by Jo Robertson
She swore she’d find him.
#
As it turned out, the pathologist hadn’t finished the examination of Jennifer Johnston’s body by four o’clock, so the case conference was postponed. Slater grabbed a quick bite of dinner, and when he returned, he was surprised to see Kate Myers’ car still in the parking lot. He glanced at his wristwatch. A little after six. Long day for her, he thought.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he reached the entrance to Special Investigations just as Myers walked out the door. They nearly collided.
“Whoa, what’s the hurry?” he asked.
“The medical examiner just called. He’s finished with the autopsy.”
“He called you?” Slater asked, surprised.
Myers smiled sheepishly. “Everyone was gone, and I heard your phone ring, so I picked up.”
He wasn’t going to be territorial. “That’s good.” Wilson would’ve gotten him on his cell anyway. “Let’s take my truck. I’ll call Bauer and have him meet us there.”
She hesitated. Strange, when she’d been eager to run over to the morgue on her own, and she probably didn’t even know where the morgue was located.
“Come on, Myers. I won’t bite.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said.
Slater turned to block her way with his body, not hard to do because in spite of her height, she was slender and his bulk towered over her. “All right, Doc, what gives? You’re sent up here to give us country folks a hand, and you run off half-cocked on a case you know nothing about.”
Myers stared at a spot on his face, the place where he knew the five o’clock shadow of his beard was usually thick and bristly as a cactus. He involuntarily touched his hand to his jaw. “Or maybe you do,” he said thoughtfully.
“Can we talk about this later?” It sounded like a minor capitulation to Slater. “I think we need to hear the autopsy report first.” Her cool eyes met his. “Don’t you?” She jutted her chin out like a defiant teenager. So much for capitulation.
“Right,” he said, pinning her with his eyes a moment longer. “But don’t think this is going away. If you’re on my team, I expect full disclosure. Is that clear?”
“Absolutely.” Myers smiled as though she’d won some sort of victory, and for a second, Slater had the feeling he’d been played. He turned on his heel, walking ahead of her to the parking lot.
What was she really doing here? Marconi said she was on loan from LAPD, but he didn’t believe that shit for a minute. If he didn’t get the full story straight from the woman herself, he’d weasel it out of the Sheriff. Right now, however, the autopsy report was a priority.
When they reached the truck, Bauer was already waiting. “Dr. Wilson called me,” he explained, looking from Slater to Myers and back to Slater again, his clear green eyes troubled. “Uh, should the three of us drive over together?”
“Sure, let’s take my truck,” Slater replied. “No sense in wasting gas.”
It was a foolish comment since the drive to the morgue was all of seven miles, but he thought he’d prefer Bauer around for the time being. Secrets made Slater uneasy and he knew he’d be tempted to press Myers. He’d ease off for the moment, but not for long.
Slater, Bauer, and Myers crammed into the front seat of Slater’s truck, a much-used Chevrolet with a standard transmission, the gears on the floor between the seats. A silent Myers sat in the middle between the two men, her arms crossed over her chest in an oddly defensive posture.
For once, Slater welcomed Bauer’s harmless chatter, letting the sound of his partner’s voice fill the empty space of the Chevy’s interior. Every time Slater shifted gears, his hand brushed against Myers’ leg. It was a very nice leg, bare and smooth and lightly tanned. He expected her to avoid the contact of his fingers against her flesh by leaning to her right, but she seemed too preoccupied to notice.
He decided he wouldn’t wait for Myers to come clean. He’d approach Marconi right away.
Chapter Five
Unlike the rest of the sheriff’s department, the county coroner’s office and the adjoining autopsy room were housed in the basement of Bigler Memorial Hospital. Freshly painted a sandstone color, the hospital sat amid a grove of pines. The corridors were sleek and quiet, and looked out through glass walls to the city beyond.
The morgue, however, was like any other death house Slater had been in. Shiny chrome and white porcelain, it smelled of formaldehyde and stank of blood and death. Slater was inured to the sight of dead bodies and corpses cut open for examination, but he’d never gotten used to the smell.
The three of them entered the autopsy room through a set of doors with opaque windows. To the left of the entry was the glass-enclosed coroner’s office. At the sight of them, the pathologist stepped from his office and led them to Jennifer Johnston’s body.
Patch Wilson was swathed in green scrubs and cap, with disposable booties covering his feet and surgical gloves his hands. Although samples had already been taken and contamination was unlikely, the others gloved up for their own safety.
The shell lying pitifully on the autopsy table reminded Slater that a vibrant, young woman’s life had been snuffed out too soon. Jennifer lay face up on one of three chrome tables, a white sheet pulled back and draped at her feet. Her flesh glistened wetly in the harsh glare of the overhead lights. The other tables were scrubbed and empty.
Though he knew it no longer mattered to her, Slater wanted to cover her nakedness. The girl’s damp hair was pulled back from her face and hung over the edge of the autopsy table. The body had been washed, and the peculiar incision that allowed access to internal organs crudely stitched together. With the removal of blood and debris, Slater could clearly see the additional bruising on the torso, arms, and legs. The jagged marks made by the weapon, bluish-purple around the entry points, gaped wide like angry mouths.
After introductions, Dr. Wilson gestured with a gloved hand toward the nude body. “The official cause of death is exsanguination,” he said. The coroner’s formal language made Slater think of a gracefully-aging literature professor. “However she did not bleed out at the lake site. The livor mortis indicates she died on her back, not her side. See the blood pooling here? The body was found on its side, inconsistent with gravitational pull.”
“The lake is the secondary crime scene, like we thought,” Slater clarified.
The pathologist nodded. “She was moved after the onset of lividity. The time of death most likely was twenty-four to thirty hours ago. The stiffening of rigor had developed and disappeared by the time her body was discovered.” Wilson’s voice remained impassive, although Slater knew from long acquaintance that the doctor was a man of kindness and empathy.
“There is corneal clouding,” Wilson said, “but the eyes were closed, so the time of death is at least twenty-four hours. The extremities submerged in the water slowed down putrefaction, but the soft tissue discoloration here in the lower abdominal area shows it had begun. Bacteriological breakdown had barely started, no skin blistering, marbling or swelling.”
“Can you give us a more exact time of death?” Slater asked.
Wilson frowned. “The girl was fed during her captivity. The food already passed into the digestive tract. Based on the stomach contents and liver temperature, I believe she died late Sunday night or early Monday morning, sometime between ten p.m. and four a.m. A partial toxicology report was rushed by Sacramento Department of Justice.” Wilson paused before continuing. “An interesting side note is that presumptive tests show traces of chloroform in her system.”
“Chloroform?” Bauer questioned, looking at Myers, whose eyes widened at the mention of chloroform.
“Precisely my thought, Detective Bauer. A rather old-fashioned drug for subduing a person, but cheap, effective, and relatively easy to acquire on the internet, or so I am told by younger colleagues. However, it takes a great deal of chloroform to subdue a person.”
“The killer would risk inhaling it himself,” Myers
said.
“Correct,” Wilson confirmed, turning a curious glance toward her.
“So she bled out during the last day, but someone kept her alive and fed prior to that,” Slater summarized.
“Yes, fed but restrained at least part of the time,” the coroner answered. “See the ligature marks on her wrists and ankles?”
“Why would someone feed her if they were gonna kill her anyway?” Bauer asked.
“Precisely,” Wilson nodded. “In addition, I found extensive trauma to the body during the several days before she expired. See these marks.” The pathologist pointed to the bruising and then the knife wounds.
“Defensive wounds,” Slater concluded. “She fought back.”
Wilson nodded. “There are twenty-six stab wounds in all, but only a small number was inflicted pre-mortem.”
“What else, Patch?” Slater asked.
Even though the nickname, a contraction of his Italian middle name—Pachinelli—was at odds with the pathologist’s formal demeanor, Slater continued to use it. He knew the older man looked upon him as a surrogate son and suspected that the doctor enjoyed the familiarity.
While Wilson perused his clipboard notes, Slater slid a quick look at Bauer and Kate. His partner was pale, white lines etched around his mouth. He wasn’t surprised at Matt’s reaction, but when Slater saw Myers’ drawn face and the slick sheen of perspiration on her brow, he frowned.
Wilson concluded his recitation. “After Ms. Johnston was abducted, she was taken somewhere—I have no idea where—that’s your job—and beaten repeatedly.”
“Sexual assault?” Slater asked the question the others were thinking about.
“There is no evidence of semen in either the vaginal or anal tracts.”
“He used a condom?” Bauer asked.
“Perhaps. But there is no trauma or clear indication of rape. The stab wounds to the genital area might have obscured any signs of rape. It’s impossible to tell, and although there is considerable external damage, the internal damage is negligible.”
“What are you saying, Patch?” Slater asked.
“I believe the girl was physically assaulted over a period of days with excessive force, but may not have been raped. Multiple cuts are present in the chest and groin area, most of which were inflicted postmortem, and her throat was slit postmortem. However, the cut to the throat was not the cause of death. Interestingly enough, her face was left undamaged.”
“The killer wanted to punish the girl,” Myers interjected, “but he either didn’t or couldn’t rape her?”
Bauer had grown increasingly pallid and now placed a hand over his mouth. Since he seemed likely to pass out or throw up again, Slater gave his partner an easy out.
“Matt, I forgot to lock my truck,” he said, tossing his keys in Bauer’s direction. “Would you do it?”
Flashing a grateful look, Bauer quickly left the room.
Patch continued, “The blood patterns on the few items of clothing you see in the evidence bag indicate they were placed on the body after the postmortem cuts.”
“He didn’t dress her,” Myers said. “He simply positioned the clothes on top of her body.”
“The responding officer found the rest of her clothes stashed in the trees by the lake,” Slater said. “A university sweatshirt, socks, and shoes. No panties.”
Turning to Myers, he asked, “Do you think he intended to re-dress her, but was interrupted? And why take the time to dress her at all?”
She didn’t answer, but looked shaken. Maybe he should send her outside with Bauer, Slater thought.
Patch cleared his throat. “It is impossible to tell which blow was the fatal one. Both lungs were punctured as well as the aorta, any one of which could have killed her. Before her death, however, she suffered minor cuts which, while painful, were not deep enough to cause death. The fractured right femur and the cut to the carotid artery occurred after death.”
Wilson paused and looked first at Slater and then Myers. “Any questions?”
“What about trace?” Slater asked.
“I’ve sent blood and hair samples to the state lab, but I’m certain nothing foreign will come back. All of it belongs to the girl.”
“How can you be so sure?”
For the first time, the coroner showed blatant emotion. Slater thought the doctor looked as shaken as he’d ever seen him. “Before and after the mayhem, he cleansed the body thoroughly in a solution of hydrogen peroxide, rubbing alcohol, and bleach. Any evidence of blood or semen was washed away.”
“This was done in isolation,” Myers said. “There’s no way he could’ve completed these acts in the car or at the lake.”
“The techs are checking the Pontiac tire tracks against those found at the lake,” Slater said.
“Neither is the primary,” Myers said. “There’s another crime scene.”
Slater agreed. A triple dilemma. The lake, the car, and the place where the girl was tortured and killed.
Patch looked at the body, and in an overt gesture, pushed a stray strand of hair from the girl’s forehead. “The only area of her body that sustained no damage at all was her face.”
“Any ideas about why he spared her face?” Slater asked.
Myers whispered, “He wanted to punish her, to bend her to his will, but he didn’t want marks or blood marring her face. Ruining his perfect image of her.”
Slater glanced at her quizzically. A strange observation.
Wilson concluded by pointing to the Johnston girl’s lower body. “One final matter,” he said as he separated the legs, lifting the right one so that Slater and Myers could see clearly. “I’m sure you didn’t miss this.”
Now that the body was clean, they bent to get a clearer look. “The carved figure,” Slater observed. “Any idea what it means?”
“No,” Patch replied, “but it was inflicted postmortem with a very sharp instrument.”
“Like a razor blade?”
“Certainly as sharp as a razor, but with more precision, like a scalpel. You see, it’s crudely, but neatly, drawn.”
“Bauer called it an eight lying on its side. What do you think?”
“That sounds correct.”
“It looks like the infinity sign,” Myers said.
“Infinity,” Slater mused. “Like in math?”
Myers’ violet eyes were huge as she looked up from the carving, and Slater saw understanding cross her features. Something just clicked for her, he thought.
“He wants the suffering to go on forever,” she explained.
“What about replacing the clothes on the body?”
“That could indicate his need to control the situation. He gets to say when she can have her clothes back.”
Slater turned back to Patch Wilson. “How many hours did it take for her to die after the first knife wound?”
“If the lungs or heart was punctured first, she died quickly. However, he appears to have deliberately avoided the vital organs, concentrating on those that would cause a great deal of suffering without actual death. He seems to have some rudimentary knowledge of anatomy. The postmortem wounds, though grotesque, did not cause her pain because – ”
“Because she didn’t feel them,” Myers interrupted. “Those wounds suggest his rage for her dying on him.”
Dr. Wilson nodded agreement, snapped off his thin surgical gloves, and turned away from the table. “I’ll start on the written report.” The coroner gave one last glance over his shoulder. “It’s a goddamn shame.”
Slater followed Myers from the autopsy room, stopping beside her at the drinking fountain. “You okay?”
“I’m fine, just a little shaken.”
“But you’ve probably seen worse than this in L.A.”
Myers simply shrugged and remained silent.
“When we get to the office in the morning,” Slater said, “we’ll take another look at the crime scene photos and see if you can add anything to the profile. Wilson’s written report should
be finished by then, along with the tech report from the Pontiac. Maybe we’ll get a hit on that partial fingerprint.”
“Sure,” she replied without looking at him.
Slater watched her move like a zombie toward the elevators leading up to the first floor of the hospital. He caught the doors as they glided shut and stepped in. Before Myers turned her face away from him, he noticed the pale lines etched around her mouth and the tremor in her hand as she brushed strands of dark gold hair off her forehead.
Bauer was waiting beside the truck. The color had returned to his face. The three of them rode back to the precinct in silence, Myers staring fixedly out the wind-shield, Bauer leaning his head against the side window.
After what they’d seen and heard, Slater guessed it was foolish to remind them to buckle their seat belts.
Chapter Six
The man watching from his car slunk lower behind the wheel as the girl exited through the double doors of the school. He slipped shades onto his thin nose, his eyes following her as she bounced down the cement steps, a girlfriend on either side.
Her blond hair flew around her shoulders, a golden halo glinting sunlight off the strands that wrapped around her mouth. Dressed in dark jeans that rode low on her hips, a long-sleeved white shirt, and backless shoes, she gripped one thin schoolbook under her arm. A small useless wisp of a purse slung over one shoulder.
She was beautiful in a fresh, clean way that reminded him of the time with the purple-eyed farm girl. He shuddered. That very first one, the other bitch didn’t count.
This girl’s features were perfect, her skin as smooth and unblemished as a Madonna. He wondered if she was a virgin. Nowadays you couldn’t tell about girls. Even young teenagers were no longer innocent and untouched. Most high school kids today were experienced.
He felt wistful and aroused at the same time.
The girl looked like a carbon copy of all the other girls who spilled out of the school, but the watcher knew she was different from the rest. Not because she herself was so extraordinary. Even with those eyes and that hair, there were other girls who looked as pretty as her. What made her really special was that he had chosen her, had picked her out of all the others, had ordained her to be the One.
