by Leslie Wolfe
He took a sip of tea from a large cup, then grimaced. It was probably cold and stale.
“She was raped, sodomized, and beaten,” he continued, “repeatedly, over the entire time he had her. I’ll know more when I’m done with the full exam. I didn’t find any fluids; no DNA we can use.”
“Fingerprints?” Tess croaked, her voice choked. She cleared her throat. “I mean, hers?”
“Her fingerprints match the ones filed on her missing person’s. The report was too new for the prints to have been in the system, but they match. There’s more.”
“Sorry…” Tess whispered. This was the second time she’d interrupted him.
“She was cut, superficially, many times, using a sharp blade, a scalpel, or maybe a box cutter. I counted 153 different cuts, not more than a couple of millimeters deep, on her back and on her thighs, barely deep enough to leave an almost invisible, hairline scar. All cuts were peri-mortem. Some are almost completely healed.”
Tess felt her stomach tie into a knot again.
“These were not life-threatening cuts. These were done to inflict pain and terror. Think 153 paper cuts,” the doc clarified. “There are traces of inflammation on some of those cuts that I can’t explain yet.”
“You’re saying—” Michowsky started to ask.
“He’s saying torture,” Tess replied, before Doc Rizza could speak, but the coroner nodded as she spoke. “This was about torture, physical and psychological, done for days.”
“You said she was beaten, Doc,” Fradella asked, “but I can’t see any bruises on her face, and not many on her body either.”
“For some reason, this killer preserved her face almost intact. I did find a bite mark on her lower lip, almost completely healed. Depending on how deep it had originally been, she could have been bitten several days prior to her death. I’m not sure the bite mark is related, but we can’t rule it out. As for the rest of her body, the fluoroscope showed signs of deep bruising though, most likely recent, in the last 24 hours prior to death. Trust me, she was beaten.”
“It’s almost like he was considerate,” Fradella said. “Face intact, soft restraints.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Fradella,” Tess snapped, more harshly than she’d wanted. “He raped her for five days, for Chrissake. This is not about being considerate. It’s about control. It’s about complete power.”
Tess saw Fradella look away, clenching his jaws. Now she’d done the very thing she’d told Michowsky not to do and scolded Fradella in public.
“Sorry, Detective Fradella, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s all right,” he replied coldly.
“Anything else?” Michowsky asked.
“Yes. This is also preliminary, like everything else I’ve told you so far. She has been given shots, repeatedly, both intravenous and intramuscular. This finding, combined with a completely empty gastrointestinal tract, but no signs of dehydration, tells me he was feeding her intravenously.”
“Why would he do that?” Fradella asked.
Tess cringed, in anticipation of the coroner’s answer.
“To manage her eliminations,” he replied. “Her bathroom needs. He probably kept her tied up in a harness the whole time and wanted things as clean as possible.”
“Oh,” Fradella replied and looked away.
“Yeah. However, that only explains the IV needle marks, not the ones in her buttocks. I took samples and sent them for trace findings. Her tox screen showed many different chemicals, and that could be how she got them in her system, through shots. As soon as I know, you’ll know. That’s all I have so far.”
They were silent for a few seconds. Deep in thought, Tess rubbed the nape of her neck for a few seconds, vigorously, then insisted a little on the left side, right under her ear. Sometimes, she felt the urge to run her hand over that area, to relieve the painful stiffness of sore muscles and stress. Some people accumulate stress in their upper backs, as their postures suffer, reflecting the tension in their weary brains. With her, it was mostly on her left side. Since she’d started working on this case, the almost forgotten soreness in the side of her neck had come back fiercely, pasting a swatch of burning pain that stretched from her cervical spine to the back of her ear, right there on her hairline. Maybe it was the morgue… too cold, too drafty. Maybe it was the AC in her car. A heating pad later should take care of it.
“So let’s make sure we got this right, Doc,” she said. “This killer was not hesitant, right?”
“Not for a second,” Doc Rizza confirmed. “He’s skilled with a scalpel and knowledgeable of serums, with access to whatever medication he needs, from IV fluids to whatever else we’re going to find on that tox report. My conclusion is he’s some sort of medical professional, most likely a doctor, with unrestricted access to meds, which could mean hospital doctor, not walk-in clinic. Hospice could work too. This man has cut human flesh before. There’s no doubt.”
“Told you,” Fradella said, “this has serial killer written all over it.”
“It does, I agree,” Tess replied quietly. “We’ll need to find his other victims. Doc, any chance Sonya is his first victim?”
“It’s possible, but not likely.”
“Thanks,” she replied, getting ready to leave.
The two detectives led the way to the automatic doors, and Tess followed closely. She turned her head to say goodbye, when Doc Rizza called her name.
“Agent Winnett.”
“Yes,” she replied. The doors closed quietly behind Michowsky and Fradella. She saw them step into the elevator on their way up to the squad room.
“My dinner tonight will be some liquid of sorts,” Doc Rizza said, smiling sadly. “What will you do?”
“I don’t have time for liquids, Doc. When your work ends, mine begins. I’m going to catch us a killer.”
Chapter Eight
Memories
She climbed into the elevator as soon as the doors opened and waited impatiently for them to close. As soon as they did, she let out a long, shattered breath, feeling her eyes burn with tears. A little dizzy, she reached out and touched the elevator wall. Cold to the touch, the metallic panel offered balance and some relief. She turned and watched her image reflected in the smudged mirror. Tense features, haunted eyes threatened by tears, deep ridges around her mouth, on her forehead.
“Get a grip for fuck’s sake… you’re a goddamn FBI agent,” she whispered to her own reflection. “You’re here to fight for them, not cry for them. You’re here to kill the mother—”
She stopped mid-word and pursed her lips, angry at herself. Then she pressed the button for the second floor and set the elevator in motion.
“Catch, not kill, what the hell is wrong with you? Catch, not kill,” she whispered.
When the doors slid open on the second floor, she looked her normal self, or almost. She strode to Michowsky’s desk, where he was seated in front of the computer, with Fradella leaned against the wall and looking over his shoulder.
“We’re ready for next of kin?”
“Yes,” Michowsky replied, hesitant to peel his gaze off the computer screen.
“What are you looking for?” Tess asked, recognizing the familiar search screen.
“Other victims. Testing your serial killer theory.”
“Anything?”
“We just started. You want to do next of kin now?”
“Give me a couple of hours, will you?” Tess asked, already headed for the stairwell. “I need to talk to that missing persons cop. Then we’ll do next of kin, all right?”
She didn’t wait for their answer; she didn’t have to. They probably weren’t happy to put off next of kin notification, pushing it closer to the end of day, when traffic got heavy and everything just got harder to do, with everyone being exhausted and irritable. Then there was also the issue of the press, who’d been pounding on them, demanding to know the identity of Dawn Girl. They couldn’t release her identity to the press before notifying her family; that
was the procedure, and it made sense. But everyone wanted to know who Dawn Girl was. Who was the beautiful, young woman who met her demise in their small, quiet, little beach town? Her presence on the beach, no matter how brief, had burned a disturbing memory in the minds of the peaceful locals. They all wanted answers; they wanted Dawn Girl to be put to rest, and her killer gone—gone from their lives, their neighborhoods, their coffee-time conversations.
Tess plunged her key in the Suburban’s ignition and, as soon as the engine started, set the dials on maximum AC. Standard-issue FBI vehicles were black, but that color made little sense in southern Florida. It overheated in the torrid sun, scorching her lungs when she inhaled, and burning her skin when she sat on the leather seats. The vehicle had powerful air conditioning, and within seconds she could breathe normally in the overheated SUV and could touch the steering wheel without wincing.
She caught herself delaying her departure, fumbling with the GPS and the radio settings. She didn’t have to think why. She knew already. Next of kin notifications aren’t easy for anyone to handle, and it never gets any easier. But for her, after having to tell Rose that her husband, Mike, had died in a shooting, notifications had never been the same.
Mike had been her partner and her mentor as a young federal agent, teaching her all the ropes, how not to get killed, and how not to get discouraged in the ongoing struggle with the red tape of bureau politics. For almost nine years, he’d desperately tried to build some political correctness into her, not much, just enough to keep her out of trouble. His teachings had caught a little, maybe enough to work when she was calm, not a speck more. He’d also showed her how to be a good investigator, how to ask the right questions and go after her instincts, even if they made little logical sense. Over the years, the two of them had built a great working relationship that extended naturally into a solid friendship, including Mike’s wife, Rose, and later their son, when he was born. They’d become Tess’s family, the three of them. They were her Thanksgiving dinner plans and her Christmas mornings. They were all the family she had.
Then one ill-fated day, they were closing in on a drug ring with terrorist connections. The gangbangers had figured out that raising money for terrorism was easier if they raised seed money and then grew it exponentially through drug operations. Tess and Mike worked on a joint task force with the DEA, and had SWAT backup when they arrived at that house.
They busted through the doors and spread out inside, clearing one room after the next. She heard voices as agents entered the rooms. “Clear!” “Clear!” Then she entered a room where she didn’t find anyone, so she moved on, shouting, “clear!”
Then the gunshot came. A single, thunderous gunshot, coming from upstairs, followed by the heavy thump of a body hitting the floor. The rest was a blur in her memory, with occasional shreds of clarity, nothing more. They finished clearing that house soon thereafter, and the shooter was quickly overpowered and taken out in cuffs. A young kid, maybe 19, maybe 16. SWAT and DEA officers were heading out of that damned house, one by one, but Mike wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
When she finally went upstairs looking for him, holding her breath and feeling the fist of fear tearing at her gut, she knew already. She didn’t have to ask. She found Mike lying lifeless on the stingy carpet, blood still pooling from the bullet hole in his temple.
She remembered screaming, then pushing aside the comforting hand of the SWAT unit commander. Then a blur again, until the moment she rang the bell at Mike’s house.
Rose opened the door and at first she smiled, but within a split second her smile froze. Tess stood in that doorway, paralyzed, unable to utter the tiniest sound, but Rose didn’t need words; she understood all too well, just by looking at her haunted eyes, her drawn face, her shaking hands. She screamed, an agonizing, endless shriek, then she slapped Tess across the face, hard, leaving red marks on her tearful cheek. Again the hit came and again. Tess stood there, defenseless, not even blinking, not thinking for a second she didn’t deserve every single one of those blows. Mike had been her partner, hers to keep safe, hers to watch over, hers to keep alive. She’d failed.
Suddenly Rose had her arms around her neck, sobbing uncontrollably with her face buried in Tess’s chest, and that was worse to bear. She wrapped her arms around the tiny, fragile figure, and hugged her tightly, unaware of her own tears flowing, droplets of liquid sorrow entangled in Rose’s hair.
That was the last she’d seen her, except the funeral. She didn’t dare ring that doorbell, not sure if she’d ever be welcome there again. She blamed herself… why wouldn’t Rose blame her too? There was no redemption to be found for Mike’s death, and she didn’t want to cause his widow any more sorrow. She’d driven by their house a few times, even stopped across the street for a few minutes, making sure they were okay. No… that wasn’t all of it. She wished she’d somehow muster the courage to cross that street and comfort her friend at a time of great loss, but couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t stop her own tears.
A quick honk brought her back to reality. The traffic light had changed a while ago, but she hadn’t noticed. She floored it, passing through the intersection just as the light was changing to yellow.
Chapter Nine
Missing Person
She signed in at the front desk of North Miami Police Department. The front desk officer, a young, hesitant man who couldn’t have been more than 25 years old, took an entire minute to stare at her badge before offering her a seat and calling her party to join her downstairs.
A few minutes later, another ridiculously young officer invited her into a small conference room, scantily furnished, and more deserving to be called an interrogation room than anything else. This one didn’t wear a uniform though; he just packed the standard issue Glock and wore his badge on his belt.
She followed the silent gesture made by the young officer and took a seat, frowning.
“I’m here to see Detective Felipe Garcia, in regards to the Sonya Weaver disappearance.”
The young man extended his hand, smiling confidently.
“I’m Detective Garcia, nice to meet you.”
“Jeez, Garcia, are you even 15?” Tess reacted, while shaking his hand.
Taken aback, the young man cut the handshake short and blushed a little. He frowned and pulled away. Tess bit her lip, reflecting bitterly on how she knew just what to say to irritate the crap out of every single human being she met.
“What do you need, Agent Winnett?” Garcia took his seat across the table, his welcoming smile evaporated.
“I need to know everything that was done in the Weaver case. Who you talked to, what you found, every single thing.”
“Why is the FBI looking into this case? Has a ransom request been received?”
“Why don’t you answer my questions first, if you don’t mind,” Tess replied coldly, irritated by the detective’s relaxed demeanor. There was no real sense of urgency in his manner of talking about Sonya’s case. That didn’t mean he didn’t do his job. It was more of a feeling she had, or maybe her expectations were too damn high.
Garcia opened a manila folder and reviewed some notes.
“Sonya Weaver, 22,” he recited. “Disappeared on March 22, late at night, after a night out with friends at Club Exhale.”
“What kind of club is that?”
“Dance club. One of the hottest nightclubs in the area. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it.”
She let his comment pass.
“Walk me through what happened.”
“Sonya and two of her friends, Ashely King and Carmen Pozzan, were out partying at the Exhale. Out on the dance floor, mingling, having fun, meeting people, making out.”
Tess flashed a glare his way.
“Just quoting from their statements, Agent Winnett, that’s all. I’m not the one who’s judgmental here,” Garcia replied, then shook his head once, a reaction to what he must have thought about her.
“And? What happened next?”
&nb
sp; “Sonya simply vanished from the club. No one saw anything, no one remembered anything.”
“Video surveillance from the club?”
“Inconclusive. Our techs couldn’t find her leaving the club, and all cameras were working that night. But it was dark, and club lights don’t help much with video clarity.”
“Who reported her missing?”
“Her parents, after the girlfriends went to their home in the dead of the night. But we didn’t log the case until the next morning. With young adults, there’s always the chance they went away on their own or are passed out somewhere, from too much alcohol or drugs.”
“This case was different. Why didn’t you make an exception? It wasn’t someone who went out and didn’t come home on time. It was someone who vanished from a dance floor full of people, for Chrissake,” Tess let her anger seep in her voice, too hard to control when faced with the indifference she sensed in the man slouched on the chair in front of her.
Garcia looked irked by her raised tone, almost insulted.
“I did make an exception, Agent Winnett. Typically, we don’t log such reports for at least 24 hours. That time, I logged it in less than 12.”
“Then what?”
“Um… I interviewed the two girls. The only thing that was anything out of the ordinary had happened almost a month before. They were out partying, at the same club, when Sonya hooked up with some guy and left with him, but then later ditched him in the parking lot. Next morning she’d told Ashely the guy was some kind of creep, and that she’d gone home alone.”
“When was that?”
He checked the file again.
“On February 28. I don’t think it was related. I think it shows she liked to party though.”
