail any more damage. The public would need to know. If we held out and remained silent, sooner or later the media would know there was a serial killer and the public might panic. The Eugene Falls Police Department needed to get some detailed information to the public. Maybe the police department’s media relations could channel this to the people—help us find the killer.

  The rain bounced off the roof of the Jeep, sounding like a standing ovation at an opera. I went to one with my aunties years ago. Although I didn’t understand the words they were singing, their performance could be understood in any language.

  My cell chirped, bringing me out of the memory. It was SID. I hit speaker. “Tell me you have good news, Gunner.”

  He chuckled. “Is that all I’m good for?”

  “That and your sense of humor,” I said, staring out the windshield. The wipers made a thwump, thwump, thwump noise trying to keep up with the torrential downpour.

  “Wish I was the bearer of good news,” Gunner said, “but the fingerprint came back to your victim.”

  That deflated any momentum I had when I left his office this morning. Our investigation was coming up to the 24-hour mark soon and we had very little evidence. Something needed to break soon, or the media would pick us apart.

  “Is there anything you can give me, Gunner? Anything at all that might help crack the case?”

  “Maybe. The lab recovered a spot of blood on the tongue of the right boot. It’s O-negative which isn’t as rare as say AB-negative, but at least it will have DNA. We do know what the blood type of your victim is, but if it’s not his—”

  “It’s the killer’s.”

  “That would be my guess, but DNA doesn’t have a time stamp.”

  “Don’t be a buzzkill, Gunner.”

  “Just call ’em as I see ’em. I’ll expedite the sample to the state lab. Maybe you’ll get a hit before your killer strikes again, although doubtful.”

  “Ain’t that the truth. Be nice if you had a magic wand. Poof, the results are back. Your killer has been identified as the psychopath we recently released from the mental hospital.”

  He chuckled. “Good luck on your investigation. If we find anything else, I’ll call you.”

  I thanked him and hung up. The blood was a good find, if it belonged to our killer. The problem was it would take weeks for the results to come back from the state lab. Every law enforcement agency in the state of Florida had DNA sent there for analysis, which had developed a new breed of detectives. Ones who solved cases with science instead of getting out from behind the desk and knocking on doors and following leads. I didn’t want to be that kind of investigator. I liked knocking on doors.

  ****

  Back at my desk I was on the phone with Tina Grogan. She’d left several frantic messages on Francisco’s phone inquiring about the status of her husband. Instead of him speaking with her, we decided I would conduct the next of kin notifications while he sorted through the list of potential
suspects from the law firm.

  A howl came across the phone, piercing my ear, as she screamed at the news her husband was dead. Francisco’s eyes darted across his laptop screen. Apparently heʼd heard Tina’s wail come through my cell. Then he went back to clacking his fingers on the keyboard.

  I waited until her wailing turned into sobs. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Grogan.”

  Her voice trembled. “Do you know who killed him?” She gulped some air. “Oh, my God. His best friend Eric, Eric Baxter went to the cabin with him. Is he…?”

  “Because this is an ongoing investigation, we can’t discuss Mr. Baxter at this time.” It sounded so callous. “But to answer your question, at the moment we don’t have any suspects. Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt your husband?”

  She cried on the other end for a long moment. I wasn’t sure this had been the best way to get information from a grieving widow, but since she was in Virginia and I was in Florida, it was the best I could do under the circumstances.

  She sniffled. “I’m sorry. What was the question?”

  “Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt your husband?”

  “He’s sent a lot of people away.”

  “Away? What do you mean?”

  “My husband is an interrogator. A contractor actually.”

  “A contractor with who?” I grabbed my pen and pad and started taking notes.

  “Department of Defense. He retired from the Navy six years ago and then got a job as an interrogator down in Gitmo.”

  “You mean Guantanamo Bay, Cuba?”

  “Yes. That’s where he and Eric met.”

  “You said Mr. Grogan sent a lot of people away. Are you exclusively talking about the detainees in Gitmo?”

  “Yes, but only some of them. His last tour before he retired was in Iraq. That’s why the DOD hired him afterward. Before that he sent a number of sailors to the brig for various charges.”

  “Do you know of any that would have wanted to seek revenge after they got out?”

  Her breathing quickened. I thought she might be hyperventilating. Or worse, this woman could go into shock because I was fishing for information. I thought about getting Francisco’s attention when she said, “He never really spoke about his work much.”