by Ellie Marney
“So they got bounced all over?” Emma catches Bell’s eye. “No wonder the marks were missed.”
Cooper seems to be keeping himself on a tight leash. “Miss Lewis, you don’t think it’s… unlikely that three different coroners missed needle marks on the bodies?”
“No, listen. The county coroner probably saw the throat wounds and figured, hell, he’s already taken their blood. But remember the photos? The victims had ligature contusions—here, here.” She indicates the insides of her own arms, at the elbow joints. “They had severe abrasions, bruising, rope fibers still in the wounds.”
“You think the abrasions hid a puncture mark?”
Emma nods. “And after Davis, when you knew the killer was etherizing them, the ME may not have thought to look closely. He knew they weren’t being sedated by injection. But what if the killer isn’t injecting anything—what if he’s withdrawing?”
“It’s an interesting theory,” Cooper says, “but there’s one problem—the bodies aren’t here. They’re in the county morgues. Two of them have been released back to the families.”
“Then let us talk to the pathologists at the Washington lab. Someone there can follow up with the county ME’s offices.”
“We can’t exhume bodies that have just—”
“I’m not talking about exhuming anything right now. If we find needle marks on two, we worry about the others later.” Emma thrusts the pages she’s just completed at Bell, skewers Cooper with her glare. “Look, are you sending me in to see Gutmunsson for nothing, or do you actually want to move on the information I get? Because you’re right. He’s figured a few things out. But if you’re not going to act on it…”
Cooper stares out the right-hand window for a moment, then swivels to the front and puts the car in gear. “Fine. It can’t hurt to talk to the lab. We’ll go back to the state building.”
Emma releases a breath. “Great. Okay, let me finish these last pages, then I’ll tell you what else Gutmunsson let slip.”
She hunkers back down over her notes as Cooper pulls the car around.
Bell checks his watch. “It’s going on four thirty. Will the offices still be open?”
Cooper nods. “Oh, they’ll be open.”
“Gonna be hell with the traffic.”
For a while there’s only the rushing of the wind outside the car as Cooper concentrates on the route. Emma doesn’t look at the view, Bell notes. She is deep in the weeds of her exchange with Simon Gutmunsson, the way it felt and what was said. She moves her hand across the paper as fast as she’s humanly able.
The Anacostia is a glittering blue-gray blur in Bell’s peripheral vision. He sees the concrete and raw steel buttresses of the river overpass and thinks Emma looks as if she’s had her foundations swept out from under her. He takes the pages as she shoves them his way, watches her for popping rivets. “Can I read through this? Are you comfortable with that?”
Her pause is only a blink’s duration. “Read.”
Cooper navigates the roads toward the Capitol Building, and Bell’s eyes move over the scrawl of Emma’s handwriting. She’s taken the entire interview down like dictation, and Bell finds the part he’s reading disturbing. Mostly because he thinks Gutmunsson isn’t lying to her.
“He’s really fixated on his sister, isn’t he? I mean, he attaches a lot of emotion to the references about her.”
Emma looks up. “What makes you say that?”
“He’s got…” Bell tries to figure out the right way to express it. “His answers are all long—he’s got, like, long passages where he’s just going on. But when he talks about Kristin, he gets clipped. His answers are just a few words.”
“He talked about her psychological profile.”
“Yeah, her psychological profile—not about her. That stuff is real short. He didn’t want to talk about her.”
“He’s deflecting for her,” Emma says, suddenly comprehending. “He’s protecting her.”
“He cares about her.” Bell feels it in his gut. “Guys shut down sensitive talk. He was blowing you off. She’s important to him, and he didn’t want you to poke into that.”
“I need to make a call,” Cooper says.
They’re caught in gridlock past the Peace Monument. Cooper takes a Motorola pack out from under the passenger seat and dials a number he knows by heart.
“Gerry, can you folks hold the line there? I’m coming in to you with a couple passengers who might have some info on Pennsylvania.… No, I’m stuck in traffic. We’ll get through, but I need… No, no documents. Hair and Fiber. Maybe Trace as well… Sure, but I’ll talk about it with you in person. Warn the escort desk, would you? Yeah, they’re gonna bust my ass about security tags, but these two have initial clearance. Thanks. Okay, see you in fifteen.”
“We’re not gonna make it in fifteen,” Bell says.
Cooper ghosts a grin. “Watch and learn.”
He stashes the phone pack and flicks the emergency lights on, going hot. Traffic edges up onto the sidewalk, parting to make space for the Diplomat. When folks won’t move, Cooper gooses them with a blast from the siren. They’re on E Street almost before Bell realizes what’s happened.
Emma speaks to Cooper again. “Gutmunsson talked about the importance of the blood for the killer, like it’s the source of everything. He suggested that the reason he keeps them for a while is to give the majority of the ether time to clear out of their bloodstream so there’s no ‘impurities’ when he kills them.”
Cooper works the gearshift. “We can look at the photo documentation, call through to the county. The remaining bodies are still in Harrisburg. They’re not going to like the idea they’ve missed something.”
“I’m just suggesting they reexamine based on new information.”
“Sure.”
“I don’t know what the killer’s doing with the blood,” Emma says, raking her fingernails across her scalp. “Gutmunsson said he might lose control when he’s mid-ritual. There’s the possibility he’s ingesting some of it.”
“Ingesting…?” Bell looks over from his reading, makes a face. “Ah, geez.”
She lets her hand drop. “Again, I’m just speculating, but it’s a possibility. Gutmunsson was hedging about what the killer’s doing. He can’t know with certainty.”
“How could he know at all? He could be stringing you along.”
“I’m thinking he’s taking a highly informed guess. And he’s giving me his ideas in good faith.”
“Yeah—after he’s helped himself to the contents of your head.” Bell glances at Cooper, quiet in front, before holding up the last few pages from her interview transcript. His voice lowers. “You should let me come with you next time. I could be a buffer—”
“No.” She shakes her head, emphatic. “You have personal history with Gutmunsson and he would absolutely lean on that. Don’t put yourself in that position.”
“You’re sacrificing too much. To hell with history—if you can handle this, so can I. I want to help—”
“Travis.” She reaches out and puts a hand on his forearm. Even through the layers of shirt and suit jacket, he feels her fingers squeeze. “You help. Being there, and listening… You’re doing it right.”
They’ve reached FBI headquarters.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Cooper slides the Diplomat into the underground parking lot, hustles them out to the escort desk, where he has a brief argument with security personnel, resolved in his favor. Emma and Bell have to show their lanyard credentials and sign in. They traverse the white corridors to the elevators. Emma stands in the metal box whizzing them skyward, feeling gravity pushing on her.
When they get out, Cooper leads them to a door, leans at an awkward angle to use his ID tag. Beyond the door are the same dropped ceilings and fluorescent tube lights, but unlike conventional offices, the FBI Scientific Analysis section has alarm flashers and air exhaust vents in the case of contamination spills. Examining rooms with large viewing windows are set
to the left, and offices and labs to the right, off a central common room cluttered with file boxes and plastic storage containers.
An older man with gold-rimmed glasses and a jowly, stubbled face comes to meet them. He has a smoker’s wheeze, and he’s wearing a brown checked shirt with braces to hold up his trousers. “Welcome back. Congratulations on beating the peak hour traffic.”
“Why I prefer to come by chopper,” Cooper says.
“Ugh, don’t talk to me about those flying death traps.” The man seems to recognize Bell. “Hello again. Do you have another folder to deliver?”
Cooper gestures. “Gerry, you’ve already met Travis Bell, although you weren’t formally introduced, and this is Emma Lewis—they’re part of a new interview unit. Gerry leads the team here. He’s old, but he’s good.”
“I’m keeping that one for my epitaph,” the man jokes. The backs of his hands look weathered, but his palms and fingers are soft when he shakes Emma’s hand. “Gerry Westfall, Latent Prints. Welcome.”
“Thank you for seeing us on short notice,” Emma says.
“No problem. Ed, you said you didn’t need Documents, so I let Linda go. Her kid has some kind of dance recital, I don’t know, anyway, she’s left her pager on if you need her.”
“That’s fine,” Cooper says. “Can we walk and talk?”
“By all means. Come on through.”
Westfall leads them farther into the bowels of the section, skillfully maneuvering around the containers. There are a lot of containers. Bell frowns at one that holds nearly a dozen pairs of women’s panties, before realizing why they’re here. The lab examines evidence from all over the country. The volume of backlog is discouraging.
Westfall digs a pack of Camels out of his trouser pocket, looks over his shoulder to check that Emma and Bell are following. “You’re part of an interview unit? You been doing that long?”
“Not long,” Bell answers.
“We’re researching juvenile perpetrators,” Emma explains.
“Huh.” Westfall glances at Cooper. “Young people interviewing young people. That’s smart. Is it working?”
Cooper shrugs. “Wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“Good point.”
“Also, Gerry—Miss Lewis and Mr. Bell are invisible, okay?”
“Really? They look pretty solid to me.”
“They’re assisting with interviews—cold case operations only. But they happened to turn up some interesting information, which I’m pursuing. If anyone asks, they waited in the lobby.”
“Okay, I’m not touching that, but good to know. Come in and see Glenn.”
In the office of the Hair and Fiber section, past a labeled door, Glenn Neilsen is sitting at his desk, completing paperwork. He’s white, and quite young, Emma thinks, maybe thirty, but he already sports bifocals and a hunch.
When they enter, Neilsen puts his pen down. He has the distracted air of a career research scientist. “Hey, Ed, Gerry said you wanted me to stay. I’m assuming you didn’t leave your keys behind.”
“Sorry to keep you from your dinner.”
Neilsen pushes back his chair. “My dinner is a ham-and-pickle sandwich, and it’s in the staff refrigerator. What’s going on?”
“We’ve got some information on Pennsylvania from an unreliable source, but we think it’s worth checking out. You said the bodies are due to be released back to the families soon?”
“The Barnes boy is supposed to go to the funeral home tomorrow.”
“Then we’d better talk fast. Glenn, this is Miss Lewis and Mr. Bell. They turned up the info.”
“Good for you,” Neilsen says, swiveling to shake hands in turn.
Westfall lifts his chin. “Miss Lewis and Mr. Bell are ghosting, by the way. If anyone asks, they’re in the lobby.”
Neilsen’s eyebrows lift. “Well, I’m not touching that. But what’ve you got?” He indicates a wooden stool near the desk for Emma to occupy.
“Um, a theory.” Emma settles herself gingerly. “We’ve been interviewing a subject.…” She trails off, gives Cooper a querying look.
Cooper nods at her, turns to Neilsen. “The information is from Simon Gutmunsson.”
Neilsen rears back. “Whoa. Okay.”
“I’m assuming this part about the connection to Gutmunsson is ghosting, too,” Westfall says. He peers over his glasses at Cooper from his position in the doorway.
Cooper inclines his head. “That would be helpful, until we’ve worked out whether he’s saying anything worth hearing.”
Westfall waves his cigarette. “Got it. Continue.”
“Um,” Emma says.
Neilsen smiles. “He means, please go ahead with your theory.”
“Okay.” She glances at Bell for support, receives a solemn nod. “Gutmunsson talked about how he thinks the killer is operating. His process. He said the blood is the most critical part of the killer’s ritual, and he thinks the killer is drawing blood from the victims, to check that he’s got suitable donors.”
“Like, he’s testing their blood type?”
“Yes? I think.”
Neilsen exchanges glances with Westfall. “Well, he can’t be testing blood type. ABO testing involves mixing blood samples with antibodies in a lab.”
“He could be, uh, tasting the blood as part of his ritual. Ingesting it.”
“Okay.” Neilsen is not as grossed out by this as Bell, which is disturbingly suggestive of the idea that he’s seen such things before.
“So I was hoping we could check the bodies for needle marks. To confirm whether Gutmunsson’s giving us anything solid.”
“Well, the bodies are in Harrisburg, but I’ve got comprehensive autopsy pictures from the most recent victims. Hold on.” Neilsen turns toward his desk, hunts through files. His brown hair is very fine and sticks up a little at the back from what Emma assumes is static electricity. He finds the file he wants, turns back.
He hesitates before opening the file. “These are… a little intense.”
She’s seen the crime scene photos and the ID shots, but these photos were not part of the file Cooper gave them. They are, indeed, intense. But the intensity of the images is in the way the postmortem process gives the viewer a clinical distance from the subjects, separating them into scaled body parts—a head, eyes closed; a torso; a hand; a length of leg. Emma finds this detached sundering vaguely offensive. She doesn’t want to think of the victims as body parts on a white background. She wants to keep thinking of them as people. But she supposes this is easier for the pathologists, to maintain scientific objectivity.
Bell steps closer from where he’s been taking up wall space near Cooper. Emma angles so he can see the photos in Neilsen’s hands from over her shoulder.
“Are we assuming the marks might be at the juncture of the elbow?” Neilsen sorts the images and pulls out the relevant glossies. “I mean, he could be taking the blood from anywhere.”
“That’s true,” Emma says. “But I thought the ligature abrasions might provide cover.”
“Doesn’t sound unlikely.” Neilsen displays a shot of a mottled arm. It’s clearly not from Lamar Davis, because the unmottled skin is pale, but aside from that detail Emma can’t tell whose arm it might be. “There’s some pallor from the exsanguination, but you can see how the abrasions stand out.”
Emma takes the photo and holds it close, then farther away. “Did they happen when the subjects were struggling, at the end?”
“That’s consistent with the catecholamines—the free histamine results, yes.”
“There’s a lot of fiber in the wounds.”
“Yep. He used a kind of hemp rope—pretty raw stuff. Here, I’ve got a sample.” He gives her the entire photo file to hold, stretches to his desk, and comes back with a short coil of hairy, twisted cord. “Twelve millimeters. We tested the petroleum content to figure out the brand. It’s common as dirt, I’m afraid. They sell it in every Ace Hardware in the country.”
Emma takes the sam
ple, tests the rough texture, hands it to Bell. She looks between the cord and the photo in her lap. “Would the abrasions be enough to conceal a needle mark?”
Neilsen grimaces. “Maybe. It depends a little on the gauge of the needle—usually you’d look for a bruise. But you can see what a mess the area is. Be damn hard to pinpoint a puncture. I’d have thought at least one of the MEs would have taken a closer look.”
Westfall speaks up from the doorway. “Some of those county MEs…” He makes a face that casts aspersions on the average county medical examiner’s level of professionalism and training.
“I don’t know,” Neilsen says, more forgiving. “Clay Simmons, from Central, is no slouch.” He retrieves the photo. “But these abrasion sites are really eroded. Ger, what do you think?”
Westfall shambles closer, accepts the photos for a look. There commences a short collegial discussion punctuated with terms like hypostasis, tissue disruption, extravasation. Neilsen argues briefly for the use of spectrophotometry. Westfall rebuts with figures on excised postmortem samples and large variables.
Cooper checks his watch. Emma and Bell exchange glances. Westfall finally scratches his chin stubble and turns their way.
“Miss Lewis, you’ve presented us with a tough problem. It’s hard to distinguish between bruising patterns and tissue damage after death, so while it’s possible there might have been a puncture, I wouldn’t call this conclusive.” He gives her a sympathetic look. “Maybe you thought you could come in and check the bodies and you’d just find the answer, am I right? I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that. Even for us old-timers it doesn’t work like that.”
“I think she’s onto something, though,” Neilsen says. “I mean, when I saw the cubital fossa abrasions, I thought they were extreme.”
Westfall takes a considering drag on his cigarette. “You think the perp might have debrided the area? Maybe postmortem?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen that before. Have you seen that before?”
“No, but there are more things in heaven and earth, et cetera.”
“Did you ask Carlos?”
“He’s been in court all day.” Westfall shuffles back past Cooper, leans through the doorway into the hall to call out. “Carlos. Carlos, get in here, we’ve got a question for your files.”
