“Thank you, sir,” she said. “Though the circumstances are quite tragic. May I?” she asked, indicating that she’d like to take a closer look at the corpse.
“Of course,” Dr. Simpson said. “I have finished my initial inspection. The absence of so many of her organs makes an exact time of death difficult at this point. But due to several factors, I believe she was killed in the wee hours of the morning, possibly no more than an hour before she was brought here. The murder site being elsewhere and unknown at this time.”
“What organs are missing?” she asked.
“Liver, kidneys, uterus and heart. Ribs were cracked and broken for the removal of the heart,” Simpson told her.
Stacey looked at the victim, not turning away and not showing distress. She wasn’t without emotion, though: she seemed to look upon the dead woman with empathy and sorrow.
“Same as the first two victims,” Fred told her. Keenan saw Fred was intrigued by Special Agent Hanson. He was interested himself; she was young to have not only made it through the academy but into the Krewe. She was certainly striking with her coal-dark hair, silver-gray eyes and fine features. She had full lips, a lean face and defined cheekbones. She was dead serious as she studied the corpse, paying heed to every word spoken by Beau Simpson.
Again, Keenan had the feeling he recognized her. Maybe they had passed on the street, or in the hallways at FBI Headquarters.
“And no idea of who she might have been?” she asked.
“None yet,” Fred replied.
Stacey stood easily in a clean, coordinated movement. She looked at Keenan. She said nothing, just waited for his instruction, acknowledging his senior position.
“When’s the autopsy?” Keenan asked the ME.
Usually, a body needing autopsy for whatever reason came in and was catalogued, and the procedure was done the next day.
“This afternoon,” Beau said. “There’s not much to work with. I think I want to move this along as quickly as possible.”
“That’s greatly appreciated,” Keenan told him, and Fred nodded his agreement.
Beau called out softly to his assistants. “Shall we?”
Keenan, Fred and Stacey moved away so the morgue workers could do their jobs. Keenan looked at Fred. “You’ve had officers out trying to find eyewitnesses, I’m sure.”
Fred nodded. “Nothing’s come from it, as far as I know. They are doing door-to-door questioning, but...she had to have been dumped around four thirty. Not many people are out around here at that time, barely anything open. They’ll try and obviously let us know if there’s a hint of someone who may know something. Anyway, I’m heading in, and we’ll hope Doc Beau can get us an ID. Check with Missing Persons, fingerprints, every possibility.”
“All right. We’ll see you at autopsy.”
Fred gave them a wave and headed off. As he made his way through the gathering crowd of onlookers and journalists, he lifted his hands, palms out in a calming gesture, and stated, “Folks, no comment until we have something definitive to say!”
Keenan’s new partner stayed silent, respectfully waiting his orders.
He was silent, looking past the crime-scene tape to the crowd and around the square.
“Sir? Should we be reading every detail—”
“Soon. We need to take a walk,” he said. “Or, perhaps you would rather head in and start—”
“A walk is fine, sir.”
He gritted his teeth. She was doing her best; he didn’t know why he was irritated. Possibly because she was the reason he’d got out here so soon—and he didn’t know why.
He studied her for a moment. Yes, he knew her. She was the kind of woman a man didn’t easily forget. But where was it that he knew her from?
“You knew about this?” he asked quietly as they made their way around behind the waiting morgue vehicle where there weren’t so many people. Even then, it took a bit to move out of the immediate area.
“Yes,” she said.
“How?”
She was silent a minute. “Um...a dream. A nightmare.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.”
Simple. Direct. She didn’t seem inclined to elaborate. “You’ve been partnered with me. That means you share information.”
“A nightmare. I don’t know what else to say,” she told him. “I have strange dreams. They begin innocuously enough. And sometimes my dreams are just that—dreams, and they don’t come again. Sometimes, they repeat, longer each time, and pointing to something.”
He paused. Looking ahead, he could see a handsome man, slight in build, wearing a loose bow tie and long jacket, and sporting a slightly drooping mustache, leaning against the wall of one the buildings that edged the square. They were just off Sixteenth Street.
“Excuse me,” he told his partner.
He moved ahead, but she followed. She could move damned quickly on legs that were nowhere nearly as long as his.
“This is right by the area where General Sickles gunned down Philip Barton Key II,” she said. “Poor man. They say he begged for his life, but Sickles was furious over an affair Key was having with his wife and shot Key three times. Key was unarmed. And through legal machinations—the first time, I believe—the not guilty on the reason of temporary insanity plea was instigated. Sickles got out of it and went on to serve in the Civil War, causing not great things at Gettysburg, getting his leg shot off, giving it to medical science or a museum or some such thing. And that’s Philip Barton Key II, son of Francis Scott Key, the man who wrote the poem that became ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’!”
He cast a glance her way. She seemed to be in awe. But it was clear—she did see the dead. Well, he could have assumed, she was in the Krewe.
“Yeah, I know who he is,” Keenan said. “And you need to learn to be more discreet. If you gush out loud over a ghost, you’ll put all our credibility in jeopardy.”
She didn’t reply. She stepped ahead of him and leaned against the wall, then turned as if she was speaking to him.
“Sir! What a pleasure.”
The ghost of the slain man smiled slowly, turning to look at Stacey Hanson, and apparently appreciating what he saw.
The man had been gunned down for having had an affair with another man’s wife.
Keenan leaned against the wall and gestured as if he was showing Stacey something across the street. “We need help,” he told the ghost.
“Indeed, you do. Ghastly, perfectly ghastly business going on,” the ghost of Philip Key agreed sympathetically.
“What do you know about it?” Keenan asked. “If you’ve got anything, Philip, please share. Anything at all.”
“I didn’t see the woman being left there. I do wander about, you know. There are some lively venues for entertainment in the area. Well, that’s neither here nor there. What I did see was a sedan. A black sedan. I believe it drove by me and must have been on the street near the statue at the appropriate time. I did hear the young woman screaming when she discovered the body, and then I rushed to the scene. Lingered at the back of the crowd a bit.” He offered Stacey a rueful shrug. “I eavesdrop on some of the finest law-enforcement officers—other than Mr. Wallace’s Krewe of Hunters, of course. They say a killer often returns to the scene of a crime, reveling in the reaction. Or some types of killers. My ill luck was to be murdered by an attorney. No need for him to stick around and watch the blood dry! Sorry, I digress. I’m afraid I saw no one acting in any way salacious. No one who appeared anything other than horrified and grim.” He hesitated, shaking his head. “I haven’t seen Bram yet this morning. He and some of the others might have been about. I’ll certainly speak to them, and so should you. My dear, what is your name?” he asked Stacey.
“Special Agent Stacey Hanson,” she told him.
“A pretty thing, aren’t you? Do forgive me, but you are quite lovely
.”
“Thank you. And I’m...sorry about your...loss,” she sputtered somewhat awkwardly.
“Time brings about forgiveness,” the ghost told her. “And a new passion—that others do not suffer so. Keenan! What a lucky man. Such a charming partner.”
“Yes, well, we don’t always need charm—” Keenan began.
“And sometimes we do,” Key said sagely.
“All right, thank you,” Keenan said, ready to move on. Competent crime-scene investigators were working the area. Until the autopsy was done, it seemed the most efficient use of their time would be reviewing the case files.
“It’s been a pleasure,” Stacey told the ghost.
Keenan gritted his teeth. Saying nothing more, he started walking to his car.
She followed, hurrying after him.
“Who is Bram?” she asked.
“My great-grandfather,” he said curtly.
“Does he work around here?”
“You could say so.”
“Oh? What does he do?”
He paused and stared at her. “He investigates. He joined the FBI in 1920, and moved out to Chicago to work with Eliot Ness.”
“And he’s still—”
“He’s dead. He’s just...he still investigates, okay? But I didn’t see him anywhere. May we get in the car and drive, please?”
She hopped into the passenger’s seat. They drove in silence for a minute.
Then she blurted out, “Do we have a problem here? Or rather, do you have a problem with me?”
Surprised, he glanced quickly her way.
“I don’t have a problem with you.”
“Then?”
He shook his head. “You’re...inexperienced. And this case...”
She turned to him. “Don’t think I don’t know what we’re up against, or that I can’t follow orders, or that I don’t know my way around a crime. Don’t ever underestimate me. Field Director Jackson Crow personally assigned me to this case, so I’d appreciate it if you’d quit treating me like an unwanted puppy tagging along!” She might be half his size, but she was fierce.
Her vehemence almost made him smile. She was hardly a shy, wilting flower. She had balls. And maybe there would be times ahead when it would help to have a drop-dead stunning, kick-ass new partner.
“Well?” she demanded.
He smiled.
“I’ll do my best,” he promised.
Two
“After the second murder, they started calling the killer the Yankee Ripper,” Stacey said quietly. “Named by the press, I imagine. There have been no notes to the media, though. I think Ripperologists believe only one note received was from the real killer back then. This killer didn’t name himself, but he could be trying to reenact the past.”
“There’s always someone out there who wants to be bigger and badder,” Keenan told her absently, poring over the notes on his desk. The Krewe had handled a similar case in New York City years ago. “There’s a difference with this victim, compared to the last two. The condition of the bodies troubles me, though.”
“Because the organs have completely disappeared?” Stacey suggested. “I know the Victorian Ripper removed organs...but he liked to drape the intestines around the body. He didn’t just...make all the organs disappear.” She winced, looking at Keenan. “Do you think it could be cannibalism?”
He shrugged. “I’m reading the notes from both detectives and both medical examiners on the other victims. No clues were found. Certainly, none of the obvious clues—fibers, hairs, fingerprints, saliva. He’s wearing gloves, taking precautions.”
“He dumps his victims in public places, wanting them to be found and seen,” Stacey said.
She looked at Keenan again. His head was bent, attention on the text he was reading. He replied when she spoke, but she was certain that he wasn’t really paying attention to anything that she said.
“He wants us to compare him to the Ripper, but he’s killing for another reason,” she suggested.
He gave her his full attention at last. “Did you dream that?” he asked. She thought there was skepticism in his voice.
“I’m being mocked by the man who sometimes works with his dead great-grandfather?” she asked.
He didn’t blink; he didn’t betray a speck of emotion.
“You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have your special talents for communication,” he said.
“So, why do you doubt me? You know they’re real—my dreams are real,” she said, angry with herself because she was beginning to sound desperate. “You were there. You were one of the agents who came to Harpers Ferry when my friends were nearly killed. So, you know what I saw was real. And this morning...yes, I dreamed of the body. Bits and fragments leading up to an event, and then...”
“Then a corpse,” he said quietly. “Yes, I was in Harpers Ferry. It’s been driving me crazy—I knew I’d seen you somewhere before. Adam didn’t say much about you at the time. You were a kid, and he wanted you kept out of it.”
“So...why are you so dismissive of me?” she demanded.
He was silent for a minute, head bent over his files again, and then he looked up and met her eyes, stared at her hard. “I’m not dismissive of you. I’m afraid for us both. This is going to get worse before it gets better.” He hesitated. “You’re just out of the academy. Your talents are very real. But they aren’t...field talents.”
“I see. You’re afraid I won’t have your back if there’s a dangerous situation.”
“You haven’t been in the field. And I’m sorry, but that means something. We really don’t get many car chases, but you may wind up in a situation with a shooter. In a crowd.”
“I did go through all the proper training.”
“Yes, and you can take scuba lessons in a pool, but it’s—nowhere near the same thing as being in the ocean.”
She forced a smile. “By the way, should we need to jump in the river, I’m an excellent swimmer and a certified diver.”
He stared back at her.
“Well, apparently, there are others here with more faith,” she said curtly. She wanted to stand up and walk out. She wanted to strut into Jackson Crow’s office and tell him she was sorry, she wanted to be a Krewe agent, it was all-important to her really, but Keenan Wallace was insufferable.
She managed not to leave. She lowered her head and gritted her teeth, and then she continued her own study of the notes that had been taken on the first and second murders.
They kept working in uneasy silence. Stacey had her computer open as well, and she went back and forth reading up on the case notes and researching.
She hadn’t realized she was shaking her head until Keenan spoke.
“What?” he asked.
She looked up, startled. She hesitated, afraid that he’d mock anything she had to say.
But she had been partnered with him. And it would be wrong not to share.
“I...I mean, she was torn to pieces, but I felt like I’d seen our victim before.”
“Maybe you passed by her in a store, or just walking down the street?”
Stacey shook her head. “No, um, nothing recent. And I didn’t know her. I just have a memory of her that I can’t quite grasp. I’m sorry. Never mind. Back to the killer. If he’s gone from street girls to a more refined escort, or so it appears—”
Keenan’s phone rang; he lifted his hand to interrupt her and answered the call, speaking briefly with “Yes” and “Got it” and “Thank you.”
He ended the call and looked at her. “We don’t need to assume anymore. The fingerprint ID came in. The victim was a woman named Billie Bingham.”
“Billie Bingham? I know that name.”
“Yes. She was in the news—a scandal. Involving some politicians and the escort service she ran. She managed to elude every legal
inquiry. It’s a tight-knit group that plays around her business. Bingham’s clients and workers are tight-lipped and all swear the business is on the up-and-up. Last year, though, the wife of a junior congressman started a social-media campaign against the Bingham Company that got a lot of traction. She fell silent when it seemed there was no proof of anything illegal going on.”
“I think I remember. The angry wife was threatened with a lawsuit.”
He nodded. “The junior congressman is out—and the marriage is over. I haven’t heard anything since.”
Stacey quickly keyed in a search on her computer. “Cindy Hardy, ex-wife of J. J. Hardy.” She went to another site and one more. “She didn’t go back to their home state of Arizona, though. She’s living in Northern Virginia. We need to speak with her! I mean, she surely believes Billie Bingham ruined her life. Maybe our Jack the Ripper is a Jill.”
“It’s possible. Except I believe whoever is doing this has a certain amount of strength. They carried a body to the statue. If memory serves me, from the few times I saw her on a television screen, Cindy Hardy is about five-three and can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds.”
“But—”
“We should definitely interview her,” he said, “and now we know why you recognized the victim—despite the condition of the corpse.”
She gave him a dry glance. “You’re suggesting I was a client of hers?”
He laughed. “No, just that you might have seen her in the papers.”
“No. Haven’t you ever had something tease in your mind, but you don’t know why?” she asked him. “That’s not any special talent—everyone has that, I imagine.”
“Yes, and hopefully you’ll figure it out in time. Whether it has bearing on the case or not, it will probably drive you to distraction until you do figure it out,” he said. He rose and reached for his jacket. “It’s time to head to the morgue.”
“So quickly? They’ve barely had time to catalogue the body and start on prep.”
“For this case, full speed ahead. We’re going to try to move quickly. The media is going to be all over this. And we are looking at DC. There’s no way out of the fact many people are going to be deeply concerned. We were obviously committed to finding the killer from the start—all life is equally valuable—but now someone has been murdered who might bring all kinds of unwanted publicity, really shining a light on those who might have seen the street girls as unfortunates who got what they deserved. Whether we like it or not, Billie Bingham’s murder is a game changer. Let’s move.”
Dreaming Death Page 4
