Dead, Without a Stone to Tell It

by Jen J. Danna

  “Let’s ask her.” Matt cocked his head in the direction of his students.

  Together they crossed to where the students lounged on the ground just inside the tree line. Their packs were open and water bottles and pre-packaged food lay scattered around them.

  “Kiko, would you mind looking at this?” Matt held out the photo.

  “Sure.” Reaching up, she took the photo. “What am I—” Her lip curled and she winced when she saw the carved flesh. “Matt, next time warn me you’re handing me autopsy photos.”

  Paul and Juka exchanged glances.

  “Sorry, should have given you a heads up. We were wondering if you know what that symbol is. It’s Asian, right?”

  Kiko stared at the symbol before shaking her head. “It looks like a Kanji symbol to me, but I don’t know them. I can speak Japanese better than I can write it. I could have my mother look at it. She might recognize it.”

  “We can’t show your mother this photo, but we could copy out the symbol for her,” Leigh said.

  Juka held out his hand and Kiko passed him the print. “I’ve never seen it before. Sorry.”

  “Hold on. Let me see that.” All eyes shot to Paul, who was staring at the photo in Juka’s hand. Reaching out, he snatched the print to examine it more closely. “That’s ‘Death.’ ”

  “It’s what?”

  Paul raised his head to find everyone staring at him. “It’s the Chinese character for ‘Death.’ ”

  Leigh’s hands fell to her hips as she stared down at Paul incredulously. “How do you know that? I mean, you don’t look …”

  “Like I’d know Chinese?” Paul laughed. “No, not really.” His gaze slid back to the symbol. “And I pretty much don’t know any of it, except for this particular symbol.”

  “So how do you know what that is then?”

  “I had this horrible pain-in-the-ass roommate while I was an undergrad at Fordham. You know the type—total slob, a jerk with the women, spent most his time playing video games, never studied … and blessedly dropped out after Christmas when his parents no longer wanted to pay seventeen-thousand dollars per semester for him to drink and screw around.” He realized everyone was staring at him and he cleared his throat, suddenly awkward. “Anyway, he was into this multiplayer online video game called ‘Death Orgy.’ It was brutal, an absolute bloodfest. I used to call it torture porn.” He turned the photo outwards to face them. “This symbol was the icon for the game. Whatever character or team won was awarded a badge with that symbol on it in the game.”

  “Where?” Leigh’s question came out more sharply than she intended. “Where did they wear the badge?”

  Paul looked at her curiously. “Here,” he said slowly, patting his upper left chest.

  Leigh whirled to meet Matt’s eyes. “That’s it.”

  Matt stared at her incredulously. “This has something to do with a video game?”

  “Maybe not directly, but there must be something related to it. If I’ve learned anything as a cop it’s that there are no coincidences in a murder investigation.”

  “Wait, what’s going on?” Kiko asked. “That mark came from yesterday’s victim, right?”

  “Yes. We think it’s the killer’s signature. It was carved into her chest, just above her left breast.”

  “Holy shit,” Paul breathed, before flushing in embarrassment. “Um … sorry.”

  “That mark was on the newest victim. You’re thinking that it might have been carved into those victims as well?” Kiko interjected, ignoring Paul’s outburst.

  “We’re going to be looking specifically for it,” Matt said. “But we’re going to be looking at everything. Every kerf mark, every fracture, all of it. Take another ten minutes and then we’re back at it.” He turned to Leigh. “Come on, I need to grab some water and an energy bar.”

  They crossed the clearing toward the bag he left near his excavation. Sitting down with his back against a tree, Matt tugged his pack toward him and retrieved a water bottle, indulging in several long swallows before pulling out an energy bar and a bag of trail mix. Opening the bag, he offered it first to Leigh, who sat down beside him on a smooth, wide rock. With a small smile, she reached in and pulled out a small handful of mixed nuts and dried fruit.

  “How did you do with the ID?” Matt asked.

  “Of Tracy Kingston? Dental x-rays confirmed her ID. I drove out to Topsfield this morning to break the news to her parents.”

  He noted the way her eyes stayed fixed on the trees on the far side of the clearing. He suspected she wasn’t seeing the trees; she was likely still seeing the couple whose hopes she had crushed that morning. “Hey.” He reached out to brush his fingers lightly over the back of her clenched fist, then waited patiently until she looked at him, pain and regret clearly etched on her face. “I’m sorry you had to do that.”

  She sighed. “Yeah, me too. Worst part of the job, hands down. Not even watching the autopsy is that hard. But for a homicide cop, it’s a necessary part of the job. Giving the victim an identity and giving closure to the family is what we do. Informing them of the fate of their loved one is simply the first step.” She let her head drop and massaged her forehead with the fingers of her left hand. “If I seem a little obsessed today about finding out who’s doing this and why, it’s probably because of having to break the news to the Kingstons this morning. It was pretty bad. She was their only child and the mother completely broke down. The father was expecting it though. You could see it in his eyes. He knew. Even before I said a single word, he knew.”

  Matt stiffened. “Do you think he had knowledge of her death?”

  “No, not at all. I’ve seen this kind of thing before. Some people cling to hope right up until the point that you bring them in to see the body at the morgue. Some know the moment that you knock on their door or even before that. He was one of those. He knew his daughter wouldn’t just stop calling them. They were elderly, and she was the miracle baby they never expected to have. They were totally devoted to her, and she to them. You could tell by the house. Pictures of not just her, but of all of them together. They were a real family.”

  “Did the father tell you all of this?”

  “No, Mrs. Kingston did in between bouts of weeping. I don’t know … maybe one of the guys would have just done the ‘I’m very sorry for your loss’ routine, and asked a few questions and left, but I can’t do that. As a mother, she needed to tell someone about her child. It was part of her grieving process.” She slumped forward, bracing her elbows on her knees. “But it also allowed me to get to know Tracy, and that kind of knowledge about a victim is always good.”

  “It makes her real,” Matt said. “And it probably lights a fire under you to give her justice. Not that the fire wasn’t there before.”

  “It was. But I admit the flames were fanned a little higher.” She took the time to chew a small handful of trail mix and Matt stayed silent beside her, giving her a moment to regroup. “Her parents reported her missing. She would call them every night but she didn’t call last Friday. By Saturday morning, there was still no word and they couldn’t get a hold of her on her cell phone or landline. They were concerned so they drove down to Beverly. They have a key to her apartment so they let themselves in, but it was deserted and her car was gone. They tried to report her missing but standard protocol on an adult is a minimum of twenty-four hours before a report can be filed. The official report was filed with the Beverly P.D. on Saturday night. The mother never gave up hope, but the father knew that she was gone. He was shattered by the loss, but he knew.”

  “No matter how old that child is, it’s always wrong for a parent to see their child die.” Suddenly Matt stilled. “Hold on, did you say she was gone on Friday?”

  “I thought you’d catch that. Yes, she taught a class on British literature late Friday afternoon at Endicott College. She disappeared sometime after that.”

  “But that means …” He closed his eyes as the details crystallized in his mind with
bone-chilling clarity. “That means that he held her for a least a day, by Rowe’s time of death estimate. That means that he killed her slowly over that time.”

  “We knew from her injuries that it wasn’t quick.”

  “Yeah, but I guess I didn’t really think about how ‘not quick’ it must have been. Bastard.” Matt blew out a breath, trying to diffuse the slow burn of anger because he knew it would distract him from the task at hand. “So what’s next for you?” Opening his energy bar, he took a bite.

  “I need to go to the college and retrace Tracy’s footsteps from last Friday. What courses she taught, what students she interacted with, if she was having trouble with any of the students or anyone else in the department. Her parents at least were not aware of any men in her life currently.”

  “You really think this will come down to her having issues with a student or a coworker?” Matt asked. “Because I really can’t see that, considering the rest of the victims. If she was the only one, sure, but not as victim number eight.”

  “I agree, but every lead has to be followed. So that’s where we need to start. She was last seen on campus, so that’s where I need to pick up the trail.” She checked her watch. “It’s too late today. By the time I got there, many of the departments would be shutting down for the day. I’ll go first thing tomorrow and spend the day trying to get to know Tracy Kingston. If you need me for anything, you can reach me on my cell.”

  “I think we’ll be okay. We’ll be here excavating all day tomorrow, so we’ll be busy too. We should be in the lab on Saturday though. Why don’t you stop by and we can compare notes?”

  “Sure.”

  They fell into a comfortable silence, their gazes fixed on the graves in the clearing but their minds fixed on the trail that could lead them to a killer.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: BREACH

  Breach: a manmade gap in a seawall or dike to allow flooding. Demolishing the barrier allows saltwater intrusion and normal tidal exchange to restore the salt marsh.

  Thursday, 7:10 P.M.

  Abbott residence

  Salem, Massachusetts

  Leigh pushed the refrigerator door shut with her foot, fumbling the vegetables cradled in her arms. She watched a red pepper roll across the floor as she leaned back against the stainless steel door, frowning at her own clumsiness.

  She was definitely ready to put this day behind her.

  She crossed over to the sink, putting the carrots, mushrooms, and broccoli into the strainer before picking up the pepper. As she rinsed the vegetables, she tried to relax into the soothing strains of a cello solo playing in the living room, but instead she found herself almost twitching with agitation, her movements abrupt and unfocused.

  The day hadn’t been all bad. They were making progress—Matt’s excavation was coming along well, they had an ID for the latest victim and she had interviews scheduled for tomorrow morning. But the task of telling the Kingstons of their daughter’s death had affected her more than she first thought. Leigh still felt echoes of their sorrow hours later.

  She placed the strainer beside the heavy oak chopping block on the granite countertop. Selecting a large knife, she started to thinly slice the vegetables, her mind turning to what she’d learned that day—

  The sharp knife sliced into her index finger, blood welling to trickle onto the chopping block. Leigh froze, not seeing her own injury, but instead seeing Tracy’s cold body, laid bare on the forest floor, a multitude of slices oozing blood—

  “Stop it!” She gave her head a sharp shake, dropping the knife with a clatter and reaching for a tissue from the box on top of the fridge, pressing it to the small wound. Small dots of blood instantly seeped through the tissue staining it deep red. She tossed the carrot into the sink before wiping down the board, and reaching for the knife again—

  With a violent crack, the window shattered behind her head in an explosion of razor sharp shards. Instinctively ducking down below the countertop, Leigh reached for the gun that wasn’t on her hip. She stayed low, her arm raised protectively over her head as jagged pieces of glass rained down and scattered across the granite counter and floor. Something solid smashed into the dishwasher door and there was a sound like marbles falling to the tile.

  Then silence, broken only by the wind whistling through the gaping hole in her window.

  Her mind immediately leaped to the worst-case scenario—somehow the killer had found her and was shooting at her. But when she raised her head, she saw the small, craggy rock on her kitchen floor.

  Not a bullet. But definitely an assault.

  “Goddamn it!”

  She snapped upright, whirling to look out her kitchen window into the tiny yard that ran alongside her long, narrow house. Empty. But someone had been there.

  She sprinted out of the kitchen, glass crunching under her shoes, heading for the front door at a run, ignoring the fact she was unarmed. She wrenched it open to run down the front walk and out onto the cobbled sidewalk. She stopped dead, her heart pounding and breath sawing as she scanned the street.

  The last fading rays of sun reflected off the windshield of her own car parked in front of the house. She scanned up and down the narrow, crowded street, but there was no movement around the clapboard houses or under the huge ash trees that lined the curb. Unless … was that something moving in the shadows down the street?

  Again, she reflexively reached for the non-existent gun.

  “Leigh! Is everything all right?”

  Leigh spun around to see the young blond woman who lived next door running down the front steps, her face pale and one hand pressed against her chest. When Leigh looked back down the street, the shadows were still.

  “Are you all right? You ran out your front door like the house was on fire.”

  Leigh cast one more glance down the empty street before turning back to her neighbor. “Some jackass just hurled a rock through my kitchen window. Did you see anyone in my yard just now?”

  “No. I was just coming out to sit on the porch with my coffee when you ran out the front door.” The young woman looked sheepish. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see anyone else.”

  “Don’t apologize. Thanks for coming to lend a hand.”

  “Are you going to call the police?”

  “Sue, I am the police.”

  “But this isn’t the kind of crime you deal with. Shouldn’t you call Salem P.D.?”

  “For this? This is just some pain in the ass kid playing a prank for kicks. He probably doesn’t even know he hit a cop’s house. I’ll just clean up the mess and board up the hole for tonight.” No way in hell was she going to report this to Salem P.D. The Essex Detective Unit cops worked with Salem P.D. often enough that she didn’t want any chance of word spreading to her own unit.

  Leigh took the time to walk her yard looking for any trace of her intruder, but the ground was too dry for shoe imprints. She was certain of one thing—because the kitchen was at the back of the house, whoever had thrown the rock would have to have been standing in her yard looking in her window. Watching her.

  Back inside, she surveyed the mess, taking in the blood-spattered tissue on the floor in front of the chopping block, glass shards on the counter, the small dent in her dishwasher door and sea glass scattered into nearly every corner.

  Her temper spiked when she saw the sea glass. Two Mason jars of different heights still sat on the windowsill, filled with multicolored bits of glass, washed smooth by the ocean’s hand. The third jar was in pieces on the charcoal granite below the windowsill, the softly rounded jewel-toned treasures pouring onto the floor, mixing with razor sharp shards of window glass. Leigh picked her way gingerly across the floor, carefully collecting the tiny bits of memories until they formed a small, bright pile on a clear section of counter.

  As she bent down to start sweeping up the broken glass, the sound of a motorcycle engine roaring to life drifted in through the shattered window …

  Friday, 9:04 A.M.

  Salem, Massachusett
s

  Leigh glanced at the clock in her dash as she pulled into traffic behind the Detective Unit. She had arranged to meet with the Dean of the Arts and Science program at Endicott College at 9:30 A.M., but Beverly was just across the Essex Bridge, so she would arrive in plenty of time.

  Leigh had been pleased to find headquarters blessedly quiet that morning. After last night’s incident, the last person Leigh wanted to see was Morrison, but, to her relief, she found he was off-shift today, so she wouldn’t have to deal with his insufferable attitude all day. That alone put a spring in her step.

  She turned onto Bridge Street. Traffic was busy at this time of morning, but compared to the summer season, it was quite reasonable. This late in the season, the majority of the fair weather tourists who came to Salem to explore the culture of witchcraft were now gone and the town was enjoying a brief period of normalcy. Leigh knew the tourists would return in droves in time to celebrate Halloween, but she pushed that thought away. She had enough on her plate right now. She didn’t need to worry about 100,000 tourists flocking to her city to create mayhem in a few weeks.

  Traffic flowed onto the Essex Bridge and Leigh glanced out her window at comfortingly familiar surroundings. To her left, bright sunlight glinted off wind-swept waves in Beverly Harbor. To her right, a large cluster of boats hugged the shoreline, safely moored at the marina away from the open sea.

  A motion in the rearview mirror momentarily distracted Leigh as a dark motorcycle swung into the outside lane. The rider was dressed to match his bike in black leathers and gloves. His helmet carried the only splash of color—twined behind the mirrored visor was a fierce red dragon, its mouth open in a silent scream. The motorcycle briefly pulled up beside her, but then dropped back to veer in behind her car. He continued to ride her bumper as they topped the apex of the bridge before falling back to a respectable distance.