“Stuart Charisse will be attending me this morning.” Sam had turned on her headset and was beginning her assessment. On cue, a lanky young man with wildly curly hair appeared at her side. He smiled politely at Taylor, started his duties with professional dispassion.
Sam spoke into the headset as she began the external examination.
“Autopsy number T-08-8768, case number T-2008-5389. The decedent is Corinne Elizabeth Wolff, a female Caucasian twenty-six years old, in good physical condition, presenting with multiple injuries. The body is intact, sixty-five inches with a weight of one hundred thirty-four pounds. Body heat is cold, rigor is not detectable, livor is dark, limited to anterior legs, stomach and chest. Hair is dark brown, shoulder-length, eyes are brown, teeth are natural. There is no facial hair. The decedent is clothed in a sports bra and panties. Paper bags are present on the hands. The head, neck and bra are bloody.
“The jawbone is crushed and shows evidence of severe trauma. Accompanying the body there is a small envelope labeled ‘teeth found near victim’s body.’ It contains two bloody molars that belong to the victim as is evidenced by systematic placements in the corresponding sockets. There are fragments that appear to match the additional empty sockets. The teeth are photographed.”
Stuart took pictures of the teeth and labeled the jar that held them. The teeth would be released with Corinne’s body for burial.
“The bags are removed from the decedent’s hands. Examination of hands shows a large plastic Band-Aid partially attached to the anterior of the right wrist. The fingernails are clipped and preserved as evidence.”
Stuart and Sam worked well together. Once the nails were clipped and bagged, they began the laborious progression of stripping the body and washing it. Twenty minutes later, Sam was ready to proceed. Corinne now lay naked, even more vulnerable in appearance than before. Taylor felt sorry for the girl. Who did she piss off? Sam’s voice dragged her back.
“The body is that of an adequately nourished Caucasian female who appears to be her recorded age.”
Sam moved on to a detailed examination of the wound pattern across Corinne’s skull and upper body. Blunt force injury number one. Blunt force injury number two. Blunt force injury number three. Avulsed teeth, abrasions, lacerations, bruises, mandible fractures. Because the wounds were so plentiful, Sam began grouping the smaller gashes together. At number eight, Taylor tuned out the recitation.
Rage. Pure, unadulterated rage. Whoever was responsible for murdering Corinne Wolff had been viciously upset with her. Todd Wolff’s face rose unbidden, his eyes red and brimming with soon-to-be-shed tears. He had made awfully good time back from Savannah. The trip should have taken at least eight hours; he’d made it in six. Perhaps he was lying after all. But could he have been callous enough to leave his daughter hungry and dirty, crawling through her mother’s blood? To murder his unborn son? He’d have to be a pretty cold bastard to do that.
Sam was efficient. While Taylor daydreamed about suspects and motives, she’d moved on to the internal examination, had weighed and categorized all of the internal organs, removed the fetus, and had taken the saw to Corinne’s skull. The high-pitched whine made a shiver flow through Taylor’s spinal cord, akin to the feeling she got when someone scratched fingernails on a blackboard, or tinfoil made contact with a filling. And then it was over, and Sam was calmly saying, “The skull is open to reveal extensive subarachnoid hemorrhage of the brain, bilateral and most prominent at the base of the brain. The brain—” A pause here, a squelching noise, then she continued. “The brain is removed to reveal a linear skull fracture occupying most of the posterior aspect….”
Well, Corinne’s skull had been cracked, no doubt about that. Taylor’s cell phone rang, and she happily excused herself from the rest of the proceedings. She didn’t particularly want to dwell on the fetus in situ anyway.
As she turned away, she heard Sam say, “Oh, hoy.”
Clicking the button that would send the call directly to her voice mail, she came back to the table.
“What is it?”
“She was strangled.”
“Are you telling me the skull fracture wasn’t the cause of death?”
Sam caught Taylor’s eye. “No, I’m pretty comfortable that the beating was the ultimate finisher. But there is some very subtle bruising around the neck. If I had to guess, I’d say that the killer tried strangling her first and it wasn’t working quickly enough. It’s harder to strangle someone to death with your bare hands than you might think. If Corinne struggled or fought back, which it certainly seems she did, it would be easy to lose your grip. She was in good shape, pregnancy aside. She put up a fight.”
“So the killer loses control of the situation and resorts to beating?”
“Sure. Grabs the most convenient item and starts whaling away. The tennis racquet made a distinctive bruising pattern where the knots of the strings are tied on the outside of the racquet head. The edges could easily create those open gashes. Think about the killer standing over the body, thrusting downward, over and over.” Sam was wrapping things up now, tidying as she went, snapping lids on containers, folding closed the flaps of envelopes, handing dissected slivers of organs to Stuart for analysis. “We’ll send off the scrapings from under her nails and all the blood work, get you a tox screen as soon as possible. But it’s evident what happened.”
“There’s nothing sexual about this?”
Sam shook her head. “No sign of bruising or tearing, no lubricants. I swabbed for semen just in case, though there was none visible in the vagina or anus, and certainly nothing to indicate sexual assault. This was just a murder, plain and simple.”
Plain and simple.
“Were there prints on the tennis racquet, or the body?”
“The racquet was wiped. There were some smudges, but nothing usable. We’ll look for some around her neck, but you know how hard it is to lift good prints from skin.”
Taylor squeezed her best friend’s arm. “Now I just have to figure out who, and we’ll be all set.”
She left Sam in the autopsy suite, ditched the protective gear in a biological waste receptacle and made her way back to the lobby. The lavender scent still lingered, now joined with the sweet overlay of a familiar, pungent perfume. Michelle Harris stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by her family. Todd Wolff was noticeably absent.
They were talking quietly among themselves, pain radiating from each person, palpable as an aura to a psychic. It didn’t take any special powers to know they were hurting; the slumped shoulders, dark circles and red noses spoke volumes.
What were they doing here? Taylor counted five of them: the parents, Michelle and her sister Nicole, and the son, Derek. They were huddled together as if seeking warmth from each other’s bodies. Taylor had seen this before. Some families were forced apart by a tragedy; others drew together, working as one to help heal. The Harrises definitely looked to be the latter.
Taylor fidgeted and stalled, pulling at her bun until her hair tumbled down in waves. Annoyed, she whipped it back up into a ponytail. Large families filled her with a sense of dislocation, of longing. She’d never known what it was like to have a support system of siblings. Sam was like a sister to her, but it was different. They didn’t share blood, despite their aborted attempt to transfuse each other when they were ten years old. Silly, meaningful, yet neither had the courage to cut deep enough to really get the blood flowing into each other’s hands. Being blood sisters wasn’t the real thing.
She was about to clear her throat when Michelle noticed her. The group stopped talking, just looked at her with unfathomably sad eyes.
“Lieutenant,” Michelle said. There were a few murmured good mornings from the rest of the group.
Taylor nodded at them, then answered, “What can I do for you?”
It was the mother who spoke up. “We’re just here for Corinne. Is it…” She stood a bit straighter. “Is it over?”
Taylor nodded. “Dr. Loughley is
finishing up, but yes, the postmortem has been completed. I can’t discuss any of the findings, you know that.”
“We do. We just wanted to be here for her. It’s hard.” A deep sniff, but she didn’t break. Taylor liked her a bit for it. “Hard to let your child go through something so invasive. If Corinne’s spirit is anywhere near, she’ll know we’re here for her.”
“Todd didn’t want to come?”
Mr. Harris coughed out a noise of disgust. “Todd took Hayden to his parents’ this morning. He didn’t even bother to stay, just whisked her away. He doesn’t care about Corinne. He’s just concerned with himself.”
“Daddy, that’s not fair.” Michelle came to her father’s side, touching his arm. “Todd knows you and Mom are too upset to care for Hayden. He’s trying to do you a favor.”
“Bullshit!” Derek Harris spoke for the first time, his full, thick hair falling over his forehead. He turned to Taylor. “You need to look a little closer at my brother-in-law, Lieutenant. I know he’s got something to do with this. I wasn’t so sure yesterday when we talked, but he’s acting strange. Something is up with him. I think he might be responsible for Corinne’s death.”
Interesting. The united front for Corinne certainly didn’t extend to her husband. Taylor held up a hand. “I will be looking at every angle of this case backwards and forwards, I can guarantee you that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to make it downtown for a meeting.”
“Lieutenant?” Nicole Harris, raven hair, soulful brown eyes, thin frame bordering on emaciation, put up her hand as if she were a student seeking a professor’s attention.
“Yes?”
Nicole took a deep breath. “It’s about the baby. What’s…we want to know what’s happening with…with his body.”
“Oh,” Taylor said. “Of course. That’s going to be up to you. The folks here at Forensic Medical will issue a fetal death certificate, and you’ll have the option to bury him separately, or with Corinne. His body will be released with hers.”
The relief bled from them in waves. Michelle took her mother’s hand and looked at Taylor. “We were afraid he might be…disposed of.”
Taylor’s stomach flipped at the thought. It was horrid enough to have seen the tiny body, imagining him being thrown away saddened her deeply.
“I understand. That happens sometimes, but usually with indigent women who are early along in their pregnancies and don’t have family to claim a fetus. After twenty weeks, though, the baby is treated as a person by the medical examiner. I assure you, the baby was handled with a great deal of care.”
“Did you see him?” Mr. Harris spoke quietly, almost as if he didn’t want to hear her answer.
“I did.” Taylor’s voice cracked as she spoke. “I have to go now. Please accept my deepest condolences on your loss. I’ll be in touch soon.”
She left them there. As she walked away, she didn’t look back.
Ten
Taylor got into the 4Runner. Jesus. She rubbed her eyes hard. Buck up, she told herself. It could have been worse. You could have had to tell them their daughter was raped, or slit open, or stowed away in a barrel of acid. Unfortunately, as bad as Corinne Wolff’s murder was, it could always have been something more. Little comfort to the Harrises, she knew, but it made her feel better.
Hoping for an escape from the thought of those accusing eyes, she plugged her phone into the charger, then turned on the speaker and dialed “one” for her voice mail.
Baldwin’s deep voice spilled from the little phone, made tinny by the poor quality of the speaker.
“Just checking in, babe. Hope you’re having a good day. Call me when you get a chance. Love you.”
Taylor dialed him back. He answered on the first ring, sounding a bit distracted.
“I’ve had a fun morning. Everything good with you?” she asked.
“Absolutely. Everything is fine. Can’t say I miss the place, I’ll tell you that.”
“Is Garrett okay?”
“Oh. Yes, yes, completely. He’s going to be just fine.”
“That’s good. Send him my best, will you? And take care of yourself.”
They chatted for a few more minutes, then she depressed the end button, her mind immediately back in the case. Time to go to work.
Baldwin hung up the phone and sighed deeply, running his hands through his dark hair at speed. It made the ends stand at attention, a look he knew Taylor found terribly amusing. My little porcupine, she called him. He rolled his eyes at the silliness of it and wished he were home.
God, he hated lying to her.
No, everything was not okay.
Baldwin had always excelled at compartmentalizing. He was able to stay calm in the face of the most intense scrutiny, could clinically analyze any situation without getting close, then could move on to the next case with precision and no regrets. The FBI knew that when they hired him. The CIA knew that when they called on him.
He’d been with the profiling unit for about four years when Garrett suggested a quick day trip to Washington, D.C. for an unusual case. “It’s a favor for a friend, Baldwin. I just need you to look the scene over, go through some of the evidence, and tell me what you think.”
He’d gone willingly enough. Garrett had always been fair, a mentor. He both regretted his acquiescence and thanked God he’d been the one asked to come that day. He thought back to the beginning of this subterfuge, the June morning that altered the course of his life.
Traffic was difficult, as it always was. Garrett hadn’t spoken much as they made the drive north. It took them an hour and forty-five minutes to reach the Beltway. Not the greatest time. But once they were on 495, the roads miraculously cleared and within five minutes they were on the George Washington Parkway, heading toward McLean, Virginia.
Just past the Chain Bridge Road exit, Garrett had pulled into a scenic overlook. The Potomac River churned at their feet, the woods beyond the overlook were thick and foreboding. The faintest of paths could be seen. Garrett walked that way, beckoning Baldwin to follow. There was something familiar about the area. It took Baldwin’s mind a moment to register that they were very near Fort Marcy Park, the site of one of the most famous alleged suicides in Washington history—White House Deputy Counsel Vince Foster. Talk about a can of worms. Pushing the scandal out of his mind, he followed Garrett deeper into the woods.
About two hundred yards into the thicket, they came to a slight opening among the trees. Baldwin smelled the blood before his mind registered the scene.
The clearing looked like the set of a low-budget horror flick. A makeshift drying rack was strung between two trees: flayed skin, pieces of genitalia, a severed head with wild, staring milky eyes, all were precisely tacked to the wires. There were at least five women in various stages of decay, their bodies no longer attached by the normal seams. Flies buzzed heavily around the torso of one obviously fresh kill.
Baldwin felt the bile rise in his throat, a completely unnatural reaction for him. Something evil lurked in these woods. He could feel it oozing through his pores, and fought the urge to run back to the car.
“Holy mother of God. What is this, Garrett?”
Garrett’s answer came out as a sigh. “That’s what I need you to tell me.”
Later that first day, his face white and pinched, Baldwin had sat in the upstairs room of Mr. Henry’s, a noisy bar in the District. Garrett sat beside him, silent.
Garrett had insinuated answers would be forthcoming from this meeting, but so far, there was nothing. Baldwin drank draught Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, desperately trying to wash the taste of decomposition and fear from his tongue.
He looked out the window, watched people moving past, happy that they were unaware of the horror he’d experienced. How to keep them safe?
When he turned back a large, bald-headed man sat across from him, assessing. Shrewd eyes bluer than cold ocean water, a thick neck and fingers, he gave his name only as Atlantic, a moniker obviously befitting his appearance.
Atlantic talked in his odd accent for what seemed hours, though Baldwin knew it could only have been a few minutes. When he finished, Baldwin asked, “Why me?”
“Because you are the best we’ve ever seen. Because you’re a natural polyglot, can assimilate to any country. How many languages are you fluent in? Eight? Nine?”
“Thirteen.”
Atlantic tipped his head in respect and tapped the edge of the table like a snooker master. “Because you have the compassion to give these victims closure but the brains to keep silent. And because we ask.”
It had been enough of an answer at the time. Baldwin agreed to take on the position of profiler to the setup Atlantic called Operation Angelmaker.
His first assignment was to track the Forest Killer. Baldwin had blown the case wide open in a matter of days. The killer was a legal attaché to Zambia. Baldwin stopped him before he killed his sixth victim. The man had been summarily deported with a stern warning to his government to never let him set foot back in the United States. The killer’s flashing grin as he boarded the jet home to Lusaka haunted Baldwin’s dreams.
That was the first. There were more. Rarely on U.S. soil, the cases he worked were quiet, involved and deadly. Different killers, different MOs. Killing zones and sprees that needed to be kept as quiet as possible, that needed to be solved through back channels. These weren’t the men who made it onto Court TV, or even made it to court. These killers were protected.
The governments of various countries kept silent assassins on the payrolls. Men and women paid to kill, trained to be sociopaths, sometimes broke from their proscribed paths, headed out on their own to satiate their burgeoning needs. Developed a bloodlust that their government targets couldn’t sate. Tracking these assets was a vital function, one not left to everyday agents.
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