Blood and Bone

by V. M. Giambanco

  “A death by firearm or a stabbing is a completely different kind of animal from this man’s work. But even between his own murders there are differences. Mitchell was the first: he incapacitated him with the first blow and then continued to hit. I’m not making any psychological assumptions on the whys and whats, by the way, I’m just comparing the different reports. Now, we can see that the pattern continued with a steadily increasing degree of violence in all the cases: first incapacitation, then different areas of the body targeted—hands, feet, etc. But with Matthew Duncan we have a difference.”

  “He only targeted his face,” Madison said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Is he the only one who was injured in that way?”

  “Yes, he was. He was the exception.”

  “Then again,” Brown said, “the killer was working within a small window of time. He must have known that the wife would be home soon. And he didn’t have a lot of time to spend with the victim since he was also preparing the whole fake burglary setup.”

  “You mean that he would have progressed to inflict the same injuries we saw on the couple if he had had the time?” Madison said.

  “Possibly,” Brown replied.

  “Maybe so,” Fellman said. “The damage to Mr. Duncan’s face was the worst up to that point. And then, with Mr. Nolin and Miss Rudnyk, we have again the heightened focus on the face, but also greater damage than ever to the rest of the body.” Fellman gazed from one to the other. “It’s as if the Duncan murder reenergized him, as if it gave him a new, hellish momentum to do even more, even worse. In fact, looking at the X-rays, the blows to the last two victims were more powerful than any before.”

  It was a lot to take in because—although no one said it—they were all aware that the time between Duncan and the latest killings had been remarkably short. And the killer was in all probability getting ready for his next project.

  Joe. Joe was getting ready to go to work.

  At her desk, Madison dialed the number and for a moment wondered about the timing of Mass. Were there special Masses on Thanksgiving? It rang a couple of times, then Father O’Reilly picked up and Madison was surprised at how glad she was to hear his croaky voice.

  “Father, it’s Detective Madison. Could I ask you another question?”

  “That’s all I do all day, Detective. I answer questions. So, ask away . . .”

  “We think that Henry Karasick might have met the killer in a bar. It’s possible that he might have come to your group once, then followed Henry to the bar where he could talk to him alone. Does the name Joe mean anything to you—Joseph, perhaps? Anyone named Joe ever come to your meetings around the time Henry was there?”

  Madison could hear the man sigh and she could imagine him standing and thinking in his kitchen.

  After a while he said, “Maybe. I can give you a maybe, but I’m not sure how much that’s worth to you.”

  “It’s something, Father. If you remember anything, please let me know.”

  “I will. You take care, Detective.” His voice was deadly serious just then.

  Madison hung up at the same time that Brown did.

  “Just spoke to the brother,” he said. “He definitely remembers Karasick mentioning a friend named Joe. But he never met him.”

  They had a name; they had a point of contact. They had the beginning of the whole, dark tale.

  Lieutenant Fynn was on the phone with the Chief. Brown and Madison waited until he was done to brief him. Madison was well past worrying about being taken off the cresting wave of the investigation—if Fynn would rather put someone else on point, he was welcome to. She had a job to do.

  “What about press releases?” Fynn said when they were done.

  “I’d release the name and the sketch Travis picked,” Madison said.

  “What if it gives him a hint that we’re also working backward?”

  “If it does, it does. There might be more people out there who would know who Joe was seven years ago than would recognize the fake engineer today.”

  “We’ve had no luck with those?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Brown?” Fynn said.

  “I agree. Let’s cast the net as wide as possible—we should also interview Saul Garner’s clients.”

  “Do you want to front the press conference?” Fynn asked Madison.

  It wouldn’t have been her first but would certainly be the most well attended. “I will if you need me to, but I’d rather keep working the phones.”

  “Let’s give it to Public Affairs, then—it’s their job, after all.”

  As they left Fynn’s office Brown glanced at Madison.

  “What?” she said.

  “You hate doing press conferences. You would rather be hanged upside down over a boiling cauldron of sheep entrails for one hour than do one five-minute press conference.”

  “I said I’d do it if he needed me to.”

  “And what did you wish as you mentally crossed your fingers?”

  “That he wouldn’t need me to.”

  Brown smiled. “You might have to do one sometime.”

  Madison grimaced. Brown was right: she hated getting up and talking in front of flashing cameras and microphones. A cauldron of sheep entrails was a piece of cake in comparison.

  She saw Chris Kelly walking in and decided to step over the moat that seemed to surround him at all times and speak to him before he had a chance to read her report. Whether Madison admitted it to herself or not, she was curious about Kelly, about his complicity with OPA. Would it reveal itself in how he dealt with her? How he spoke to her? How did that kind of duplicity live inside a person?

  Madison approached him and his eyes hardened the instant he realized she was going to speak to him.

  “We might have a name,” she said. “Two witnesses from the Mitchell case remember a ‘Joe,’ and that he was the guy who found a pretext to give Karasick a whole load of weed for free the night of the murder.”

  Kelly grunted his assent.

  “Anything new on your end of things?” Madison said.

  “Things look pretty bad for the ex-husband,” Kelly admitted. “There’s a lot of witnesses ready to testify that he wanted to hurt the ex and her new man.”

  “Any trace evidence picked up at the scene?”

  “Have you read the report?” he countered.

  “We just got back and I’m asking you. It’s called sharing information. Apparently, some people find it useful.”

  “The prelims say no evidence that points to anybody but the people who lived there. They’re still processing it.”

  “Thank you.”

  Madison returned to her desk and as she did she could feel Chris Kelly’s eyes following her. His acrimony was like a low-level hum in the busy room.

  Madison stepped out in the dusk without her coat and let the cold hit her. The streetlights had been on for a while, but the roads were quiet. For a few minutes it had stopped raining and the sidewalks were slick and deserted because of the holiday.

  She dialed Aaron’s cell and he picked up on the second ring. “Hey, are you on your way?” he said, and she could hear many voices in the background.

  “No, I don’t think so. I’m going to have to miss it and will have to make do with your tales of turkey wonders.”

  “I’m sorry,” Aaron said. “Everybody’s here and they were hoping to see you.”

  “I know, me too. Please apologize for me.”

  “Can’t you sneak out?” There was no reproach in his voice, just boyish disappointment.

  “I’m afraid not. But could I ask you a favor?”

  “Rachel’s mother’s latkes?”

  Madison smiled. “Yes, please.”

  “They’re already packed and ready to go.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you want to talk to Rachel? She’s in the other room.”

  “No, it’s okay. You tell her. I’ll call her tomorrow.”

  “I’ll see
you later.”

  It was a comforting thought that Aaron would be there—maybe awake, probably asleep—when she got home.

  Madison went back into the precinct and into the detectives’ room. On a television high in the corner she spotted the Public Affairs officer speaking in front of a microphone. There was a small inset in the screen with the forensic artist’s sketch. Camera flashes flared hard and white on the officer’s face.

  Aaron found Rachel in the kitchen.

  “She’s not coming,” he said. “She apologizes, but . . .”

  “No worries,” Rachel replied. “It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last. There, pass me that plate, will you? I’m going to put half the dinner in containers for you to take her.”

  Rachel watched Aaron as he sliced leftover turkey into the plastic bowl. He wasn’t upset; he wasn’t offended. It didn’t look like he was contemplating an at-least-on-Thanksgiving kind of argument. He was simply disappointed and spooning potatoes into the bowl next to the turkey.

  There was something else, though, Rachel thought. But she couldn’t say what it was—or how deep it ran.

  In Los Angeles Sandra Parker heard the doorbell ring and went to answer it, wiping her hands on an apron and thinking about roasting times. She had a houseful of people and A.J. was still out—which was really not helpful at all.

  She opened the door and two men turned to her.

  “Sandra,” Curtis Guzman said.

  He was A.J.’s partner and had been to the house a number of times. The other man was a few years older and he looked at her in a way that made the small hairs on her tanned arms stand up.

  “Mrs. Parker,” he said.

  “A.J.’s not here,” she said, smiling as some understanding in her clicked. There was a patrol car parked in front of the house as well—and she plain refused to acknowledge it, or give it voice. “A.J.’s still out, should be home in a minute.”

  Two six-year-old boys ran through the hall chasing each other.

  Curtis came in, followed by the other man.

  “Sandra, something has happened. Can we talk somewhere quiet?”

  She knew it was happening, but it still felt unreal. They sat in A.J.’s small study off the garage.

  “I don’t understand,” Sandra Parker repeated.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” Guzman said.

  “He was shot?”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “What was he doing in Newton?”

  “We don’t know yet, but we’ll find out. He would have gone there for a good reason.”

  “Who . . . who shot him?”

  “There were no witnesses. But it’s an area known for gang-related crime and chances are some informant got in touch at the last minute and he went to meet him. We don’t know yet.”

  “But you didn’t go.”

  Curtis shook his head. “I didn’t know anything about it.”

  “He was shot,” Sandra said and tried to keep ahead of the wave that was about to crush her. “Did he . . . did he . . . ?”

  “No, he died instantly. He didn’t suffer.”

  “We’re here for you, Sandra, whatever you need,” the older man said.

  As it turned out, he was A.J.’s boss and would make sure all the funeral arrangements were taken care of. Special Agent A.J. Parker had died in the line of duty and would go on to receive full departmental honors.

  Chapter 42

  Kate Duncan’s Thanksgiving had begun with a hot shower. She had to get ready to go to Matthew’s cousins’ place in Bremerton to spend the day with them and Matt’s brother. She would also stay the night—sharing the large attic room with their eldest daughter—instead of coming back to Annie and her family, who would have had to dampen their own family celebrations not to hurt her feelings. Fair enough, she thought—this year, talking about giving thanks seemed like an odd, exotic exercise. People who gave thanks were people for whom nothing had happened, people who had merely coasted along.

  Kate Duncan felt a brittle anger at the national obsession with stupid menu plans and the fuss over homemade cranberry sauce versus store-bought. She couldn’t wait to leave the house.

  Kate was going to be escorted to Bremerton by a detective from the East Precinct who was a colleague of Detective Madison, and that reassured her. He was going to be visiting his own family in Bremerton, anyway, so it worked out well for both of them.

  She pulled the curtain to one side—it looked like rain would be part of the day at some point. She pulled on warm wool socks and boots and grabbed her rain jacket. The small overnight bag was ready by the door; she stuffed her toiletries bag in it and left the room.

  The smell of roasting turkey was already drifting up the stairs.

  Detective Norton had long blond bangs under his hunter cap. He wore glasses with thick frames that managed to make him look both nerdy and cool. He smiled when Annie opened the door, and nodded to his car.

  “Seattle’s finest car service, I’m Detective Lorenzo Norton,” he said.

  He had been in touch the previous evening and Kate Duncan had been quite abrupt. “Please describe your appearance to me, so I’ll know it’s you at the door.”

  “No problem, ma’am, I think that’s a very good idea. I’m six foot one, medium build, fair hair. I’ll wear a camouflage hunter cap and glasses.”

  Once in the car, which was warm and smelled of fresh coffee, Kate Duncan turned to the detective. “I’m sorry about last night. I think I was rude.”

  He shrugged. “You have a good head on your shoulders. It was a smart thing to do. Here,” he said and passed her a thermos, “for the road. It’s black, but I’ve got creamer and some packets of sugar in the glove compartment if you like.”

  “Thank you, that’s really kind.”

  She had wanted to get away from that kitchen so quickly she hadn’t even had a cup of coffee yet.

  They left Montlake and drove toward downtown and the ferries.

  The detective wasn’t interested in conversation, which suited her just fine. Kate Duncan relaxed against the seat and sipped the coffee.

  “My name is Katherine Angela Duncan. Kate, everyone has always called me Kate. I was born in Nashville, Tennessee. I went to college at the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa, and I did my master’s at UW, where I met my husband. I work for a pharmaceutical company.”

  Where was she? What had happened?

  She remembered traveling in the car toward the ferries. It was cloudy above and the traffic was light. And now . . .

  “My name is Katherine Angela Duncan. Everyone calls me Kate. I was born in Nashville, Tennessee. I went to college at the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa and then at UW, where I met my husband. I work for a pharmaceutical company. I enjoy running and cooking and spending time with friends. When I was little, I had a dog named Jimbo—a golden Lab, the best dog in the world . . .” Her voice caught.

  It had been hours. How many she couldn’t say. Kate Duncan had woken up in the darkness of a soft blindfold and in the cool, sharp air of a place that was both inside and outside. She couldn’t tell precisely. She was sitting on a hard chair and bound to it. She was confused and her mind gripped the edges of her memories, trying to get purchase, trying to get a footing.

  Then the fog lifted and the dread kicked in.

  Her breathing quickened and she whimpered as she remembered the voice. And this time she could think clearly, because the drug had dissolved into her system. She knew about drugs, didn’t she? She worked for a pharmaceutical company, right?

  The voice came back. A man’s voice. He had spoken to her in those minutes or hours she had been lost to herself. And here he was now.

  “Tell me about you, dear.”

  Oh God. “What do you want? Do you want money? Do you—?” She was shaking. She could feel herself shake and she knew she had to keep her head straight.

  “Tell me about you.” The man was calm, but the tone was terse.

  Kate Duncan started agai
n.

  “My name is Katherine Angela Duncan. Everyone calls me Kate. I was born in Nashville, Tennessee. I went to college at the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa and then at UW, where I met my husband. I work at a pharmaceutical company in the legal department. I enjoy running and cooking and spending time with friends. When I was little, I had a dog named Jimbo. My parents are Alexander and Laura and—”

  “No,” the man said, and there was a streak of humor there. “No, your parents are Douglas and Lisa, and they still live in Nashville. Start again. Tell me about you.”

  There was nothing but blackness under her blindfold, and Kate Duncan felt a dizzy fear, as if all her thoughts were clashing together. Her chest hurt like she’d sprinted a whole marathon. Adrenaline was a hard blow with every breath.

  “Tell me about you.”

  “My name is Katherine Angela Duncan. Everyone calls me Kate. I was born in Nashville, Tennessee. I went to college at the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa and then at UW, where I met my husband. I work at a pharmaceutical company in the legal department. I enjoy running, cooking, spending time with friends. When I was little, I had a dog named Jimbo. My parents are Douglas and Lisa and,” her voice shook, “they still live in Nashville.”

  Kate sensed, rather than heard, a whisper of agreement somewhere close. There were birds in the distance, on and off, but no sound of cars, no city hum, nothing that could reassure her that people were nearby, that someone would come for her. As the effects of the sedative wore off, her thinking became sharper. Had anyone realized that she had been taken? Where was the detective who was supposed to escort her? Matthew’s brother and the cousins must have noticed that she hadn’t arrived when she was supposed to. They must be looking for her.

  There was thick silence around her like after a heavy snowfall. Kate leaned forward in the chair, testing her ties and listening hard. Maybe he had gone, maybe he had left her. She listened for the rustle of his clothing and then she heard, faintly and only a few feet behind her, a gentle, steady breathing.