Senseless (11 page)

Dr. Amanda Henson, a tall, slim redhead, stood next to a stainless-steel table, which held Lisa Black’s nude body. Under the harsh lights the star brand looked redder and angrier. Dr. Henson had just cut the Y incision into the body’s chest and with pliers snapped through the first rib.

Only in her mid-thirties, Henson wore her auburn curls in a tight bun generally favored by much older women. Dark horn-rimmed glasses framed vivid blue eyes and offset a splay of freckles over her cosmetic-free face. She always wore white Dansko clogs and no jewelry. A high slash of cheekbones, full lips and a trim silhouette under her shapeless scrubs kept her from looking plain and men wondering what she looked like dolled up.

“Just in time, gentlemen.” A rib snapped.

Malcolm slid his hand into his pocket, doing his best to look relaxed but Garrison had come to recognize the move as a mental bracing. “Would hate to miss the show.”

“So what do you have?” Garrison said.

“I took her liver temperature and can tell you she died late Saturday or early Sunday. She has four distinct star-shaped burns on her body. Three knife wounds into the chest and abdomen. The burns didn’t kill her, and I doubt most of the stab wounds killed her.” The doctor pointed to a section of slashed skin by the victim’s neck. “This one killed her. It serrated her jugular.”

“What kind of knife would make wounds like that?”

“Long. Serrated edge.”

“And the burns?”

“Done at least a day to a few hours before the stabbing. Whoever burned her wasn’t in a rush.”

“How was she burned?”

The doctor set down her pliers, pulled off the glove on her right hand and punched a few buttons on a computer keypad. The screen monitor switched from a sandy beach to a photo of the brand. “I’d say the killer used a metal branding iron heated in a fireplace.”

“Why do you say that?” Garrison asked. “Some branding irons are electric.”

She outlined sections of the picture with her gloved fingertip. “Faint traces of ashes in the wounds. If its heat source is electricity, then there’d be no need for fire.”

Garrison moved closer to the screen and held up the bagged necklace star with the rhinestones. “An identical match.”

Dr. Henson arched an eyebrow. “Where’d you find that?”

“Lisa Black’s apartment.”

Dr. Henson returned to the table, pulled on fresh gloves and reached for a section of rib cage.

Malcolm shoved out a breath and took a step back. “Can you tell me anything about Ms. Black?”

“She appears to be well nourished, though a bit on the thin side. Nails appear healthy, no track marks, no evidence of old fractures, no birth defects.”

“Tox screen?” Garrison said.

“Prelims are clean but that could change.” Dr. Henson set the rib cage on a side cart draped in surgical batting. “I did do a vaginal swab and pelvic examination. No signs of sexual assault or recent intercourse. Judging by the shape of her uterus she’s never had children.”

“Anything else?”

Her brow knotted as she studied the brand on the victim’s belly. “When I first examined the burns I noticed they were uneven. Meaning a couple were light and a couple progressively deeper.”

“Which suggests?”

“I’m redoing my kitchen and to save money I’m doing a little stenciling on the walls.”

“Dr. Henson, do you digress?” Malcolm said.

“When, Detective, have you ever known me to make small talk with you?”

Malcolm shrugged. “Never.”

“Exactly.” She peered through her safety glasses into the body cavity at the heart. “The first burns were tentative, as if the killer was experimenting with the branding iron.”

“The killer was practicing and getting a feel for the process.” Garrison ground his back teeth.

“Makes me think this is the first time the killer has done something like this. But judging by the burns on Ms. Black, the killer gained confidence quickly.” She glanced up at him. “Which leads me to believe, he’s just getting started.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The number four seems to be a recurring theme. Four stars. A four-pointed star. Four stab wounds.”

“And so far only one victim.” Garrison shook his head. “He’s not finished.”

Garrison studied the clear brands placed in a neat circle on the victim’s belly. “Forensics scraped under the nail beds. Let’s hope they come up with foreign DNA. I can only hope the killer left something behind.”

Dr. Henson shook her head. “So far, I’ve found nothing on the body. No hair. No semen. Nothing. I’d say you have one organized killer.”

“No one’s perfect, Doc. All killers forget something. We just need to find it.”

Eva shut the water off in the ladies’ room and reached for the paper towel dispenser. It was empty. She checked under the sink and found the towels she’d just stocked this morning gone as well. What was it with paper products? There were days it felt like they evaporated into thin air.

Her hands still damp from the washing, she pushed through the door, her gaze skittering to a blond waitress behind the crowded bar. Betty, a fifty-something waitress, could keep the bar moving for short periods of time, but more than fifteen minutes and she fell behind and orders got jammed. Alcohol was King’s best moneymaker, and Eva understood that each order dropped meant lost revenue.

Still distracted by the lost scholarship and the articles she’d read about her sorority sisters, she wasn’t paying attention and nearly tripped over Bobby who stood right by the door. She yelped in surprise. “Good Lord! You nearly scared me to death.”

Bobby frowned and tears filled his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Immediately contrite, Eva shoved out a breath. “Bobby, you’ve got to stop walking around the pub like it’s covered with eggshells.”

“I’m sorry.”

She knelt in front of him. “Don’t be sorry. I didn’t mean to scream like a little girl. I just didn’t expect you.”

“I’m sorry.”

She smiled and patted his shoulder with drippy hands. “It’s not even worth being sorry about. Hey, what are you still doing up? It’s past nine.”

“King said I could put food out for the kitten.”

“Any luck catching Merlin yet?”

His eyes brightened. “No, but I am getting close. I almost caught him today.”

“Keep feeding him, and he’ll warm up to you.”

“I will.”

“So you’re headed to bed?”

“Yes. King says lights out now. Will you take me upstairs? King is busy and doesn’t have time to check under the bed for monsters.”

King had mentioned their ritual. Every night King searched the boy’s room for monsters. “Wait just a minute while I go to the basement and get towels. And then I’ll run you upstairs.” She dashed down the rickety stairs and clicked on the light at the bottom. A bulb swung from a rope. The place smelled of must and old brick. Most of the other gals waiting tables at the pub didn’t like the basement. But it didn’t bother her. Spiders, cobwebs and ordinary frights had lost their fear factor since her journey to hell and back.

Eva found the towels on a shelf by a locked root cellar and dashed back up the stairs because Bobby hovered at the top peering into the basement, his eyes wide with worry. “See, no worries.”

A deep furrow creased his brow. “It’s dark down there.”

“Dark never hurt anybody. ”

“You’re not scared?”

“Nope.” She smiled. “Help me put these towels away and then I’ve got to get the bar prepped.”

“Okay.”

“Are you afraid of basements?” Learning any information about Bobby might help figure out his story.

“Yes.”

“Is there a basement where you lived?”

“My grandmother had a basement.”

“She did?” Another clue to his family. “Where did she live?”

“Far from here.” A note of suspicion seeped into his tone.

Back off or push? He might open up if she nudged him a little more. It might also send him deeper into silence. She’d never been one for the safe route. “Isn’t your grandmother worried about you? ”

“No.”

“She has to be.”

“She died.”

“I’m so sorry. You must miss her.”

“I do. She baked cookies when I visited.”

Eva glanced down at the child into dark brown eyes that reflected maturity far beyond his years. She laid her hand on his shoulder. “How did she die?”

He glanced up at her but hesitated before he spoke. “It was her time. She was old.”

“Her time? That sounds like something an older person would say. Who told you it was her time?”

“Nobody. I heard that line on TV once.”

“Your grandmother and mother are dead. What about your father?”

“I never knew him. Mom said he died before I was born.” He pulled his gaze from her and scanned the shelves lined with boxes. “I can put the extra towels away. ”

“Okay.” She loaded the towel dispenser. “Shove the extra towels under the sink. That would be a big help to me. Then we head upstairs.”

His eyes brightened, his need to please reflected in his eyes. Her heart twisted. She’d been that way once—so eager to please that she’d have done anything. She’d been a fool.

“Sure, Eva. I’ll do a good job. Can I help with anything else?”

“Yeah, you can get upstairs and brush your teeth. It’s well past nine and you need to be in bed.”

His lip curled out into a pout. “I don’t like sleeping. I have dreams.”

“Read a couple of the books King got you for school.”

“I don’t like reading.”

“Reading or bedtime.”

“I’ll read.”

They passed through the kitchen; Bobby said good night to King, and Eva followed the kid up the back staircase. Fifteen minutes later she’d checked under the bed and the race car quilt on top, in the closets and even behind the blue curtains. She picked a baseball book from a stack by his bed. “I’ll leave the light on, okay?”

He nodded stiffly. “Okay. Did you check the windows to make sure they were locked?”

“Twice. Locked tight. No bad guys are getting in this room.”

He eased his grip on the sheets a fraction. “Okay.”

He conned her into reading a few pages of his book. When she handed him the book, she hesitated.

A kiss good night didn’t seem right. He wasn’t her child. But just to get up and leave felt rude. She settled for a pat on the head. “I’m right downstairs if you need me or King.”

“Thanks, Eva.”

Eva moved down the steps, wondering who had messed Bobby up so badly. No child should be so terrified of his own shadow.

Customers inundated the bar and several patrons held up glasses, trying to catch Betty’s attention. Eva slipped behind the bar and made quick work of serving several of the more impatient customers.

She set a cold beer down in front of an older guy who just about lived at King’s. “Here you go, Stan.”

Stan, an older man with thinning hair and a double chin, pouted just as Bobby had. “No one takes better care of me than you, Eva.”

“We aim to please, Stan. Need anything else?”

“Not now. ”

Betty greeted Eva with a grateful grin. “Thank God. I can’t keep up with all the drinks.” She tucked a stray blond curl behind her ear and checked the notebook in her hand.

A man at the end of the bar waved his glass impatiently and called for another Vodka Collins. Betty moved to go but Eva smiled. “I got it.”

Eva mixed the drink, remembering this was the man’s third round and he liked four cherries on a toothpick in his drink.

“How did you remember he likes extra cherries?”

She never told anyone she could recall details very easily, but most noticed quickly. “Don’t know.”

“God, I wish I could remember things like you. It’s all I can do to remember whether a sandwich order is toasted or not.”

“It just takes practice.”

“I’ve been at this three years. You haven’t been here six months.”

“I’ve always had a good memory.” Photographic was more accurate. Facts, figures, details stayed with her. Of course, the irony was that she could not remember the most critical minutes before Josiah died. She had reason to kill Josiah and a part of her believed she had struck the fatal blow. But as the years had passed, the not remembering haunted her. Those minutes likely were the real reason she’d accepted King’s offer. Those minutes drove her to the computer lab to search out what she could about Lisa, Sara and Kristen. And now it seemed those minutes controlled her future.

Betty tucked her pencil in her starched hair. “I never would have figured King would do the foster parent thing.”

“He seems like a natural.”

“I heard after his wife and kid died it changed him. I guess no one figured he’d want parental responsibilities again.”

King had lost a wife and child. She’d never known. Her heart twisted and ached for him. His unending patience with Bobby now made so much sense.

“You know what happened?” Betty said.

“I never ask about anyone’s past.”

“Why not? ”

“None of my business.”

“Aren’t you a little curious?”

“Nope.” The only past she cared about now was her own and those missing minutes.

Sara Miller, a.k.a.
Drama-Girl,
sat in the bar nervously tracing the glass rim of her second gin and tonic. In the background a guy played a jazzy/bluesy song that reminded her of Bourbon Street in New Orleans. Young professionals, clad in dark suits and silk dresses, packed the bar, making her feel safe for having chosen this place to meet her on-line guy,
Red Horseman.

She’d been looking forward to this all day. The stress at the office chewed on her constantly these days and she needed a break. For years she’d worked back-breaking hours to stay ahead of the pack, but recently, work, which had been such a refuge at times, had felt like prison.

So much rode on this new client’s ad campaign. “It’ll make or break the agency, Sara,” her boss had said. “Show me you are still number one and get us the Impact Sports account.” And she had. At dinner tonight, she’d won the biggest contract the Fairchild Agency had ever earned.

But for the first time, she worried if she could actually deliver on the job. The payout would be huge, but it would require hundreds of hours of her time in the next month. As the firm’s top account executive, she’d already been averaging one hundred hours a week and she didn’t know from where the time would be carved.