Carved in Darkness

by Maegan Beaumont

  He shifted his gaze to the windshield just in time to see Sabrina finishing up with a cute blonde he guessed was the coroner. She turned and made her way back to the car, opening the front driver’s-side door. She said nothing, just leaned in across the bench seat to tap a few keys on the onboard computer bolted to the squad car’s dash. Her other hand came to rest on the back of the front seat, flush against the wire mesh that separated them. Her fingers were curled around something long and thin. She seemed to pay him no attention at all, like he wasn’t even there. But he knew better.

  At first he took her refusal to look at him as a childish attempt to snub him. He was about to say something snide when a faint clinking sound drew his attention away from her face. He looked down to see a ballpoint pen fall to the floorboard on his side of the mesh. She looked at him for one long second before she straightened herself and shut the door behind her. The implication was clear: she was giving him a way out.

  Thirty-three

  Sabrina ducked under the yellow tape and made her way to where the coroner crouched over the body. From where she was, she could see that Mandy had uncovered the remainder of the body. She had to force herself to cross the distance between them.

  “What’s it look like?” she said, crouching next to her. She made herself look. Just another case. Just another body.

  Mandy shook her head. “She’s in full rigor and liver temp puts TOD sometime between two and three a.m. Nails were recently clipped and scrubbed but I found something fairly interesting.” She gestured toward the victim’s hands, encased in plastic evidence bags. Around her left wrist was a red satin ribbon, tied in a bow. Strung through one of the loops was a fancy gift tag shaped like a birthday cake.

  She felt her chest constrict around her lungs. Just another case. Just another body.

  “Glove me?” She held her hand out and smiled when Mandy slapped a pair of purple latex gloves into her palm. She snapped them on before pulling out her cell and activating the voice recorder app. “Victim has been found naked, face down in a clearing just south of trail seven in Mount Davidson Park. There are ligature marks on both wrists and ankles, indicating that she’d been bound for an extended period of time. There is a red satin ribbon tied around her left wrist. Attached is a gift tag with a hand-written message that reads Happy birthday—sorry I missed it. Abrasions on her heels, coupled with the drag marks found at the scene, indicate she was dragged and dumped.” She looked up at the uniformed officer standing a few feet away.

  “Tire tracks?” she said.

  Nodding, he pointed up the hill. “Yeah, the car entered from the east and continued on like you said.”

  “I want casts,” she said, shoving her cell into her pocket. “and a tech to process the area surrounding those drag marks. Our guy might’ve dropped something.”

  The uniform nodded and made his way up the hill while she moved around to the front of the body, kneeling directly behind the victim’s head. She looked at Mandy. “Let’s get her rolled over.”

  Mandy spread out a length of large plastic sheeting to roll the body onto in order to preserve any evidence they may have missed. Mandy knelt at the victim’s feet, placing her hands on either calf, well above the ankles, giving her a look. “Ready,” she said.

  “Turn.” Sabrina concentrated on her own breathing, working to keep it steady. The body rolled, coming to rest face up on the plastic sheet.

  All of a sudden there was a swirl of activity around her: gasps, someone muttering “Sweet Jesus,” the click and whoosh of a camera.

  Then it was gone. The sounds, the people—sucked into a vacuum they couldn’t escape. She remained crouched, staring down at what had once been a face. It wasn’t a face anymore. It was a nightmare.

  One she couldn’t look away from.

  Lifting her hand to her face, she realized she held her cell. She reactivated the recorder app. “Victim is female, approximate age between sixteen and nineteen. Multiple stab wounds, concentrated in the genital and breast area, consistent with sexual mutilation. The victim’s eyes have been removed and her mouth has been sewn shut with what appears to be medical suture. The word run is carved into her abdomen.”

  Just another case. Just another body.

  “He’s an enucleator.”

  She looked up. “Huh?”

  “An enucleator. He removes his victim’s eyes,” Mandy said, indicating the dead girl’s face. Mandy’s eyes narrowed on her face. “You alright?”

  Enucleator. Yes, she knew what that meant. She looked down—the empty sockets glared at her, accusing her for what had been done.

  “Fine.” She looked away, concentrated on the stab wounds. “What do you think, Mandy? These look like they might be a match to the knife Bertowsky took off the suspect?”

  Mandy leaned in close and examined the wounds. “Let me see it.” A nearby uniform handed the ME the knife; she turned it this way and that, visually measuring its length and width. She looked at the body again, running a light fingertip over one of the many stab wounds. “No. This knife has a double-edge, like the knife that was used, but no serration. Do you see where this skin here looks chewed? This knife wouldn’t have done that kind of damage. It’s like comparing a steak knife to a scalpel.” She handed the knife back to Sabrina. “This isn’t your murder weapon. My guess is you’re looking for a large hunting or tactical knife. Possibly a KA-Bar.” Mandy looked up at her. “Hey, you sure you’re okay?”

  She looked up from the body and secured the knife in her waistband. “Yeah, let’s get her bagged.” Together they gripped the thick plastic sheet and hefted the body into the waiting bag. Mandy reached for the zipper to pull the bag closed. She continued to stare into it, at what’d been carved into the girl’s stomach. It was a message for her.

  RUN

  Thirty-four

  From the back of the squad car, Michael watched them roll the body over onto the plastic sheet the blonde had spread on the ground. He didn’t need to see the damage to know what’d been found. Her eyes were gone. Her genitals were mutilated. Every spare inch of her body covered in lacerations and bruises. A message, some sort of taunt or slur, stabbed into her stomach. He knew because he’d seen it before. It’s what had been done to Frankie.

  Sabrina lifted her cell and started to take notes, the picture of detached professionalism. She searched for evidence, answered questions, and fielded comments from those around her. She appeared totally removed from the nightmare at her feet, and he welcomed the flare of anger her lack of emotion ignited. Suddenly she looked up, and their eyes locked across the distance. The anger he felt brought her into sharp focus, seemed to pull her closer. He didn’t like what he saw. She was barely hanging on. Not so removed after all.

  He followed Sabrina with his eyes. She was helping the blonde load the body into the black bag before strapping it onto the backboard.

  She’d risked her career to help him escape. He told himself that it was only fair since it was her crazy paranoia that landed him in this shit pile in the first place, but it didn’t do any good. Still, he’d be no use to her dead, and that was exactly what he’d be if he allowed himself to be arrested. Losing her badge was nothing compared to what was coming for her if he didn’t get the hell out of here.

  He held the pen in his hands now, behind his back. Getting it off the floor had been awkward but certainly not impossible. Quick fingers dismantled it while he stared straight ahead. He tucked the hollow tubes that housed the ink cartridge and spring into the waistband of his track pants and concentrated his attention on the metal clasp used to clip it to your shirt pocket. He stuck it into the cuff lock and bent up, shaping it before giving it a downward turn. The cuff sprung open. He pulled the makeshift key out of the lock and started on the other side. The sharp rap of knuckles on glass, inches from his face drew his attention. He looked up expecting to see Sabrina on the other side of the window, but it w
asn’t her. It was a man he’d never seen before, and he looked pissed.

  “Hey, isn’t that your partner?”

  Sabrina’s head snapped up and turned toward Mandy. She was pointing toward the road. Strickland was standing in front of the car she’d stuck Michael in. Obviously whatever was going on in the back of that car was worth his time and attention.

  Holy shit.

  “I’m gonna … I’ll be right back,” she said over her shoulder as she stood and hustled in her partner’s direction.

  “Hey, stranger,” she said and succeeded in drawing his attention, but when he looked at her, she could see that razor-sharp mind of his was working overtime. He looked at her then hunkered down to peer through the rear window at Michael for a moment before straightening and turning toward her.

  “Please tell me that’s not who I think it is.” Strickland jammed his hands into the pockets of his slacks and glowered at her. She closed the distance between them and smiled.

  “What are you doing here?” She ignored his question. Of course Strickland recognized Michael from his juvenile mugshot. As a cop, he was trained to focus on the parts of the face that didn’t change—eyes, nose, and mouth shape. All he’d have to do was look at Michael, and he’d know exactly who he was.

  “Mathews heard you were here working the case. He called Ingleside and made nice. They agreed to hand the case over since we were first responders.” He glanced over his shoulder. “It’s him, right? That guy you were running? What’s his name, Michael—”

  “Koptik. His name is Michael Koptik. I caught him lurking around when I uncovered the body and took him into custody until I could sort everything out.” She reached around him and opened the rear door. “Thank you for waiting, Mr. Koptik. I apologize for the confusion.” She helped Michael stand and turned him around, exposing his cuffs. They were still locked in place.

  She turned to Strickland. “Can I borrow your cuff key?”

  Without a word, he produced a small metal key from his inside jacket pocket. She used it to release the cuffs and handed it back. Michael turned and smiled.

  “That’s okay, Inspector, I understand. Better safe than sorry.” He rubbed his wrists while he waited for her to retrieve his wallet from the front seat of the cruiser. The pen she’d given him was now lying on the seat next to it.

  She handed him the wallet. “This is Inspector Strickland—he’ll be conducting the investigation. He may have some questions for you regarding the case.” She looked at Strickland, who stared blankly at her for a moment.

  “Oh, is it my turn to talk? Yeah?” He looked at her and nodded before turning to look at Michael. “Good—I do have a question. Who the fuck are you?” Strickland said, stepping into Michael’s space. The corner of Michael mouth lifted in a half-smile. He shot her a quick glance that said it all—Get your boy out of my face.

  “She told you. My name is Michael Koptik. I was out for a run when I saw the inspector head off into the trees. I got curious so I followed her. Big mistake.” His smile was easy, his tone neutral as he delivered the story. He was totally believable, but it was obvious Strickland’s bullshit meter was going off.

  “That’s not your name.”

  “Strickland—” She stepped between the two men, and her partner looked down at her. She hadn’t been sure what was going to come out of her mouth, but the look he gave her ended any thoughts she’d entertained about lying.

  “Don’t. Don’t lie to me, Vaughn.” The hurt in his voice was too much.

  She turned to Michael. “You’re free to go.”

  Strickland stepped in front of Michael, barring him from leaving. “No, you’re not.”

  “Do you have my back?” she said to him. It was a horrible thing to do, preying on his loyalty, but she did it anyway.

  He looked at her, defeated. “You know I do.”

  “Then believe me when I tell you that right now, the best thing you can do is let him go.” She reached under her shirt and pulled out the knife and handed it to Michael. He opened the bag and bent down to slip the knife into its sheath. He stood and looked Strickland in the eye. “I am not the bad guy,” he said before slipping around him, Noodles on his heels.

  Sabrina watched him jog down the trail for a second or two before turning toward her partner. “I’m sorry—”

  “Save it.” He looked down at his watch and then back at her, but he wouldn’t look her in the eye. “Don’t you have someplace to be?” He flashed her his wrist. It was ten o’clock.

  Her appointment. Shit. She had an hour before she was supposed to meet with the department therapist.

  She backed away from him, heading in the direction Michael had taken. “I’ll find you afterward to explain.”

  Strickland turned, pinned her with a hard glare. “You can save that too. I want you off my crime scene, Vaughn. If I have any questions, I know where to find you.”

  Thirty-five

  The precinct’s special services office was on the first floor, and Sabrina made it to her appointment with only minutes to spare. She walked into the small, windowless room. The first thing she noticed was the single row of weapons lockers bolted to the wall next to a sad-looking coffee cart. A hand-lettered sign rode the wall above it.

  Please deposit all weapons inside a locker and retain your key—thank you.

  Seriously?

  Sabrina walked over and opened the nearest locker. She lifted her service weapon off her hip and deposited it into the locker. She hesitated for a moment before stripping off her jacket and doing the same with the pair of SIGs that rode against her ribs. She left the .380 strapped to her ankle where it was.

  She took a seat and continued to look around the room. The chair was an orange plastic throwback to the Seventies and the carpet was a dingy low-nap that held evidence that not everyone respected the precinct’s no-smoking policy. A trio of magazines sat on a small table next to her chair. She picked the one with guns on the cover and thumbed through it with steady fingers.

  She was strangely calm. She looked at her watch—it was 11:01.

  “Sabrina Vaughn?”

  Her eyes snapped up. The woman gave her an encouraging smile from the doorway “Are you ready?”

  She had only one objective—to convince Richards that she was not only compliant but fit for duty. Getting reinstated meant returning to Jessup with the full backing of the SFPD. To do that, she’d do whatever this woman wanted.

  Michael sat in his chair in front of the window long after Sabrina left. He’d taken Noodles home and came straight back to his room, calling Tom on the fly. He got voicemail and hung up without leaving a message.

  He dropped the binocs in his lap and ground the heel of his hand into one of his gritty eyes. He needed Lark’s help, but that wasn’t going to happen. Standing, he began to pace. It had been made perfectly clear to him that Lark was no longer at his disposal.

  When he had settled into the plush leather seat of the limousine next to Lark, seeing Livingston Shaw sitting across from him was a shock. It was pretty much like watching Lucifer climb out of the pit to mingle among the people.

  “Hello, Michael. It’s been too long.” Shaw held out his hand. That he was sitting across from him was a sure sign that he and Lark were in some serious shit. He thought of the Kimber, pressed against the small of his back. Eight rounds, less the three he put in the businessman and his muscle. That left five in the clip. He took Shaw’s hand in a firm grip—fuck him. If he was going down, he was going down swinging.

  “It’s good to see you, sir.” He sat back and forced the smile on his face to stay put.

  “I trust things went well?” Shaw made a vague gesture toward the building they were pulling away from.

  He nodded and slid the case across the floorboard. “No problem.”

  Shaw lifted it onto the seat next to him and laid his palm flat o
n its side. “Did you look inside?”

  “No.”

  “Not even a bit curious?” Shaw was playing with him.

  “I’m not paid to look. I’m paid to pull the trigger.” He had no idea what was in the case he’d taken from the dead man, nor did he care.

  Shaw gave him a small smile. “When Mr. Lark suggested that we bring you into our little family, I have to confess I was skeptical,” Shaw leaned back and lifted a squat crystal tumbler of icy amber liquid to his lips. He took a sip and cocked his head to the side. “Forgive me. Would you like a drink?”

  Michael wanted a drink more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. “No. Thank you.”

  “Ahh, well—as I was saying … I had my doubts, but I admit you’ve proved more than worth the considerable amount of trouble it took to make your procurement possible,” Shaw said.

  His procurement. Like he was a painting or an antique. Not a human, but something to be owned and used. “I aim to please,” he said in a relaxed tone that was a complete lie.

  A small smile touch the corners of Shaw’s mouth. “Of that I’m sure. There’s a small matter in Quebec that requires your immediate attention,” he said, watching him carefully. “I trust that this won’t be a problem, given the extended amount of time you just had between assignments.”

  Michael felt the muscle in his jaw twitch. He needed to get back to Sabrina, which meant no time for Shaw’s bullshit. He’d agree for now to buy some time so he and Lark could figure out a way around the problem. “Of course, sir.”

  “I am pleased. Very pleased, with your performance so far, Michael.” Shaw leaned forward just a touch. “So pleased, that I’ve decided to let you finish what you started.”