Dreaming Death

by Heather Graham

  “The rookie is the reason we know a body will soon be discovered, Keenan. You’ll do fine. Work with her. Yes, it’s going to be high profile. And I know you know what you’re doing. Trust me on this, Keenan. You were a rookie once, and I trusted you.” He paused just briefly. “This new agent will be invaluable. Catch me up on everything you discover today as soon as you can.”

  Keenan started to reply, but Jackson had already rung off.

  Groaning, he dragged himself up and to the shower.

  Trust me, Jackson had said.

  He did trust Jackson Crow. There was no better man, personally or professionally.

  He let the water run long and hot.

  Work with the rookie. Well, he would try.

  * * *

  It had been coming. The dreams always started off with something innocuous and then led to the dangerous and deadly.

  Life had taught Stacey that few people would ever believe her. It was more likely they would lock her away, since, by all appearances, her knowledge would mean she’d had something to do with the violence.

  The dreams had been building for the past few weeks.

  A walk, early morning, sun just rising, through Lafayette Square. And then the sight of feet sticking out from behind the base of a statue.

  One foot with a shoe, one without.

  Last night, she had seen the body.

  Anyone with a television, a laptop, a phone, or even eyes had to know about the two recent murders that had been committed in DC and Alexandria. The gruesome details screamed from every media site and newspaper and magazine in the country.

  So, Stacey had called in what she knew—straight to Jackson Crow.

  Stacey had become an agent very recently and hadn’t expected to be put out in the field so quickly, and certainly not on such a case. She had wanted to give the Krewe a heads-up, grateful there were people out there who believed her. She’d only had a jump on the discovery of the body.

  She couldn’t help but wonder just what good that was. She hadn’t prevented anything.

  “I’ve got a seasoned agent heading to the scene you described,” Jackson Crow told her over the phone. “He’ll go in after the 9-1-1 call. We have to be cautious, or it won’t go over well with local law enforcement—because you understand explaining dreams to those who are unaccustomed to the unusual is not an effort that succeeds.”

  “Of course, sir,” Stacey assured her direct superior. “Show up at the scene at approximately seven fifteen. Give Special Agent Keenan Wallace a bit of time to do his own initial investigation. Then, get in there.”

  She inhaled a long breath. “I’ll recognize him because he’ll be by the body?” she asked.

  “Yes, well...that and you can’t miss him. Keenan is almost six-five.” Jackson paused. “He’s got sandy hair and makes an impression. You’ve actually met him before. He was the other agent with me and Adam when you called about your friends being in danger in the Miller Cemetery. Anyway, he stands out in a crowd. Yes, he’ll be by the body. If not, trust me, you won’t miss him.”

  “Okay, thank you, sir.” Biting her lip, she rose and walked to her window. She was back in Georgetown. She loved the neighborhood, the old buildings on the street, the cherry trees here and there...

  And it was strange.

  It was where she’d first experienced her bizarre nightmares. There were other places to live. She’d made the choice, however, to take an apartment in Georgetown when she’d graduated and come to the Krewe.

  She wondered if Georgetown wasn’t somehow special to her.

  She realized she was nervous. Her first case. Shower, dress, get to work. It was time.

  Before now, she’d never been able to tell others what she saw. Now she was going to turn nightmares to good use.

  Yes, it was time to prove herself.

  * * *

  “She was...oh, my God, she was just lying there,” the young woman told Keenan. “I’m a nurse—on my way to the day shift—and I know...I know the smell of blood!”

  Keenan nodded sympathetically. He adjusted the blanket around the woman’s shoulders. The morning was warm, but she sat shivering in the rear of an ambulance.

  The woman who’d found the body, one Jennifer Maples, was in her early twenties, dressed in scrubs, eyes damp with fear, huge green pools in a face the shade of ash. He understood.

  “They’ll take you to work or home, whichever you wish,” he said. “It was just six when you passed by the statue, right? And saw the victim there?”

  She nodded. “Yes, sir, I know it was just about ten after. I work three twelve-hour shifts a week, and I am a creature of habit. My shift starts at seven, but I like to get in a bit early for coffee and charts. I walk this way to the metro... Did you see her? Oh, my God!”

  She covered her mouth again, as if trying to prevent herself from spewing the bile that was rising within.

  “It’s all right.”

  “I’m a nurse. I’m not squeamish. But that—”

  “It’s all right,” Keenan repeated softly.

  Yes, he’d seen her—the victim.

  “Did you see or hear anyone near you—cars moving out, anyone running, anyone behaving suspiciously in any way?”

  She shook her head. “The square was quiet. I think I saw a few people pass on the other side of the statue, but you can’t see her unless...you’re on this side of it. No one was running or behaving oddly,” she said wryly. “There were cars out on the road, but I didn’t see any of them speeding by, no running lights or anything like that... There was nothing unusual,” she said earnestly. “There was just her—that poor woman!”

  He nodded, silent for a minute.

  She looked at him. “I’ve heard about this killer, this man they’re calling the Yankee Ripper. He’s killed twice already, right? The media has been subtle and not so subtle about warning sex workers he’s on the prowl. I don’t care what she did for a living. She might have been down and out. She might have been the nicest person in the world—or not. No one—oh, God, no one should have happen to them what happened to her!”

  “Of course not. Every life is sacred,” Keenan said.

  “And you’ll find whoever did this, right? You won’t just figure someone is killing sex workers and who cares?”

  “As yet, we don’t know who she was, or what she did for a living. But that won’t matter,” Keenan promised. “I assure you, we will seek this man with all our resources.”

  She looked baffled for a minute. “Who are you? You’re not in uniform. The other man I talked to first—”

  “Detective Fred Crandall. He’s DC police,” Keenan told her.

  “And you’re—”

  “FBI,” he said. He offered her a grim smile. “We’re all on this, Miss Maples. We will find this person, and we will stop these killings.”

  Her eyes widened suddenly. “I’m not in any danger, am I?”

  “I don’t believe you’re in danger, but you should always take care. You know that, of course. Lock your doors, watch your surroundings. Be wary. But I think you already are, and will be, as soon as you have a second to get some strength back. You’re smart and savvy,” he assured her with a smile. “Miss Maples, thank you so much. If you’d like to go home, we can speak with your employers. You’ve suffered a truly traumatic experience, and you reacted with a speed that has certainly helped us.”

  “I couldn’t bear the thought of a child coming across...that,” she whispered.

  She’d had the presence of mind to dial 9-1-1 immediately and get the call through despite what must have been a serious trembling in her fingers.

  She was still shaking.

  “I—I don’t want to go home. I live in an apartment alone. I don’t want to be alone.”

  Understandable. But Keenan had to get over to see the victim; the medical e
xaminer was waiting for him along with Fred Crandall.

  He leaned out the back of the ambulance and beckoned to a uniformed officer to come and watch over their distraught witness, see that she was helped. Then he stepped down and headed for the crime scene. Passing by two DC officers with a nod, he ducked under the yellow tape.

  And reached the body.

  Fred Crandall was standing next to Dr. Beau Simpson, who was on his knees by the body, still doing his initial inspection.

  Crandall was in his early forties, a longtime cop who had seen a hell of a lot. Washington, DC, could be beautiful beyond belief, beloved by natives to the city and by tourists who came from all regions. It was also a political hotbed where many a strange crime took place.

  Fred was a veteran of many of those crimes and a damned good detective. Medium in height, he was still built with the wiry strength of a tiger. He was bald and had sharp blue eyes, the kind that could intimidate many a perpetrator.

  Dr. Simpson was also a seasoned man. Fiftysomething with salt-and-pepper, close-cropped hair, he was impressively cool, calm and stoic, always.

  Simpson had once told Keenan that it came from living in DC—the heart of the Union—and having been named Beauregard after the Confederate general P. G. T. Beauregard by a mother from South Carolina. He’d seen so many lifted eyebrows and smirks that he could maintain a totally blank expression at any time.

  The three of them had worked together before. Keenan was glad Beau seemed to be the Washington medical examiner on the case. Along with giving investigators his findings on any case, he always told them how he determined every detail he found.

  “To the best of our educated reckoning, she’s number three,” Dr. Simpson said, not looking up.

  “Cause and method of death?” Keenan asked.

  “No way like the old Whitechapel Ripper, as the rumors have been saying,” Simpson told him. “Or maybe a little. That killer possibly strangled his victims for silence before slashing their throats. No slashed throat here—she was strangled. And the removal of her internal parts...somewhere else.”

  “The organs are missing?”

  “The organs are missing,” Simpson said. He added, “Just like before.”

  “Do we have an ID?” he asked Fred.

  Fred shook his head. “No, but—”

  “This is different. We know the first two were sex workers. Of the lowest and saddest variety, I’m sorry to say. On initial inspection, I’d say this woman is different. Doesn’t mean she wasn’t in the world’s oldest business, but she wasn’t out on the streets working. If it proves that she was a sex worker,” Beau Simpson went on, answering before Fred could say more. “Her hands. Look at the manicure she’s got. Yes, she could be a good manicurist herself, but she’s also wearing a diamond I judge to be an expensive one, and her hands are soft as a baby’s—she’d not doing dishes or laundry or any kind of manual labor. Well, that depends on your definition of manual labor.” He winced and let out a long sigh. “That was not an attempt at humor. I’m merely saying I don’t think this woman has ever washed a dish or even scraped one for the dishwasher.”

  “Clothing looks designer,” Keenan said, hunkering down by the ME.

  While much of what the woman was wearing had been shredded by the killer’s knife, Keenan could see that the skirt-suit had originally been impeccably fitted. He believed the material was a silk mix—even torn-up it looked expensive.

  “I only have what I’ve gotten from the Virginia folks on the second victim,” Fred told Keenan, “but I’m sure you know that. The first victim, though, I saw her. Just like this. Belly ripped out and the guts gone. But her nails sure weren’t manicured. Her clothing was clean enough, but cheap. Turned out she was a working girl, cruising our most dangerous streets. Now, you don’t want to think the murder of anyone is a common thing, but we did think maybe she picked up the wrong john, maybe she didn’t follow through, she tried to rip him off... Something. I came on because of the violence of the crime. Because...well, because we don’t find that many murder victims missing all their organs. Naturally, once I compared notes with the lead detective in Alexandria, we talked to the Feds, and here you are, and we have our third victim.”

  Keenan nodded. “I’ll be playing catchup,” he said. “Obviously, I know something about what has gone on, but not all the details. Doc Beau, you were called to the scene of the first murder, right?”

  Dr. Beau Simpson was still staring at the current victim, taking in every little detail. Police photographers had moved off; crime-scene investigators were prowling the area, but Lafayette Square was traveled constantly by tourists as well as locals like their witness, Miss Maples. While no one ever knew what amazing forensic find might prove to be an invaluable clue, Keenan doubted they’d find this killer had been careless about what he left behind.

  “They’re calling this monster the Yankee Ripper,” Beau said, shaking his head. He looked at Keenan. “First murder was Jess Marlborough. Yes, ripped to shreds. Strangled, face slashed...but her throat was not slit. And none of her organs—those cut from the body—were left behind or displayed. Kidneys gone, uterus gone, liver gone. The woman was just about hollowed out. I’d never seen anything like it before. The killing did not take place where she was found—police have yet to discover where she was killed.”

  “Jess Marlborough worked rough streets. She did quickies in alleys and cars, according to her friends or...coworkers,” Fred said. “From what I could get. No one wanted to talk to the police. They split and ran. They might be terrified of the killer, but they’re just as afraid of police. As far as I know, she lived in that alley. The last address she had on file with anyone anywhere was in Baltimore.”

  “The second victim—in Virginia—all the details were similar?” Keenan asked.

  “According to Jean Channing, yes,” Fred said. Detective Jean Channing, who worked Alexandria, was an excellent investigator. She wouldn’t miss anything, and she wouldn’t make mistakes. “And she’s even more frustrated, trying to get info on the victim. When you live in the underbelly of any city, you keep low. That girl kept low, too.”

  “I didn’t autopsy the second victim,” Beau offered. “Alexandria folks were on that call. The methods and cause of death being so close, we were in touch. And yeah, from what I’ve read and discussed, it was very much the same. Enough so that we’re looking at one killer—at least, in my humble, but well-educated, opinion.”

  “On Jess,” Fred said, looking frustrated, “all I managed to get from any of the girls I found near the dump site was that Jess worked a second back alley that we’ve raided over and over again. I don’t get it. They should want to talk. Does little good to stay silent.”

  “Andrea Simon was the second victim—that’s the name we got on her. And since we don’t know of any other murders similar to what we’re dealing with here, we believe she was the second victim of the same killer,” Fred said tonelessly. “Detective Channing and I shared reports. She was hollowed out, too. And like Jess Marlborough, she worked rough streets, back alleys, hotels that rent rooms by the hour, cars. Jean can’t find an address on Andrea, either. Last known for her was someplace in Nevada.”

  “Homeless, down-and-out women,” Keenan muttered.

  “Well, they may have had homes, but no one is talking. The girls and women working those streets, they have pimps. And they’re often more scared of them than even a butchering murderer. The murderer getting them is a risk. A pimp beating the hell out of them or worse is a sure thing.”

  “This could be a game changer, though,” Keenan said. “Interesting. I believe this woman will put a new spin on the victimology.” He rose.

  “The slashes to her face...” Beau said, pointing to the cruel marks that tore apart what had once been a face “...those strikes were hard and sure. Not hesitant.” He was quiet a minute. “Inflicted before death, I’d say.”

>   “The other two victims had their faces slashed as well,” Fred offered.

  “No hesitation there, either. I’ve compared notes with Dr. Bowen over on the Virginia side,” he said. He looked up at Keenan. “I suppose you have every detail on a report somewhere in your office. You couldn’t have had much time yet to absorb it all, but it’s pretty straightforward. Three victims. All disemboweled—with body parts gone.”

  “And no, uh, pieces sent to the media or anything like that—not that we know about. Not yet,” Fred told him.

  Doc Beau sighed deeply and then reached to grab Keenan’s hand for an aid as he came to his feet. “I’m going to get her back to the morgue. Photographers are done, and I won’t know more until I have her on the table. She has no pockets, so we won’t find an ID that way. I don’t believe any of our people have come up with a tossed handbag or anything like that. Again, though, she wasn’t killed here. She was dead—and disemboweled—before she was dumped here. Gentlemen, I’ll have my assistants get her moving, if you’ll kindly step back.”

  As Keenan turned to go, he saw a young woman in a blue pantsuit showing her credentials to one of the officers by the crime tape.

  “We have company,” Fred said.

  His new partner? Keenan wondered.

  She ducked under the tape with ease, a smooth swoop beneath it. Her hair was as close to jet as he’d ever seen, and she was obviously young, early twenties, tops.

  He groaned inwardly. Great. He’d been given a pretty kid.

  He frowned, watching her approach. There was something familiar about her.

  She hurried over to greet him, a hand outstretched. “Sir, I’m Stacey Hanson. Field Director Crow asked me to find you here.” She offered a nod of acknowledgement to Beau and Fred along with a grim smile.

  “Special Agent Hanson?” Fred asked, smiling and offering her a hand as well. “Detective Frederick Crandall, and Dr. Beauregard Simpson. Pleased to make your acquaintance, and happy to have you on what will now surely be a task force.”