Dreaming Death

by Heather Graham

  * * *

  Dr. Simpson stood next to the corpse that lay on the stainless steel table.

  “Too bad we didn’t have today’s technology back in the day of the original Ripper,” Dr. Simpson said. “They’d have caught that sucker and ruined many a moviemaker’s dream. The thing is, there was speculation he might have been a doctor or someone medically trained. Others thought that was reaching too high, and that a butcher might have just as easily performed some of the mutilations, the removal of body parts.”

  “And what are you seeing here?” Keenan asked him.

  Stacey stood next to Keenan. Fred Crandall was on the other side of the autopsy table. The three of them had been quiet as Simpson had gone through a few of the formalities, explaining that, minus so many of her organs, there would be little he could tell them about her last meal or time of death due to digestion.

  Beau Simpson looked at Keenan, pursing his lips and shaking his head. “Could be someone who knows basic anatomy or could be someone with real medical training. I’ve asked some of my colleagues to assess the removal of the internal organs and tell me what they thought. We are leaning toward someone with certain medical knowledge. How much? I don’t think the killer is necessarily a surgeon. You can learn almost anything online these days. And as in yesteryear, anyone working in a butcher shop would have some experience with the placement of organs. Like it or not, we’re not that different from the animals we kill for food.”

  “What do you think he’s doing with the organs? Not leaving them at the scene,” Keenan said.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. If he’s pulling a Ripper ploy, a piece of a kidney will be delivered to the police, along with a letter.”

  “Jack the Ripper claimed to have eaten a piece of the kidney he sent to the police,” Stacey said quietly.

  She was looking at the body on the table. It was barely recognizable as human. There were slashes that marred the face and cut through one eye. The flesh on the chest and breast had been ripped away—as had that in the abdominal area. Loose flesh, torn and red, hung limply over an empty cavity. It was hard not to turn away, not to feel a tightening in every muscle, seeing what could be done to a human being.

  Stacey’s face was drawn, grim and slightly gray. But she held her ground.

  “We’ll be expecting a letter,” Fred Crandall said.

  Stacey looked at Beau Simpson and said, “From what you see here, is it possible the organs were removed...intact?”

  “You’re thinking transplants?” Beau asked her.

  She looked around at Fred, then Beau, and then Keenan. “Why not send cops and the FBI out after a maniac—while stealing human organs? There’s huge money in it.”

  They all considered it for a minute. “It’s certainly possible. Doc, what about the first victim?” Keenan asked.

  “Very similar.”

  “Same organs taken?”

  “Yes,” Beau said.

  “Removed elsewhere, and the body brought to the dump site?”

  Fred cleared his throat. “Yes. Very little blood found at the site.”

  “But the organs were cleanly removed. Possibly kept in usable shape?” Keenan asked.

  Beau Simpson nodded gravely. “Um, Jess Marlborough’s body is still here,” he said quietly. “There’s been no one to claim her. And we’ve stalled...hoping someone might show up.”

  “She did look just like this,” Fred said.

  “May we see her?” Keenan asked.

  Beau nodded gravely. He nodded to his assistant to cover up the remains of Billie Bingham and led them from the autopsy room to another that held a wall of small freezers. Beau headed straight to one whose location he appeared to know well. He pulled out the drawer and gently removed the sheet that covered her.

  Jess Marlborough’s face hadn’t been as badly slashed as Billie Bingham’s. She had been young, only twenty-eight, Keenan knew from the notes he had studied. All traces of makeup were gone, and it was easy to see at some point she had been a pretty young woman with rich, curling black hair. Her mouth—despite the slash that ran through it—had probably easily turned to a smile, he thought. She was a bit haggard—the cost of life on the streets—but somehow, no matter what she’d been doing, he had the sense that she had been hopeful.

  From the neck down, she did look much the same as Billie Bingham. Torn apart, organs removed so that all that remained was a strange shell of flesh and cracked bone.

  He thought he heard Stacey make a little sound. The contrast between the still-pretty face and the destroyed body was somehow more shocking than the previous corpse they’d seen. Not that any one death was any more or less heinous than another, but because even after such butchery, it was obvious the victim had been young and full of life, and time should have stretched before her.

  They were done here, Keenan determined. They had learned all they could.

  They thanked Beau and headed out.

  “We’re going to Fairfax to attempt a meeting with Cindy Hardy,” Keenan told Fred. “You remember the case?”

  “Sure, I remember the case. Wife of a slimy politician. Wronged and then threatened with a lawsuit. I thought she left this area long ago. But you know the news here. Something more outrageous each day, and thus even the outrageous is forgotten. I should have thought of her after the identification was made on Billie Bingham. But I don’t see a woman, a tiny woman, managing all this. Unless she had help.”

  “Always possible. You’re welcome to come with us. And I’ll notify your counterpart in Virginia, Jean Channing,” Keenan said. “We all need to be sharing information.”

  Fred nodded. “I’ll let you take this on. I’m going to follow up on Jess Marlborough.”

  Stacey nodded. “Her friends, coworkers...someone has to know something.”

  “There is already fear on the streets,” Fred noted. “After this, it may be hard to get anyone to talk to us.”

  “Jess Marlborough. Twenties,” Stacey said, looking to them both. They stared back at her. She sighed with a bit of exasperation, Keenan thought. “Young. In good health. She was just down and out. She wasn’t an addict. She’d offer good organs.”

  Fred nodded gravely. “You’re right. But the media has named the man, and everyone is hooked on the notion we have a psycho on the loose. Well, sorry, whether there’s an agenda here or not, anyone who can do that to another human being is a psycho to me. But we’ll investigate known associates. I’ll get you a list. Seems like she crashed at an apartment with some other girls in a rough section of town. But I’ll also list local convenience stores and such.”

  “Thanks. We’ll get out there by tonight or tomorrow. Fairfax isn’t far. And we could hit a wall with Cindy Hardy. We’ll be back soon. Thanks, Fred.”

  “No, thank you,” Fred said. “This thing... Man, it’s got to be solved—fast.”

  He started out; they turned and headed for their own company vehicle.

  “Why are they always black SUVs?” Stacey muttered, sliding into the passenger’s seat.

  He was surprised that he smiled. “This is DC. I’m not sure you’re allowed to drive anything other than a black SUV or sedan with tinted windows.”

  She smiled and nodded, not looking his way as they moved out in the traffic.

  “And the ghost of Philip Key saw a black sedan,” she said after a moment.

  “Of course. Couldn’t have been a pink hatchback or anything like that,” he said.

  She didn’t reply. He glanced her way and then hit a button on the dash and said, “Call Angela.”

  “Calling Angela,” a robotic voice replied.

  In a few moments, Special Agent Angela Hawkins came on the line. Married to Jackson, Angela was among the first six agents to join the Krewe. Her expertise was in determining where members’ special talents might be most useful, and managing their te
ch teams for searches, logistics and more. “Special Agent Wallace—along with Special Agent Hanson, I presume,” Angela said.

  “Yes, I’m here,” Stacey said.

  “Angie, we’re going to head to Fairfax. Stacey found an address there for Cindy Hardy. You know today’s victim was identified as Billie Bingham.”

  “Yes. Of course. Do you want me to tell her you’re coming—or just make sure she’s really at that address?”

  “I’m afraid she’ll refuse to speak with us. Can you find out if she’s home, if she’s working and leaves during the day, the situation with the children...”

  “Got it. I’ll get right back to you.” Angela ended the call.

  Keenan drove for a while. At a red light, he looked over at Stacey with curiosity. “I knew I wanted law enforcement from the time I was a kid. My family tree is filled with various types of law enforcement, back to the Pinkerton who haunts Lafayette Square. You’re barely out of college—”

  “I’m twenty-four,” she told him with dignity. “My dad was a private investigator.”

  “But you’ve got a major in criminology, I’d bet. And then—straight to the academy?”

  “Yes. And no experience in the field.”

  “But you feel you have a good sense of what’s going on?”

  “Are you mocking me again?” she asked, turning to stare at him.

  “I’m not. I’m trying to determine what makes you tick.” He navigated to the I-66.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m working with you. And I’m on this case because you had a dream about a corpse.”

  She inhaled a long breath, then spoke evenly. “I’m an agent because I found out early in life that I wanted very badly to stop people from doing horrible things to other people. I studied hard—I don’t just dream. And there are lots of bad things out there that I won’t have the luck of dreaming in advance. I’m good at what I do, and I add everything in my arsenal to try to save lives and bring about justice—and stop future, horrible events from happening. All right?”

  He lowered his head, and she thought that he might be smiling.

  “All right?” she repeated.

  “Yes. Fine. You’ve definitely got lots of passion, and, as you said, you’ve worked to get here. And you dream. Let’s hope that putting it all together really helps us.”

  She glared at him. “Okay. So can we get back to business? No organs. Taken. There’s a huge market in illegal trafficking of human organs.”

  “Or this guy is a cannibal. Or keeps the innards as trophies.”

  She shrugged. “I think the murders are planned. I don’t believe the victims were random. Jess Marlborough was young and healthy.”

  “Billie Bingham was in her forties,” Keenan countered.

  “Still, that’s not old. And to manage her empire, she probably kept her wits about her. Kept herself healthy and fit. No addictions. Which would certainly make her organs viable.”

  “True. And if what you’re saying is right, then we are looking for someone with medical expertise. And the victims are being killed where the organs can be safely harvested.”

  “But right now we’re still driving out to see the angry ex-wife of a congressman?” Stacey asked.

  He glanced her way. “Cindy Hardy is one lead. You may be on to something with this new organ-harvesting theory. You may not. We cover all our bases.”

  “And that’s something I would have known—if I was an experienced field agent.”

  He let out a long sigh of exasperation.

  “Once the press gets word of Billie Bingham’s death, everyone and their brother will be looking at Cindy Hardy. We need the jump on it. We need to know if she was clearly not involved, if we can rule her out. Or if there is concern for further inquiry.”

  “You think that Cindy might have murdered two street workers in a Ripperesque manner in order to get away with killing Billie Bingham?”

  “Bizarre, but possible.”

  She winced slightly. “Yes. Possible.”

  The car phone rang, and he spoke aloud to answer it.

  “Angela,” he said.

  “Cindy Hardy is indeed living in a gated community in Fairfax. Her children are attending one of the local Catholic schools. She received a decent settlement in the divorce and is working part-time on specialty costume-design pieces from her house. She’s dating. Her social-media pages have her as in a relationship, and there are several pictures of her with a friendly-looking bald guy. He’s a local plumber.”

  “Thanks. When you say gated community—”

  “I already called her to make an appointment with her for you, so they’ll let you in. I assured her you were the nicest people in the world, trying to get her cleared before there was another media frenzy. Of course, she suggested her ex-husband could be the killer. Nothing amiable about that divorce. But I guess he wasn’t all that into his marriage—or his children. He’s back in Arizona. Gets his kids for two weeks in the summer. Naturally, I checked on him. He was camping near Sedona and has a friend who verifies that they were together. Fishing.”

  “Thanks, Angela. We’ll be there soon.”

  “Stacey?” Angela said.

  “Hi, I’m here,” Stacey said.

  “You doing okay?”

  Stacey smiled. “I’m doing fine. Feeling determined. Thanks.”

  “Be decent, Keenan,” Angela said a bit loudly.

  “I’m always decent,” he said tersely.

  “Yes, that’s true. Let me rephrase. Be gentle. Remember being a rookie yourself.”

  “Yes, ma’am. On it,” he said, then he cut the call.

  Stacey was smiling more broadly. “So, you’re always a hard-ass?”

  “Hey now!”

  “Sorry, that was out of line.”

  He found that he was laughing. “No. Not always. Just sometimes,” he told her. They had reached the high-arched gates that led to the Havenwood housing development where Cindy Hardy was now living with her children.

  Keenan pressed a button on the call box. A female voice, toneless, answered. He swung the car around and into the long drive that led to the conclave of upper-income homes.

  Cindy’s was a two-story colonial surrounded by a white picket fence. She stood on the porch waiting for them as they pulled into the driveway.

  She was an attractive woman of about forty, medium in height, with shoulder-length, wavy hair. She was dressed in tennis whites. They were apparently holding up her schedule.

  She offered a hand as they walked up the two wooden steps to the porch. “The FBI,” she said dryly. “As if the whole thing with that horrible woman hasn’t already caused me enough grief.”

  “Special Agents Wallace and Hanson,” Keenan said, introducing himself and Stacey. “And, ma’am, that woman is dead now.”

  She nodded. “It’s all over the news—along with my name again! I tried to call her out on what she was doing, and what did I get for it? First, she convinced my husband he needed to give me anything as long as he got rid of me. Then, when she was sure she had the upper hand, she threatened to sue me! I’m sorry, where are my manners? I’m just so distressed over all of this—not that she’s dead. I’m glad she’s dead, even if that makes me a horrible person. Please, come in. Would you like some coffee or ice tea perhaps?”

  “We’re fine, thanks,” Keenan assured her.

  She led them in to a handsome, and predictable, parlor. Sofa, large-screen TV, a few wingback chairs, and a mahogany coffee table.

  She indicated they were welcome to take a seat.

  “Isn’t it a serial killer?” she asked, perching at the edge of the sofa. “The Yankee Ripper, or whatever they’re calling him?”

  “We believe it is the same killer who has now struck three times,” Stacey said.

  “Right, so...wh
y are people looking at me? What could I have against those other girls?” Cindy asked. She seemed to be truly perplexed.

  “Well, because now it’s Billie Bingham. And everyone knew how much you despised her. Your fight was very public,” Keenan said.

  “We just need to know where you were last night,” Stacey told her. “And the last time you spoke with or had any dealings with Billie Bingham.”

  “Last night I was here, in bed. I still have a fourteen-year-old girl and a sixteen-year-old boy. They think they’re adults, but I’m still in charge. Just because their father bailed. He was a decent man until he met that woman. She twisted him to pieces. Personally, I don’t think she was that attractive. Although from what I’ve heard, she was...talented. But just how special that—that box of hers might have been, I can’t even imagine. Oh, I’m sorry. I was raised better than this!”

  “It’s all right. So, you were here all night?” Keenan asked.

  Cindy nodded vigorously. “I have the kids and live-in help. Maria will vouch for me.”

  “That’s good, thank you. Now, with everything that went on, did you meet anyone else who might have wanted Ms. Bingham dead?” Stacey asked.

  “Oh, hell yes! Dozens of people. Men and women—of all orientations. Billie Bingham was happy to supply anyone with anything. She solicited people. And don’t get me wrong, believe it or not, there are a lot of decent—sincerely decent—people in Washington. But anyone can become a victim of power. Billie knew how to solicit people, and how to bribe them...and also blackmail them. She was horrible! So sure, half the wives in Washington and maybe a quarter of the husbands would love to kill her as well.” She sighed deeply. “My kids are going to go through this all over again, too.”