Shadow Fall (Tracers Series Book 9) (20 page)

The next part was blurry, but somehow she’d ended up at Liam’s.

It seemed odd to her now in the clear light of day. She hated asking for help, but last night she’d been shaken beyond thinking, and her car seemed to have steered itself to Liam’s gate. He’d helped her, and for that she felt grateful. But then he’d gone all alpha male and started bossing her around.

Work was one thing. She had no problem taking orders from her boss or her SWAT commander. But she didn’t work for Liam, and the sooner he figured that out, the better.

She caught herself. She was thinking as though they had a relationship. They didn’t. He was one small step away from being their prime suspect. And he was still intricately involved in the investigation because of his links to the crimes.

Dunn’s Landing was a small town, so small it was invisible on most maps. Tara knew every eye was on her and even the slightest hint of impropriety could cause an uproar.

She couldn’t afford an uproar. She had enough to deal with investigating four murdered women and a possible serial killer at work. If it was a serial killer, he was focused on a tight geographic area, which meant he could very well be local—all the more reason to keep every last detail aboveboard with local residents and cops.

Tara was acutely aware that she was the outsider. If anything went wrong, she’d be the first one blamed by Ingram or one of his deputies.

Damn it, why had Liam gone to the sheriff? Her body and her confidence had taken a beating last night, and now she felt embarrassed, too. She wished she’d held on to her phone and called for backup instead of racing out of there like a frightened rabbit. Maybe then they’d have a suspect in custody instead of only a few chunks of brass that were too deformed to yield any clues.

“Agent Rushing?”

She turned to see a man crossing the lobby. Athletic, crew-cut. He wore a black golf shirt with the Delphi Center logo on the front pocket, but everything else about him screamed military.

“Travis Cullen.” He shook her hand firmly and glanced at her visitor’s badge. “Looks like you’re checked in. My lab’s in the basement.”

“Where’s Dr. Quinn?” she asked as he led her toward the elevators.

“In a meeting, I think. We can get started without her.”

Tara nursed her irritation as they rode the elevator to one of the lower levels.

He caught her eye in the mirrored doors. “I talked to Kelsey this morning. Sounds like your case is getting complicated.”

“Looks that way,” she said, although from her perspective the case had been complicated from the beginning. Not just complicated but intense. And with every day that ticked by, Tara was getting more and more anxious. This morning she’d tried to reach Jacobs to voice her concerns. He’d sent her out on this bizarre assignment and acted as though it was high priority. But where the hell was her support? For five days now, she and M.J. had been left more or less on their own to deal with cops, crime labs, and political forces that still remained a mystery. And meanwhile, the media interest was mounting.

Tara was starting to suspect she’d been set up.

They reached the basement, and she followed Cullen down a long corridor. Dull popping noises echoed around her.

“They’re test-firing,” he explained.

“Who is?”

“Our firearms lab. We share this level with them.” He ushered her into a small room with a worktable in the center. “It’s not that different, really, and we use a lot of the same equipment. They’re examining marks made by gun barrels and firing pins. We’re examining marks made by other kinds of tools. Such as”—he stepped up to a counter and tapped a few keys on a notebook computer—“bolt cutters. I just finished analyzing that padlock the fire chief sent in.”

A picture appeared on the screen, and Tara stepped closer. It was a close-up image, black-and-white, showing striations in metal.

“See the marks? This lock was definitely severed with a pair of bolt cutters.” He looked at her. “You guys recover a tool yet?”

“Unfortunately, no.” She dug into her jacket and pulled out the envelope containing the padlock she’d discovered last night. It had stayed in her pocket during her tumble down the hill. “But I have another lock for you. Any chance you can tell me if the same tool was used on both?”

He took the envelope and glanced up at her, a look of keen interest on his face. “Where’d you get this?”

“Near the newest recovery site. We also need to check it for prints and DNA in case it matches anything from the first one.”

“Then I’ll run it upstairs first, see if they can lift something before I go to work on it. They didn’t get anything from the first lock, but you never know.” He smiled. “You know what we say around here at Delphi.”

“What’s that?”

“Every contact leaves a trace.”

Travis set the envelope aside. “Here, let me show you what I got from the bones.” He tapped the keyboard again, and this time a black-and-white image came up on a display screen mounted on the wall.

“I asked our forensic photographer to give me a hand,” he said. “She specializes in microphotography. This thing goes to trial, it’s not just about my findings, it’s about being able to put it all in front of a jury.”

Tara stared at the big screen. “What am I looking at here?”

“The terminal phalanx on the fifth digit.”

She shot him a look.

“That’s Kelsey-speak. This is the tip of the little finger.”

“Whose finger?”

“Jane Doe One.”

So they’d started numbering them. God. A weight settled on Tara’s shoulders as she stared at the picture.

“What you see here is a defensive wound,” he said. “Part of the finger’s been amputated—about five millimeters, according to Kelsey. Both of us agree this injury was made by the slash of a knife.”

“A parry wound.” Tara looked at him. “She was trying to fight him off.”

“That’s right.” He tapped the keyboard, and another image appeared on the screen. Again black-and-white, and again Tara had no idea what she was looking at.

“Here we have a close-up picture of the eighth and ninth thoracic vertebrae. Another knife wound here. So, we can tell the killer penetrated all the way through the torso with a stabbing motion.”

Bile rose in Tara’s throat. But she kept her focus on the picture and tried to be objective. “Any chance this mark was made later, possibly by scavengers?”

“No. It’s what we call a green bone injury. You can see it even better with the ribs.” He tapped his keyboard a few times, scrolling through images. “See the way a sliver of bone curls up there? Marks made later, after decomposition, the bones don’t respond like that because they’re drier, more brittle. Jane Doe One and Catalina Reyes both had bone injuries like you see here. And they have something else in common, too. The knife signature.”

She looked at him.

“Every victim so far has injuries inflicted by the same knife,” he said. “You can tell from the marks on the bone.”

“How?”

He leaned back against the counter. “Every blade is different. The more a blade’s been used, the more pronounced the differences. For example, in this case I can tell you the killer used a twenty-degree blade, at least seven inches long, with a microscopic deformity at the tip.”

“So . . . can you tell me what kind of knife it is?”

“Absolutely. You want to see?”

Without waiting for a response, he crossed the lab and opened the door to a large storage room, no windows. Tara followed him inside and stood in the center, gaping at the shelves containing all sorts of tools—hammers, axes, saws, shovels. So many weapons, so many ways to inflict pain.

Travis stepped around a worktable and led her to the far wall.

The knives.

A chill came over her. She’d never seen so many in one place. They ranged from switchblades to scimitars, all lined up neatly on shelves. She stepped closer to examine a Samurai sword.

“Jesus.” She crouched down and studied the combat knives. Some looked like standard military issue, while others had been customized. “I’ve never seen so many Ka-Bars all together.”

He pulled a knife from one of the shelves and placed it in the middle of the worktable. He flipped on an overhead spotlight as she walked over to take a look.

It was black from hilt to tip, with only a thin sliver of exposed metal along the cutting edge.

“This is a Full Black knife, best in the world,” he said. “The brand’s a favorite with Navy SEALs, Army Rangers, Recon Marines.”

She looked at him. “Full Black as in black ops?”

“You got it. You’re looking at high-carbon steel with a twenty-degree cutting edge and a blade hardness of sixty-two. Cuts through aircraft skin like a can opener.”

Tara shuddered to think what it could do to human skin.

“It was originally designed for pararescuemen, to help remove pilots from wreckages. Slices through metal, heavy-duty plastic, seat belts. It can also be used as a pry bar, to break a windshield, whatever you need.”

“May I?” she asked.

He nodded.

She picked it up. Despite its length, it was surprisingly light. The hilt fit comfortably in her hand.

“How long is this blade?” she asked.

“Seven inches.”

“And what’s this finish?”

“That’s the kicker. Baked-on ceramic coating to protect against wear. Comes in custom colors—black, gray, various camo patterns. The formula for the stuff is patented, only used by one company.” He met Tara’s gaze. “We found microscopic flecks of it in two of the victims’ wounds.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. I had one of our tracers run it through a spectrometer.”

She held the knife up and looked at the blade. “You said something about a signature?”

“Here.” He carefully took the knife and touched his finger to the tip. “The one used by the killer has a defect, a very slight bend in the tip, probably from being used to pry something. Like I said, it’s slight.” He set the knife down on the table between them. “You need magnification to see it, but the signature’s there.”

Tara’s pulse sped up at his words. “So if we find the weapon, can you match it to the victims?”

He winced. “You know forensics geeks, we hate the word
matched
. Defense attorneys jump all over it. But yes, I can tell you the same knife was used on all four victims. Find the knife, and you’ll have your smoking gun.”

Tara looked at the collection of tools again, all of which could somehow be used to cause pain and death. Sometimes Tara felt physically sickened by the extent of human cruelty. After six years of law enforcement, she should be used to it by now, but she wasn’t.

She still remembered the euphoria she’d felt when she’d received her acceptance from the Academy. For days she’d walked around in a state of stunned disbelief. They’d picked
her
, and she’d been determined to prove herself worthy.

Part of her was still that trainee brimming with enthusiasm. But part of her had changed. She could still run a seven-minute mile and do sixty push-ups in a minute. But the job had taken an emotional toll, and sometimes—such as now, as she stood before a vast array of murder weapons and calmly conjured up possible scenarios—she felt a slight withering of her soul. And she had to remind herself that she’d chosen this path.

Was this what disillusionment felt like? The beginnings of burnout? Or had she just become cynical, as Liam had said?

She didn’t know, but she felt set apart from normal people, alienated. She always had, but the profession she’d chosen made it worse.

Travis was watching her, probably wondering at her fascination with the weapons collection.

Her phone chimed, and she dug it out from her pocket. “Rushing.”

“Tara! Glad I caught you.” It was her SAC’s assistant in Houston. “Jacobs wants you in a meeting with him at two.”

“Not happening,” Tara said. “I’m at the Delphi Center crime lab.”

“He knows. He’s in their first-floor conference room with their forensic anthropologist. Their cyber-profiler’s there, too. Jacobs wants you in on the meeting.”

Tara shot a look at the clock and bit back a sarcastic comment. The meeting started in three minutes, so including her was obviously an afterthought.

“Tara?”

“Tell him I’ll be there in five.”

By the time she wrapped up with Travis and hustled upstairs, the meeting had already begun. Kelsey was seated at a conference table across from several men. She wore a white lab coat and had her hair piled up in a messy bun. A video screen on the wall behind her featured a photograph of yesterday’s excavation site.

“This just came in this morning,” Kelsey was saying. “They haven’t even notified the family yet.”

“Agent Rushing, glad you could join us.” Jacobs nodded at Tara as she claimed an empty chair. Her boss was in his usual suit and tie and had a legal pad in front of him. “Have you met Delphi’s chief cyber-profiler, Mark Wolfe?”

Tara’s gaze settled on the stranger at the table.

“Special Agent.” He nodded at her. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he added, because she couldn’t seem to get a word out.

She thought of Liam this morning.
I know some people over there.
She looked at Jacobs. “I wasn’t aware this case had a cyber element to it.”

“It doesn’t,” he said. “But Mark used to work for us in the Behavioral Analysis Unit. We wanted him to weigh in on this.”

She glanced at the profiler again, and he was watching her intently. He was tall and broad-shouldered and filled out his perfectly tailored suit.

“So, you were saying?” Jacobs shifted the conversation back to Kelsey. “About the bone database?”

“Not bones, precisely,” Kelsey said. “Mitochondrial DNA, which is found in bones and also hair. The database we use is the largest in the world, containing profiles collected from unidentified remains, missing persons, and relatives of missing persons. The hit came late yesterday evening.”

“You got an ID?” Tara asked.

“Jane Doe One,” she said. “Her real name is Marianna Cruz, and she lived in Dallas. Her sister reported her missing four months ago and provided a DNA sample, but the profile just got loaded into the system.” Kelsey tapped a few keys on her laptop computer, and an X-ray image flashed up on the screen. “Here we have her films. She sustained knife wounds to various ribs and vertebrae. She also sustained defensive injuries to her hands. See this? One of her digits was severed. Our tool-marks expert believes the weapon was a knife.”