Kiss Me, Kill Me (23 page)

“Are you ready to turn the body?” she asked the coroner, looking him straight in the eye.

“You want to?”

“Not particularly, but I will. We need a plastic sheet here.”

Suzanne handed her a folded tarp. Lucy spread it out next to the body. The coroner hid a smile behind his thick mustache.

Lucy said, “I’ll pull her, you push.”

The coroner nodded and together they turned the body from her side, as she’d been, to her stomach. Lucy discreetly pulled down her skirt so her bottom was covered. “Lividity started, but is certainly not complete,” she said.

“Which confirms my time of death.”

“I wasn’t questioning time of death,” she said. “What I wanted to see was her neck. Can you grab the tarp and pull it under the rest of her body? I’ll hold her.”

The coroner reached and started to pull the folded edge of the tarp under the body, then stopped.

“Photographer!” he called out.

A moment later, an NYPD crime scene investigator came in.

Lucy looked at what the coroner saw. A large dark-green button. There were still threads in the button’s holes, as if it had been ripped out.

The photographer took several pictures. The coroner picked the button up with tweezers and put it in an evidence bag.

Lucy asked, “Do you think they can get prints off that?”

“Probably not, but it’s worth a try,” the coroner said. His attitude had completely changed, and Lucy hid her grin. “It might not be from the killer.”

The coroner finished pulling the plastic under the body, then they rolled her back to her original position.

“Why do you want to see her neck?”

“She’s taller than the other victims. I think her killer was shorter than her.”

Suzanne asked, “How can you tell?”

“The autopsy reports on the other victims had the bruising in a fairly straight pattern on the neck. These cuts are angled down, from her chin toward her shoulders, as if the killer were holding the plastic bag over her head and pulling down at an angle. I also think she fought back more than the other victims. There’s a rawness to her wound that I didn’t see in the others.”

Suzanne said, “Hey, are those nails real or fake?”

“Fake,” Lucy and the coroner said at the same time. “Four are broken off,” the coroner added.

“Her index and middle fingers,” Lucy said.

The coroner bagged her hands. “There are threads and possible fabric in her palm. I don’t want to take them out here. We could lose trace evidence. I’ll bag them at the morgue.”

Suzanne said, “I don’t have to tell you it’s a rush.”

“No, Special Agent Madeaux, you don’t have to tell me.”

Lucy stood. “Thank you for letting me help.”

“You a Fed?” the coroner asked with distaste.

“No.”

“You’re not NYPD.”

“No.”

“Want a job?”

She smiled. “Maybe.”

“Let me know.”

Lucy stepped out from under the tarp. Suzanne followed. “Carl Brewer is an ass. He doesn’t like anyone, except obviously you.”

“He reminds me of someone I know,” Lucy said. “It’s all about appreciating his expertise and being smart at the same time.”

Suzanne shook her head and led the way to the abandoned building. “We’re going to talk to the victim’s roommate and two other potential witnesses.” She stepped over a broken bottle. “The killer got sloppy. We never had physical evidence before.”

“She should never have gone after a girl taller than her,” said Lucy.

“She?” Suzanne and Panetta said simultaneously. Suzanne added, “Your report didn’t indicate male or female.”

Lucy frowned. “It has to do with the motive.”

“What motive?” Suzanne asked.

“I don’t want to say right now.”

Suzanne stopped walking. “I don’t care what you want; let’s hear your theory.”

“I’m still working on it.”

“Work faster.”

Suzanne stood staring at her. Lucy looked up at Sean. “I don’t think this is a good idea. It’s reckless to form a theory without enough information.”

Sean said, “It gives the cops one direction, but doesn’t close off all the other avenues.”

Lucy wanted Sean to support her, but he didn’t.

“Lucy,” he said, “tell Suzanne what you told me in the car.”

“Yes, tell me,” Suzanne said.

“I think this girl was killed because you arrested Wade Barnett and the killer doesn’t want him in jail. The only way to prove that he isn’t the Cinderella Strangler is to kill again. I think this victim was picked randomly—because she was outside, alone.”

“Or she left with the killer.”

“Possibly,” Lucy said, though she didn’t think so. Too great a chance to be seen.

“Is she one of the girls on the
Party Girl
website?” Suzanne asked.

Sean answered. “I don’t know, but with your permission I’ll send her photo to my partner in Washington. He’s nearly done rebuilding the site; he can go through looking for her.”

“I’ll have her ID emailed to him.”

Suzanne started walking again. “So the question is: Does Wade Barnett have a partner? If yes, who? If no, why would the killer want him out of prison?”

“We know Wade had sex with at least three of the victims,” Lucy began. She was about to share the rest of her theory, the one she still hadn’t quite worked through, taking a huge risk of being wrong. But Detective Panetta interrupted her.

“Dennis Barnett.”

They turned and looked at him. Suzanne’s face fell, and Lucy said, “The younger brother?”

“According to Suzanne’s report, he’s protective of his older brother. He stated that he was Wade Barnett’s driver for the last six months when Barnett lost his license after two DWIs. He sat in the parking lot while his brother partied and had sex with whomever. Maybe it ate away at him. Or he can’t get it up, or he’s jealous of his big bro, or just a sociopath. So he kills the stray girl.”

“I don’t know,” Suzanne said slowly. “Dennis told me that Alanna Andrews was kind to him and that she had defended him when Wade got frustrated with him.”

“Maybe little brother wanted her for himself,” Panetta said, “and she said no. The first victim usually goes to the heart of the serial murderer, isn’t that generally true?”

The cop looked at Lucy. She nodded and said, “The first victim usually has a personal significance for the killer.”

Suzanne frowned. “Dennis is five foot nine, according to his driver’s license.” She turned to Lucy. “What do you think?”

Lucy didn’t want to be at center stage. She didn’t know what to think—her theory was all shot to hell if Dennis Barnett was the Cinderella Strangler. She’d been thinking last night, and seemed to have it confirmed when another victim died, that the killer was an ex-girlfriend of Wade Barnett’s. Someone whom he’d cheated on, most likely with the first victim, Alanna Andrews. That her death had been spontaneous because the killer had just found out about the affair.

She had hoped to go with Suzanne to interview Wade Barnett and ask him questions about his ex-girlfriends, particularly any with a history of violence. A girl who might have broken things when she was mad. Someone impulsive. Someone who had not expected him to break up with her, and who had let him know that with anger rather than tears.

She’d wanted to confirm her theory that Wade Barnett had also slept with Heather Garcia, the third victim, and more important, Lucy wanted to know if he’d had a sexual relationship with Kirsten Benton. If so, it meant Kirsten was in even greater danger.

But a younger brother? One who had already stated that he was not only at each crime scene but alone? A younger brother who might have had a difficult time finding women to date him because of mild mental retardation.

Suzanne said, “Dennis Barnett is enrolled to audit classes at Columbia University. He’s only in one class, but he’s been attending for the last year and a half.”

“Three of the victims were from Columbia. Erica Ripley worked not far away, also in Manhattan,” Panetta said.

“It’s logical,” Lucy said, because it was.

But she didn’t think it was right. She bit her lip. Sean said, “What about your other theory?”

Suzanne said, “Right now, I need to bring in Dennis Barnett. I need a psychologist, since his attorney has brought up the fact that I first interviewed him without full knowledge of his emotional and mental state.”

“I’m a psychologist,” Lucy said.

“I need a criminal psychologist,” Suzanne said.

Panetta said, “I can call in the shrink the department uses.”

Sean said, “Lucy is a criminal psychologist, unless you don’t accept those with a master’s degree from Georgetown.”

Suzanne rubbed her eyes. “You’re already up to speed,” she said. “Will you do it?”

“Of course,” Lucy said.

“Let’s go, then.”

Sean asked Suzanne, “Can Lucy ride with you? I have a few things to look into on my missing person case.”

“Of course. I’ll get her back to your hotel when we’re done.”

Lucy said quietly to Sean, “Did something happen?”

“Trey has been calling me. He’s in Brooklyn. I told him I would meet him. You okay with this?”

She nodded.

He leaned in and kissed her lightly, then whispered in her ear, “You don’t think Dennis Barnett is the killer, do you?”

“I don’t know.”

He looked at her, and seemed disappointed. “I trust your instincts, Lucy. You need to trust them as well.”

Sean walked away, and Lucy wished she had as much faith in herself as Sean did.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Trey had rented a motel room in Brooklyn at a place a half-star more upscale than the Clover Motel where Kirsten had stayed. Sean called him as he pulled into the parking lot. “I’m here.”

“I’m coming.”

“What room—” but Trey had already hung up.

While waiting for Trey, Sean sent Patrick a message about the
Party Girl
website and latest victim. Patrick responded:

I have it 90% rebuilt. I hosted it on the RCK intranet so you can access it.

Sean grinned. Patrick was as methodical as Lucy. He couldn’t have picked a better partner than Patrick, or a better woman to fall in love with than Lucy.

He wished she’d told Suzanne her theory, even if it wasn’t completely formulated. She had stood up to the coroner because she had hands-on experience with the dead. And after Suzanne had Lucy prepare the report for Hans Vigo, Sean thought her confidence had returned. She might not have the years of experience that Hans had, but she had the right instincts and would someday be the go-to person in the FBI for criminal profiling. Sean was certain of it—if she appealed their wrongheaded decision.

But he wondered if her work last night analyzing the four murder cases had contributed to the terrifying nightmare she’d had. Or had she told the truth, that the bad dreams had returned after one of her rapists had been killed, propelling her attack to the forefront of her carefully rebuilt life?

He shifted in his seat, antsy, waiting for Trey. He’d been thinking about last night—the nightmare, Lucy’s confession of feeling alone and empty, his declaration of love. He did love her; there was no doubt in his mind. Lucy loved him, too; she just didn’t know it yet. But when she made love to him, she showed it. The intensity of her response, the urgency, had intoxicated him. He’d remembered at the last second that he hadn’t put on a condom, and he thought he’d said something to her, but then he’d pushed thoughts of protection aside. She sent him over the edge, and he didn’t want to hold back.

So many problems could come from forgetting to wear a condom, pregnancy at the top of that list. It was his responsibility, he’d always believed that, and Duke had pounded it into his head from the minute he’d found out that Sean was having sex in high school.

Sean would be thirty this year. Lucy was twenty-five. They were certainly old enough to get married and have a family, but Sean wasn’t ready, and he doubted Lucy was, either. For him, it was the whole family dynamic. He hadn’t had the same kind of close-knit family that Lucy had. He was afraid he wouldn’t make a good father. But marriage? He’d never considered it an option before he met Lucy, yet he’d marry her in a heartbeat.

But he wanted her to marry him because she loved him, when she could tell him that she loved him with words as well as actions. Not because she was pregnant. Not because she thought they had to get married.

He had to talk to her about their slipup. He couldn’t ignore it. Surely she’d noticed as well. And knowing Lucy, she’d convince herself that not only would she not marry him because she was pregnant, but that she
couldn’t
even though she knew he loved her. She’d think up some logical reason, but love wasn’t logical. Love was beyond reason, and there was no way he’d let Lucy raise their child by herself, family support or not. He’d somehow figure out how to be a good father.

But truly, the chances were against her getting pregnant from one slipup. He’d be extremely diligent from now on, not let himself get carried away again. He had known what was going on, he should have found a way to reach his wallet, but he didn’t want to stop Lucy for fear of severing the overwhelming physical and emotional passion between them.

A knock on the window startled Sean, and he glanced over. Trey peered in, and Sean unlocked the door. The cold air that rushed in cleared his thoughts so he could focus wholly on the present.

“I found Kirsten,” Trey said.

“Where?” Sean started the car.

“Manhattan Catholic Hospital.”

Sean typed it into his GPS. “Manhattan?”

“I started in Brooklyn like you said, spent all yesterday going from hospital to hospital, and only got through a fraction of my list. When it started raining, I started calling. I had my spiel down, went through the entire list. There were two unknown females in hospitals in Brooklyn that fit Kirsten’s description. I went to see both, and they weren’t her.

“So this morning I started in Manhattan. There are so many hospitals and clinics, so I focused on public hospitals thinking that if someone didn’t have a name or insurance, that’s where they’d end up. MCH has her. I know it. I talked to the head nurse, who was super nice, and I told her Kirsten had an oval-shaped mole on her upper right thigh.” Trey cleared his throat. “You can see it when she wears a bathing suit.”

“And the nurse confirmed it.”

“Yes. I didn’t want to call Mrs. Benton, not until I know for sure.”

“Good idea.” Sean frowned. He should have been calling the hospitals. He’d thought that between the police bulletin and the RCK memo, any hospital would have contacted one of them. Would they have found her sooner? Been able to talk to her, find out if she’d seen who killed her friend Jessie before Sierra Hinkle died?

Trey continued talking. “She was found unconscious in a church Friday night.”

“A church?”

“The priest was locking up at midnight and found her lying on a pew. He brought her to MCH. They wouldn’t tell me anything else on the phone, only confirmed her description.”

“Evelyn gave me power of attorney so I can find out more at the hospital about Kirsten’s condition,” Sean said.

It took less than ten minutes in light Sunday-morning traffic to reach MCH once Sean was on the Brooklyn Bridge. The emergency room was near full, so Sean went to the main entrance. “Whom did you speak to?” he asked Trey.

“A nurse. Jeanne McMahon.”

Sean asked for the nurse, and several minutes later an older nurse dressed in colorful red scrubs with a neon-green stethoscope around her neck stepped off the elevator. She looked suspiciously like Mrs. Santa Claus.

“Did you call about the poor blond girl?”

“Yes. I’m Trey Danielson.”

“Sean Rogan,” Sean said and handed her his card along with Evelyn’s power of attorney and Kirsten’s photo. “Is this her?”

Jeanne nodded. “Looks like her. She hasn’t regained consciousness since she was admitted.” Jeanne led them to one set of elevators. “We have her in ICU. She’s one sick little girl.”

“I need to confirm that it’s Kirsten, then contact her mother and the police.”

“The police? She didn’t do anything, did she?”

“She may be a witness to a crime. We think she’s been in hiding.”

“If she was hiding, someone had to be helping her.”

“Why do you think so?”

“She wouldn’t have been able to walk. Her feet are severely cut up and infected. We’ve done everything we can to bring down her fever. She seems to have stabilized, but hasn’t responded to antibiotics. The doctor is going to assess her shortly and probably change her medication. She needs surgery, but her system is too weak to tolerate it.”

“Do you know how she ended up at the church?”

“I have no idea, and Father Frisco is so upset about it. He’s been here several times a day since he brought her in. He’s in and out of the church in the evenings. He thinks she may have been left while he had a late supper about eight, but he didn’t find her until midnight when he checked the pews.”

Jeanne led them out of the elevator and down several corridors. “In fact, Father Frisco came to visit shortly after Trey called, and I told him someone inquired about the girl, and he found someone to cover his masses so he could talk to you.”

They turned into the waiting area for ICU. “I need to ask that you both put on masks before entering ICU, and after you confirm that she’s your missing girl, only one of you can stay with her.”

Trey glanced at Sean, eyes wide. Sean nodded. Trey could stay. He needed to call Evelyn and then look at Kirsten’s records and personal effects to see if there was any clue as to where she’d been since last Saturday night.

The blonde in the bed was sickly thin, her skin almost translucent. Her hair was limp, but clean. She had an IV in her arm and monitors registering her heart rate and her body temperature.

“Kirsten,” Trey said, his voice hitching.

“It’s her,” Sean confirmed to the nurse.

The priest, Father Frisco, sat in the corner praying with a rosary. He was younger than Sean expected—closer to Duke’s age, around forty. He supposed he had a stereotypical view of Catholic priests being old, gray, and from Ireland or Mexico. Father Frisco was a tall, dark-haired Italian.

“What happened to her?” Trey demanded. “Why is she so skinny?”

“Shh,” the nurse admonished.

Sean said, “Stay with her. I’ll find answers.”

Father Frisco rose and shook Trey’s hand, holding it while he spoke. “Talk to her. She’s not responding, but maybe a familiar voice will draw her back.”

Tears in his eyes, Trey sat down and tentatively reached for Kirsten’s hand.

Sean walked back out to Jeanne at the nurses’ station, with Father Frisco right behind him.

“Father, Jeanne explained how you found Kirsten. Why do you think she didn’t walk in on her own?”

“Her feet were bandaged, and they were clean. If she walked even a short distance, they would have been dirty.”

“And,” Jeanne added, “when we inspected her injuries, we determined that she wouldn’t have been able to walk. The tendon in her right foot is severed, but began to heal improperly. Walking on it would have been impossible. We can do surgery to correct the worst damage, but first we need to stabilize her and beat the infection.”

“We sent a notice around to all hospitals on Wednesday,” Sean said. “Did you see it?”

“We post current notices, and keep older missing persons in a book. But there are so many from all over the country. When we get a Jane Doe we go through the book again, but it’s been a busy weekend. We would have identified her eventually. And the administration filed a police report on Friday when we admitted her. But these things take time to work through the system.”

“Do you know what caused the damage to her feet?”

Jeanne nodded. “Someone had cleaned her feet, but not well enough. There were small pieces of gravel deep in cuts that had started to heal, but because of the infection they weren’t healing properly. We also found a piece of colored glass, probably from a beer bottle, under her skin.”

“Someone cleaned and bandaged her feet?”

“Probably daily. The bandages on her feet were clean with little discharge, except pus from the infection and a small amount of blood. We ran blood tests and had some odd results, so sent them and hair samples to an outside lab for testing.”

“Hair samples?”

“Primarily for illegal drugs and certain poisons that may be out of her blood system, but show up in hair for months afterward.”

“When do you think she sustained the injuries?”

Jeanne pulled her file. “The doctor said they were five to seven days old when she was admitted on Friday.”

That put her injuries most likely the night that Jessica was killed.

Sean turned to Father Frisco. “Are there any security cameras at your church?”

He shook his head.

“Why do you think she was brought to your church and not any other?” Sean asked.

“Are you suggesting this might be one of my parishioners?” From the weary tone it was obvious that the priest, too, had considered the possibility. “Why not take her to a hospital?”

“Security,” Sean said. “Whoever left her in the church didn’t want to be seen with her.” Someone who has a lot to lose. The person also cared about her enough to leave her indoors where she would get help. And because she was left in a Catholic church, either someone lives in the area around the church or is Catholic. He changed the subject. “How was she dressed? May I see her personal effects?”

Father Frisco said, “She was dressed warmly in new clothes and had a blanket on her.”

Jeanne said, “The shirt still had a tag on it; I thought she might have shoplifted the item, except that there was a return sticker on the back that some of the stores put on.”

That might tell Sean when she bought it, or if someone else bought it for her. “I need her clothing, the blanket, everything she had with her.”

“I’ll get them.” Jeanne strode down the hall.

Father Frisco stated more than asked, “The people who left her, they didn’t want her to die.”

“I think whoever it was wanted to help her, but her condition worsened and he panicked.”

“Who?”

Sean had an idea, but he needed to do some research before he called Suzanne Madeaux.

First, he had an important call to make.

“Excuse me, Father, but I need to tell Kirsten’s mother that we found her daughter.”