Kiss of Deceit

by Patricia A. Rasey

  No fluids stained the red satin sheets around her body and, other than the already bruising area of her throat and the slight abrasions on her wrists, there didn’t appear to have been much of a struggle. No skin or dried blood were visible beneath her fingernails.

  LeAnne would stake her career on the fact that this woman allowed this unknown subject, willingly or by threat, to tie her up. She either knew the perpetrator personally or he held her at knife or gunpoint.

  “Any sign of forced entry?” she asked Tom as she put on her latex rubber gloves.

  “None that we found. The husband said the back door was unsecured when he arrived home, telling him of the first sign of trouble. Said his wife was a stickler about security.”

  “Alarm not set?”

  “Nope.”

  “Where is he now?” she asked, walking toward the head of the bed.

  “In the kitchen, pretty shaken up. We told him that you’d need to speak with him before things were completely wrapped up here.”

  “Good.”

  LeAnne carefully lifted the auburn strands away from the victim’s face to see if her cheeks showed any kind of bruising, noting abuse.

  What she found surprised her more than any swelling ever would.

  Miranda Holliday had flawless pale skin, no discoloration apparent. Instead of bruises, Miranda’s cheek donned the impression of a pair of lips, a particularly bright shade of red lipstick.

  “Check the makeup table. See if you can find a color similar to this,” LeAnne instructed, as she snapped a few close-up shots of the lip prints.

  Tom walked to the table. “Looks like he didn’t bring his own. There’s an open tube lying on the counter,” he said, not touching it.

  Finished taking pictures of the victim, LeAnne snapped a picture of the opened lipstick. “I want to try and print this before we tag it as evidence. I don’t want to chance ruining any latent by placing it in the bag first. Don’t let anyone else enter this room while I go to my car and retrieve my fingerprinting kit.”

  LeAnne quickly exited, ignoring the disgruntled sighs from the men sent by the coroner, and went to her sedan. She withdrew several bags, plastic and paper, and envelopes, as well as her kit, then returned to the house.

  “Has anyone seen the coroner?” she asked no one in particular as she again passed the coroner’s men, who both shrugged.

  From inside the room, Tom replied, “I thought he’d be here by now.”

  “Could be a few more hours, knowing him. What the hell did we do, interrupt his sleep?” she snapped.

  Sighing through her nose, LeAnne shook her head at the coroner’s obvious lack of dedication. She used a flashlight, checking the tube from all angles for prints visible to the naked eye, but finding nothing.

  “I know our man used this,” she grumbled more to herself than anyone. “Come on baby, show yourself.”

  The tube appeared free of any marks as if it had come right out of the blessed box. LeAnne twirled the dusting brush between the palms of her hand, fluffing the bristles. Taking the black powder, not wanting to use the gray or white and chance it filling in ridges on the latent, she dipped the tip into the powder.

  LeAnne began lightly to dust the object, hoping to see something surface. The tube appeared as clean as a chef’s sterilized counter.

  This killer knew what they would be looking for in the way of evidence. They were not dealing with an amateur. He had left them little to go on and she would bet the rape kit offered them no more than a residue of latex and maybe a few stray pubic hairs.

  “Damn.” Gingerly picking up the item with her gloved fingers, she placed the tube in an envelope and tagged it as evidence. “We’ll fume it at the office. I don’t want to take any chances.”

  Going back to the victim, she took a piece of tape from her kit, pressed it carefully but firmly on the area, then with one swift motion, pulled the lipstick mark from Miranda’s cheek. On the edge of the lifting card, LeAnne pressed the tape with the imprint of their perp’s lips, then labeled the card with the date, time, case number, and location of where the print was collected, signing her initials.

  Although LeAnne knew they could not possibly match the lip print like a latent, she wanted her own visual record of it. One she could possibly compare to any future crime—if indeed this unknown subject struck again. And for the sake of Henry County, she certainly hoped that wouldn’t be the case.

  “What do we have?” Bob Reese asked as he walked through the opened door.

  LeAnne’s gaze snapped up to his, unaware that he had arrived. She quickly told him the specifics of what she had done thus far.

  “All in all, just like the Gallego case. We don’t have squat.” She turned her attention to Tom Jenson. “Go watch for the coroner. Call him again if you have to. Tell Doc I’ll be with him in a few minutes.”

  Tom nodded, then left the room. LeAnne turned her attention back to Bob. He looked like he had just crawled out of bed, though his black-and-gray uniform pants and shirt looked perfectly pressed. His light brown hair lay tussled about his head, his blue eyes heavy from sleep.

  “Bet the wife doesn’t appreciate the late-night calls.”

  “It’s all in the job.” Bob approached the bed and studied the lip print on the victim’s cheek. He took the offered card from LeAnne, looking over the latent. “The SOB doesn’t offer us much. Anything else?”

  “No, by all appearances, the house was unsecured. Our man just walked in the back door. I think he knew the victim—maybe even intimately.”

  “Might appear that way,” Bob agreed, “but looks can be deceiving.”

  “Secure the hands with paper bags, tag the binds as evidence,” LeAnne instructed the chief deputy. “It doesn’t appear the bandannas came from the scene. By viewing the surroundings, I don’t think the Hollidays owned any like them. I think our man brought them with him. That proves premeditation.”

  “Maybe you should question Doc if he’s seen the bandannas before.” Bob pulled on a pair of latex gloves. “You thinking this might be the same man who killed Jillian Gallego?”

  “We already made an arrest on that case this afternoon,” LeAnne said, handing Bob one end of the tape measure as they began measuring the room and triangulating the victim, “but I’m not so sure he’s our man.”

  “A change of heart? When we talked yesterday, you said you thought it couldn’t possibly be anyone else, and I agreed. Closed case.”

  LeAnne’s gaze swept the room. “But what about this? You think someone’s copycatting the MO?”

  “We’ll check into it,” Bob said. “But if you want my opinion, I say we examine the difference. The lip print on the cheek, she’s posed like Christ on the cross.”

  “The only difference is the position of the legs. Jillian had one bent leg, one ankle crossing the other.”

  “Exactly, this one is posed. Jillian wasn’t. Besides the lip print, the other obvious difference is his choice in victims. Jillian Gallego was a high-risk victim. She stripped for a living. Why change your choice of victims and go after a doctor’s wife?”

  “I don’t know,” LeAnne said, knowing Bob was right. The difference in victims made no sense, likely disproving the possibility that this matched the work of their perp.

  “So work this case like a separate one. We don’t try to prove similarities. If there are any, they’ll pop up on their own.”

  Bob let the tape retract to the tape measure, then jotted notes in his folder. “You know,” he said, gazing at LeAnne, his eyes thoughtful, “this could be the work of one of Gallego’s biker buddies. You think of that? Maybe they want us to think Gallego couldn’t possibly have killed his wife. If the same murderer committed both crimes that clears Gallego.”

  “Maybe.” Which of Snake’s friends, LeAnne pondered, would benefit from getting him from behind bars? Not all bikers had that kind of loyalty. Most scattered at the first sign of trouble.

  “Someone call a coroner?” the old geezer croak
ed as he entered. LeAnne knew him to be nearing retirement. A lame attempt at a joke, but no one laughed.

  With black case in hand, Ahmad Rao, the county’s elected coroner, walked to the bed. After inserting his trusty thermometer up the victim’s rectum, he compared her temperature to the temperature inside the house.

  “Seems she died only a few short hours ago. Maybe three—three and a half at the most.” He placed two gloved fingers against her buttocks resting where a deep purplish-red was beginning to pool against the skin. The area blanched white from his touch. “She died on her back, all right. I’ll want to do an autopsy before I make any final assumptions, but my guess is, she was strangled to death.”

  LeAnne rolled her eyes; as if this man had told them anything they had not already figured out themselves.

  Dr. Rao stood, bag in hand. “Go ahead and transport her. This one is definitely dead.”

  He left the room.

  LeAnne checked her watch. One forty-five.

  “Oh, man.” Bob sadly shook his head. “This nutcase was getting his rocks off not even an hour before her husband was due home. What if Doc came home early?”

  LeAnne grinned. “I say, he knew exactly what time Frank Holliday was due home. We aren’t dealing with an amateur. No prints, no body fluids. Even in the Gallego case we had that. This place has been wiped clean.”

  “So you don’t think the husband’s a suspect?”

  “Not really, but we should check with the hospital anyway. Confirm his alibi. Never leave a stone unturned. In the meantime, you can check with NCIC and VICAP.”

  Bob raised one eyebrow. LeAnne knew his reluctance stemmed from the 189 Question Report he would have to do for VICAP.

  “Because?”

  “Because I don’t want to take any chances,” she said, pulling off her latex gloves. “I’m not saying that this is the work of a seasoned killer, but things aren’t always what they appear, Bob. Some gentleman caller.” She sighed deeply with a shake of her head. “The SOB left us a calling card. A kiss of deceit.”

  Chapter 5

  A punch struck his right jaw, his head snapping back like a blow-up Bozo-the-Clown punching bag, sending Snake stumbling backward a few feet. His hand stroked the sore whiskered area as the large African- American man, known as Bull for his size and mean temperament, advanced on him, fists clenched at his sides.

  “Cocksucker,” Bull gritted through clenched teeth, one upper gold tooth gleaming in the outdoor sun.

  The yard filled with maximum security population as they stood in a semi-circle, watching. An earlier distraction inside, caused by another inmate in the Male Disciplinary Isolation unit, held the guards’ attention from the yard.

  Snake backed up a few steps; the last thing he wanted to do was tangle with a man of Bull’s size.

  “You in the bull ring,” Bull grinned, flashing his golden-tooth charm. “Ain’t no screw gonna help you now.”

  His bald pate glistened in the hot sun as beads of perspiration gathered. His eyes narrowed to evil slits, his body scarred from getting too close to the sharp end of a knife or razor wire one too many times.

  “My man Boon’s in the hole ’cause you can’t keep to yourself.”

  Snake held his hands up in front of him as if to ward off any forthcoming blows. “I don’t want to tangle with you, Bull. If Boon had kept his hands to himself, I wouldn’t have tangled with him either.”

  Bull turned his head to grin arrogantly at the population. Snake used the momentary distraction to his advantage, drew his arm in front of him, and landed a single hammer-fist against Bull’s temple, dropping the big boy to his knees.

  Bull roared like a bear as he stumbled back to his feet, grasped Snake by the neck of his red prison uniform and slammed him against the wall. Snake’s head bounced off the brick, his teeth rattled in his head.

  Drawing up a leg, Snake snapped his shin into the large man’s groin. Bull instantly released Snake, falling to his knees, cupping the family jewels.

  “You mother,” he hissed as Snake pounced on him, delivering a blow to his nose. Blood spattered across his face and onto the cement floor. Hitting Bull again, Snake contacted his mouth, snapping his head to the side. Blood spewed like a crimson fountain.

  CCNO’s personal swat team, dressed all in black with helmets perched on their heads, rushed out of the secured door and into the yard, batons drawn. Men were quickly ushered back to maximum security and locked down. One large guard grabbed Snake by the hair and yanked him off Bull. Two others jerked Bull’s tree-trunk arms, wrenching them behind his back.

  “You prick,” Bull cursed, spitting blood and his gold tooth to the ground. “You better watch your back. There ain’t enough screws to keep you alive in this block. You in for a bad time, sweet cheeks. You gonna be my bitch.”

  “Screw you, asshole,” Snake spat. “You better watch your own back.”

  Cuffed and annoyed, Snake struggled against the guards as they dragged him back inside to the Male Administration Segregation unit. There, he knew he would be locked down for twenty-three out of twenty-four hours and kept separate from the rest of population. Two other guards escorted Bull in the opposite direction, probably to the Male Disciplinary Isolation unit. The two would be kept in different locations for the time being.

  With any luck, LeAnne McVeigh would get him the hell out of here before he ever had to encounter the likes of Bull again.

  Snake’s handcuffs were removed inside his cell as one of the guards pushed him down to the bunk. “You made yourself one hell of an enemy out there, Gallego. You’ve gone and pissed off the wrong guy. Who started it?”

  He rubbed his wrists from where the cuffs bit into them, not saying a word.

  “We can do this all night, if you want.”

  “Screw you,” Snake hissed.

  “You think Bull’s a standup guy?” He chuckled. “He’s probably in there whistling Dixie right now. He’s not going to look after your back.”

  “Screw you.”

  “Have it your way then,” the guard said, exited the room, and slammed the heavy door. “See you in twenty-three hours, sweetheart,” he said, grinning through the glass window on the door, then walked away. Snake could hear the baton slapping the guard’s palm.

  “Son of a bitch,” Snake muttered, wiping his bloodied lip with the back of his hand. “Son of a bitch.”

  * * *

  “I’m sorry this took so long, Doc,” LeAnne said.

  The sun crested the horizon long ago, but doing the crime scene took time. LeAnne had wanted everything she could possibly find, right down to the red cloth fibers on the gray carpeting. She would bet the lab would be able to match them to the torn bandannas tying Miranda’s wrists. By the location of the fibers, she could tell right where her boy stood when he ripped the bandanna in two, and made that notation in her sketch.

  Bob Reese had left a short time ago and was on his way to Bowling Green BCI lab with the bulk of what little evidence they had collected.

  LeAnne took a seat at the table opposite the grieving doctor, his tears long since dried. Frank looked like an empty shell of a once- happy man.

  His face appeared older than his thirty-two years. The lines around his eyes were more prominent, the deep etching from his nose to the corners of his mouth seemed somehow deeper. His eyes, normally sparkling in merriment, looked like they had seen the ugliness of life— and they had.

  His wife, whom he had been known to dote on constantly, lay on some cold slab at the coroner’s office, ready to be split open the entire length of her torso, with Tom Jenson a witness to the autopsy.

  “I’m going to have to ask you some questions, Doc. They may be repetitions of the ones asked by Deputy Jenson, but I need the answers for myself. Is this all right with you?”

  He slowly nodded, then took a drink from his cup of coffee. An opened bottle of scotch sat on the table beside him, and LeAnne would bet, had she taken a sip from his cup, she would know where some of the bo
ttle’s contents had gone.

  LeAnne took out her notebook and depressed the play and record buttons on her recorder. “What time did you return home this evening?”

  “Eleven-thirty,” he replied. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Help yourself,” LeAnne said, giving him time to light up.

  Frank withdrew a cigarette and tapped the filter on the table before sticking it in his mouth. After tearing a match from the pack, he struck it, and lit the end of his cigarette. Sulfur and smoke filled the air. The tip glowed red as he inhaled deeply, then blew twin streams of smoke from his nostrils.

  “I know, filthy habit,” he said, then took another pull.

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, Doc,” she said then paused, staring down at her note pad, “if you arrived home at eleven-thirty, why wait until eleven forty-five to call nine-one-one?”

  “Like I told the deputy, I walked in at eleven-thirty, noticing Miranda forgot to lock the door—no alarm, no dead bolt.” He tapped the cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. He had trouble looking LeAnne in the eye, his gaze centering on the table top. “I called out to her, thinking maybe she was waiting up, but no one answered. I figured she just forgot the back door.”

  “Is that something Miranda had a problem remembering?”

  “No, like I told the deputy, Miranda was usually a stickler about the alarm and dead bolts. She watches too much television. She doesn’t work, you know.”

  “Because she didn’t want to?”

  “Both of us, really. I liked her home. Anyway,” he took another pull from his cigarette, then continued as smoke curled out of his mouth, “I locked up, turned on the alarm, and poured two fingers of scotch. It was a long night in the ER.”

  “Busy?”