Frozen Statues, Perdition Games

by L E Fraser

  Security was extreme and accessing the visitor parking lot required inputting a numeric code Hannah had emailed her. Once she’d parked, Sam followed arrows along a shovelled path to the court entrance and went through a glass door to reception. Five floors rose around an airy central atrium that connected the two halves of the complex. The rows of white tables and brown chairs in the common area reminded her of a schoolroom.

  Hannah was waiting in the foyer and she offered a small wave before going over to speak with a security officer. Sam joined them, provided identification, and signed away her life. When the officer was satisfied that she wasn’t carrying a bomb, security surrendered her to Hannah’s custody.

  The forensic pathologist led the way across the sunny atrium to the administrative and staff offices. Numerous security cameras protected the space, and Hannah held her eye against an iris scanner to open the door.

  When they entered the corridor, she turned and smiled. “Now that rigmarole is over I can greet you.” She pecked Sam on each cheek. “My darling, I was so happy to get your call.”

  There were more lines on her friend’s face than Sam recalled, and her short hair was grey. It wasn’t a surprise that Hannah didn’t colour her hair or try to hide her age with makeup. She was aging with the same grace and dignity with which she lived her life. The woman was one of the finest forensic minds in the world. When Sam had met her ten years ago at the University of Toronto, she had taken an instant shine to the genius scientist.

  “It’s been too long,” Sam admitted shamefaced.

  “I understand. Thank you for your Hanukkah gifts.” Hannah led the way through a labyrinth of hallways. “It was sweet of you to remember us.” She stopped outside a closed door and dug beneath her misbuttoned green cardigan to expose a lanyard with an access card dangling from the end. The door clicked and she held it open for Sam to enter.

  After they had chosen seats at a round table in the meeting room, Sam asked, “Did you perform the autopsies on the frozen statue victims?”

  “Yes.” Hannah folded her hands and placed them on the cover of her iPad.

  Scientists preferred candour and Sam got straight to the point. “Do you detect similarities between these victims and Incubus?”

  Hannah’s brown eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

  It wasn’t a request for her to repeat the question, so Sam remained silent and waited.

  With a sigh, Hannah said, “Both victims were killed by the same perpetrator. It’s a serial killer again.”

  “What about the cause of death, the condition of the bodies, or the crime scene?”

  Hannah studied her with no expression. “I consider you a friend. But you used to be a cop. You know how this works. I can’t disclose details about an active investigation.”

  “I’m not asking you to share with me anything that the Chief Coroner isn’t ready to release to the media.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Well, I hoped we could brainstorm, like we used to do when you lectured during my criminology classes.” Sam cleared her throat and wished Hannah had offered coffee. “I won’t repeat anything we discuss, and I accept that all speculation is of an academic nature and irrelevant to the case.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Incubus wrote to me after they found Lester Griffiths and again after police recovered Micha Washington.” She hoped her tone was objective and detached. “He claims there’s a connection to his crimes that police missed.”

  Hannah scowled and the lines around her mouth puckered. “He’s hoodwinking you. You know better than to trust anything that man says.”

  “He claims you’ll miss the connection.”

  “Oh, I see.” Hannah laughed and cupped her chin in her open hand. “Now you’re trying a spot of manipulation. Hoping that bruising my ego will force me to collaborate, are you?”

  Sam returned the smile. “Is it working?”

  “No, my darling, I’m impervious to the rantings of a psychopath.” Her brown eyes grew sympathetic. “I’m not invulnerable to the pain it must cause you to receive correspondence from the man who savagely murdered your sister.”

  “So you’ll chat with me? Off the record, I mean.”

  Hannah leaned back in her chair with a pensive expression. “From what you’ve read in the papers, you must suspect a likeness or you wouldn’t be here. What are your impressions?”

  “There wasn’t a physical mark on the victims. The killer left them near water and creatively staged their bodies. The recovery site is not the kill site. He—or she—is killing during the winter.”

  “She?” Hannah arched an eyebrow.

  “Is that impossible?”

  Hannah ignored the question. “Let’s examine the disparate aspects,” she said. “Incubus abducted one female victim at a time and they were similar in age, appearance, and socioeconomic background. This new killer abducted both victims together. These young men differ in age and ethnicity and don’t resemble each other. They have nothing in common, other than being first-year students at Canada’s largest university.”

  “Crimes can be similar when the victim profile differs,” Sam stated.

  “But victimology is just one of many differences,” Hannah argued. “There are no calling cards, no ritual similarities, and the span between murders is much shorter.”

  “I spoke with Bryce Mansfield at Toronto homicide,” Sam said. “He told me four other students are missing.”

  Hannah nodded. “If those missing students are potential victims, then the Frozen Statue Killer is mass abducting. That’s a significant difference. There’s nothing that resembles Incubus’s MO.”

  Sam ignored her statement. “Did Micha die at the same time Lester did?”

  “No.”

  “So the assumption is that the killer holds the men together,” Sam said. “Were there ligature marks on the bodies or evidence of sexual abuse?”

  “Neither victim presented with signs of physical or sexual abuse,” Hannah said.

  “How about the toxicology report? Were they drugged?”

  “No.”

  Sam was silent for a moment, thinking. The primary crime scene required privacy and space. It had to be large enough to hold a number of men. She didn’t think the killer kept them together. Without restraints or drugs, there would be too high a probability that the prisoners would rebel and overpower their captor. An image of cells rose in her mind. They might be together but in separate confinements.

  “My darling, there is nothing in either autopsy that resembles Incubus’s crimes,” Hannah said. “I can promise you that.”

  “But the killer chooses a method of execution that doesn’t leave a mark.” Her argument had a delusional ring, but she was certain they were missing something.

  “You’re wrong. Incubus did use restraints,” Hannah said with brusque impatience. “He covered the wounds on his victims’ ankles and wrists with mortician’s makeup. Another inconsistency is that Incubus didn’t feed his captives. These new victims were well fed prior to death, as evident from their stomach contents during autopsy.”

  “Bryce said Lester and Micha died from cyanide inhalation. Are you sure it wasn’t ingested?” As soon as the words left her mouth, Sam felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment. What an insulting thing to ask a forensic pathologist.

  If the question offended Hannah, she hid it well. “The lungs showed a high hydrocyanic acid content.”

  “How hard is it to gas someone?” she asked.

  Hannah shrugged. “You’d calculate the mass of chemical against the body weight of the victim. Once you had the lethal milligram dose, you’d drop the potassium cyanide into a vessel containing sulfuric acid to create hydrogen cyanide gas. The gas stops the victim’s cells from producing oxygen. Cardiac arrest occurs within seconds of inhalation.”

  “But the room would have to be airtight, right?”

  “Yes, and the killer would need to be cautious to avoid contamination. Cryst
al potassium cyanide can be absorbed through the skin,” Hannah said.

  “How long does it take to freeze a grown man?” she asked.

  Hannah shrugged again. “It depends on the size and temperature of the freezer and the weight of the man.”

  “But you’d need a sub-zero walk-in freezer,” Sam said.

  “Not necessarily. Based on the positioning of both bodies, forty cubic feet would provide adequate space if the height exceeded the width. A standing freezer that retailers use to sell bags of ice would work. They have a large glass door. The killer could stage the body and leave it for twenty-four to thirty-six hours to freeze in place.”

  Sam thought better on her feet and got up to pace the small space. “How would you freeze it in the pose you wanted?”

  “If you waited until rigor mortis passed, rope suspended from the top of the freezer and secured to the sides would work. Rather like marionette strings.” Hannah held up her hand before Sam could speak. “I’m not confirming or denying there was evidence to prove that hypothesis.”

  Sam thought back to high school chemistry. “Mass increases when frozen, right?”

  “Wrong,” Hannah said. “Ice crystals weigh the same as liquid.” She paused. "I see where you're going with this. It wouldn't weigh more but it would be more difficult to move because of the lack of flexibility."

  “So how did the killer transport awkward, frozen corpses to the secondary crime scene?” Sam asked in frustration. Maybe she was being played. Everything she was learning suggested that the killer had to be a man. A strong woman could drag dead weight. A female could stuff a man into a freezer and tie his arms into position. But Sam couldn’t imagine any scenario in which a woman could move a frozen corpse. The photos of Micha on Facebook depicted a tall, muscular man.

  Hannah gazed into the distance with a speculative expression. “I can tell you that the ice crystals were small, meaning the freezing process was fast. The killer might not pose them in a freezer. A freezer van would work. If that’s the case, the van could also serve as the gas chamber. Assuming you wore protection when you opened the doors and that you allowed sufficient time to air out the van, you’d face minimal risk of exposure. Hydrogen cyanide vapour is lighter than air and dissipates rapidly.”

  Hannah reached across the table and clasped Sam’s hands. “I understand that another serial killer is bringing back terrible memories for you. Don’t let Incubus gaslight you. These crimes don’t resemble his.”

  There was a similarity, but Sam couldn’t grasp what it was. “What about the black stones?” she asked. “Why did the killer remove the victims’ eyes? Psychologically that implies regret. The killer doesn’t want the victim to look at him.”

  “It could be aesthetics,” Hannah said. “Eyes undergo visual changes after death. The appearance may have interfered with the killer’s image.”

  Because the killer intends it to be art, Sam thought. Incubus had also considered himself an artist. That was why he had taken intricate care with the tattoos and why he’d groomed his victims and positioned his sleeping beauties with a lily. It was weak reasoning. But it might be a piece of the puzzle.

  “What do you think the lilies meant?” Sam asked.

  “Haven’t you tortured yourself enough over the years? Why does it matter?”

  “It doesn’t.” She smiled. “It’s just professional curiosity.”

  “How’s the PhD coming along? I’d love to read your thesis, when you’re ready for some input.”

  “I’d like that and I appreciate you brainstorming with me today. I know how busy you are with the new murders.”

  Hannah glanced at her watch and stood, reaching over to pick up her iPad. “I hope the data I’ve shared shows you the diametrical inconsistencies between the cases.” She opened the door. “There is no likeness between Lester’s and Micha’s deaths and Incubus’s crimes.”

  Sam hugged her and a subtle hint of gardenia shampoo evoked happy memories of Friday Shabbat dinners with the Morgenstern family.

  “Thanks for listening to my theory,” she said.

  Hannah walked her to the exit and opened the door to the atrium. “Ah, but it isn’t your theory, is it? Incubus is a master manipulator.”

  “He can’t manipulate me,” Sam assured her.

  “My darling, don’t you see? He already has.” Hannah blew her a kiss and closed the door.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Reece

  REECE JERKED AWAKE and a sharp pain bit into his shoulder. Groaning, he dug his fingers into the cramp and rotated his neck to stretch out the seized muscle. A crusty layer of saliva coated his chin. He rubbed it with the heel of his hand and blinked at his watch. It was almost noon. He’d slept for three hours. In addition to the spasm in his neck, his lower back hurt from slouching against the armrest.

  Painful tingles flooded Reece’s foot, and he wiggled his toes until the pins and needles abated. A nap in his comfortable bed tempted him, but he had to drive to Uthisca. Although Margaret had warned her parents that homicide detectives wanted to question them about Bart’s absence from campus, Reece owed his worried friends a visit.

  “Sam?” he called.

  No answer. Reece shuffled to the kitchen. There wasn’t a note on the fridge door—their usual place to post messages—or on the island’s marble countertop. He limped over to retrieve his cell from the antique church altar by the front door. She had texted him an hour ago to say she had errands. Had he forgotten to mention the trip to Uthisca? Reece reviewed the morning’s events. Harvey’s phone call had sidetracked him.

  “Damn it,” he muttered and texted, Need 2 go 2 Uthisca. Can U meet me @ loft or office?

  She replied with, Tied up 2day. CU 2night?

  Maybe she was working on her thesis. He’d put his studies ahead of everything, and it would be hypocritical to insist she change her plans. It wasn’t a big deal. He’d debrief Sam after he visited Betty and Harry Walsh. But he couldn’t tell Bart’s parents what he knew about Angel. Not until he confessed to Sam.

  He texted her, Dinner date @ 7? Need 2 talk 2 U.

  He waited and smiled at her response.

  I’ll wear a dress ;)

  He typed Sexy black heels?

  & your BD gift!

  As a joke for her thirtieth birthday, he’d bought her lingerie. He’d also given her a new 9mm Glock 17 and a membership at a club with indoor shooting ranges. They frequented the range often, but the pretty bra and panties had remained tucked in their pink box in the back of her closet. He hoped she intended to wear the lingerie and not the gun.

  Upstairs, he resisted the urge to crawl into bed. Instead, he trudged into the bathroom and stood under a scalding shower. After a quick shave, he dressed and headed out to his Camry.

  A gigantic pile of snow, topped with glassy sheets of ice, surrounded Sam’s empty parking spot. He envisioned her shivering and struggling to break through the half-inch layer of frost on her windshield. He always cleaned off her car. A small kindness to show he cared. With a sigh, he accepted that the misery of law school, combined with guilt over his secret, had turned him into a self-absorbed jerk. Reece promised that he’d smarten up, starting tonight at dinner.

  It took longer than usual to exit the city because of an accident on the Gardiner Expressway. As the long line of traffic inched past the minor collision, his Toyota kept stalling. Traffic was heavy again outside St. Catharines but at least his car was running more smoothly.

  As he continued east along Lake Erie toward Uthisca, he thought about Angel. Maybe this was all a strange coincidence. It was possible that Angel didn’t have an ulterior motive for picking Bart’s Bumble profile. But Reece had checked out the dating app and Margaret was right—the app was photo driven. In all the years Reece had been friends with the Walsh family, he’d never seen a flattering snapshot of Bart. Even the recent pictures from Margaret’s sorority party had depicted him as an emaciated teen with a beak nose, high forehead, and squinty eyes. The only thing
that made sense was that Angel had picked Bart because he was from Uthisca, a place Reece called home.

  Uthisca was a small town between Fort Erie and Port Dover on Lake Erie. Affluent people escaping Toronto’s chaos had snapped up the available land around town. During the winter months, most of the lavish country homes along the lake were empty. The townsfolk liked that just fine.

  Betty and Harry lived on a three-hundred-acre farm that had been in the Walsh family for six generations. In the past hundred and fifty years, crops had changed but Harry continued to honour his ancestors’ tradition of maintaining the original homestead.

  Reece parked between Harry’s old Ford truck and Betty’s bright yellow van with Walsh Florist embossed on the side. Before getting out of his car, Reece looked over the two-storey colonial farmhouse for any updates he’d been too busy to help with over the past five months. There was fresh white paint on every shutter, and Harry had cleaned the galvanized iron hardware. The wrap-around porch had new black shingles on the roof. Harry was afraid of heights, and Reece’s guilt amped up a notch. He should have made time to visit and lend a hand.

  Snow covered the soy fields, and there were trails for cross-country skiing and snowshoeing. Harry had opened his land for the townsfolk to enjoy winter recreation. Sam loved outdoor sports, although she wasn’t keen on freezing temperatures. Reece would pick a weekend when the forecast wasn't brutal and they could ski. There was a quaint bed and breakfast in town. A romantic getaway was just the thing to get their relationship back on track.

  A tap on the window jarred Reece from his thoughts.