Beautiful Maids All in a Row (15 page)

“Special Agent Hudson, I'm Agent Dell. Right this way sir,” he said, gesturing down the path. He turned and led us into the woods, past a sign that read
Willis River Trail
.

If that was a set trail, owned and operated by the state with taxes, I would have wanted my money back. I could barely see the dirt underneath all the dead roots, wood, and large, jagged rocks. High heels were not a good choice for a walk in the woods. The entire place was surrounded by heavy foliage. It felt very claustrophobic, as if the trees were inching toward you, ready to devour you completely. I hated the woods. We twisted and turned for almost half a mile, ducking branches and pushing leaves out of our way. It dawned on me that not twelve hours ago the killer was touching the very things I was now, walking those very steps. Creepy thought.

“Has CSI dusted these branches yet?” I asked.

“Both CSI and the medical examiner should be here any minute,” Dell said.

“When they get here they should check for prints and hair,” I suggested. “Maybe some of his hair got caught in the brush.”

“Good idea,” Luke said.

As we walked closer and closer to our destination, I began to hear the faint trickling of water, which grew louder as I continued down the path. No matter where you are, all rivers make the same lyrical sound. Just when I thought my ankles were about to give way—
fucking heels
—we came to a large clearing with grass and patches of dirt. The Willis River stood about seventy feet away. The sun shone down on the river, making the flowing water look like there were diamonds twinkling on the surface, just like the river at home. The tranquility was disrupted as a helicopter flew overhead in search of the body. I didn't think a single one of us expected to find her alive anymore. Not a one.

To my right was a dark green Jeep with the driver's-side door open and the headlights still on. I could see two small holes dead center in the plastic sheet that served as a window. A man remained prostrate on the grass next to the car. Our dead park ranger lay on his back with his left arm resting above his head. Two red blossoms of blood stained his jacket, right on the upper chest. His jaw was opened slightly, almost as if he were trying to speak. At the time of his death, he probably was. Something along the lines of “Don't kill me,” or “Help.”

A woman about forty with shoulder-length auburn hair wearing a dark blue windbreaker with
State Police
written in yellow letters straddled the body, getting a picture of the dead man's surprised face. When we reached her, she turned and stood up.

Luke whipped out his badge. “Special Agent Luke Hudson, FBI. Is this the victim?”

“Ranger Bruce McIntyre, ten-year veteran of the park service,” the officer said.

The dead man was about my age, with light brown hair that fell straight down his forehead and skin that was like worn leather from all the hours he'd spent in the sun. My eyes jumped to the gold wedding band wrapped around his left ring finger.
Great.
His brown eyes stared blankly at the sky above. His pupils had contracted, leaving only two tiny pinpoints of black in the gold and brown pools, which meant he'd been there at least seven hours. Put time of death around four thirty
A.M.

“He drove in on them,” I said to nobody in particular. “Wrong place at the wrong time.”

The woman, whose badge read
S.A. Linda Gaines,
gestured toward the clearing to our left. “You guys should see this.”

We followed her toward the other side of the clearing, roughly thirty feet from the car. Two men, wearing the same windbreakers as hers and sporting cameras, were taking pictures of the ground. At first, I couldn't see what was so fascinating, but as I got closer I realized what I was looking at. Grass, about an inch long, was bent in the shape of a human body. I could make out a rounded head, a torso, and two thin lines that must have been where her legs were. To the left of the outline of the torso was a large brown stain.

A photographer lay on his stomach with his camera deep in the grass, clicking away next to the dried blood. He stood up to take more pictures from a different angle. The other man was walking around the outline, clickity-clicking away as well.

“Are there three holes?” I asked the second photographer.

“Yes,” he said. “The first one is approximately seven feet from the top of the outline.” He walked over to the yellow marker showing the position of the hole, then to the bottom of the outline with the other two evidence markers. “The lower ones are three feet away from each other.”

“She was spread-eagled,” I said. “Hands tied up above her head, legs spread to allow for easy access.”

What must it have been like for her? The terror. Her mind still in a fog from the drugs, and then she woke up and realized what was happening to her. He was probably naked by then, looming over her. She would have begun to scream and cry. I bet he loved that. He hadn't laid a hand on her and already she was in pain. And that's what it was all about for him: her pain, his gratification.

“Where are her clothes?” I asked.

The man pointed to the large pine tree to his right. Yet another photographer was taking pictures, this one also on his stomach. I walked over to him and saw the pile of black and lavender clothes.

The man looked up as I approached. “He dumped them in the river,” the photographer reported, “but they were caught up in some twigs. We got them all.”

“Can I move them?” I asked.

He took one more picture and stood, before pulling out a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and handing them to me. “Be my guest.”

I took the gloves, slapping them on. The smell of rubber and talcum powder sure took me back. I picked up the piece of clothing, which was actually in two pieces, on the top of the pile. The long-sleeved lavender silk dress shirt had been cut perfectly in half. The front buttons, a row of tiny pearls, were completely undone. He'd unbuttoned them slowly one by one, probably telling her what was about to come. The back of the shirt had a straight, near perfect cut from the collar all the way down to the bottom. He must have turned her over for that. I noticed there were no stray strands sticking out of the edges of the cut, no tears, either. It had to have been the scalpel. He cut the shirt like he would open someone in surgery. A fine cut.

I set down the half shirt on the ground for the photographer. With the other half of the shirt, I took note of the sleeve. It was cut as finely as the back, from the cuff to the tiny buttonholes. He could just slip the shirt off without untying her, but by using the scalpel and not scissors he could threaten her with it, ratchet up the fear. A scalpel was a hell of a lot scarier than a pair of scissors any day of the week. It was designed to cut flesh, and everyone knew it. Maximum fear achieved.

I set down the shirt with its other half. The next item was her black skirt, which was now just a long piece of black rayon fabric. I held it up to me, and it hung about mid-thigh. I was three inches taller than she was, so it would just reach her knees, being a respectable length for business. Like the shirt, the skirt had a precise cut right down the middle. The man should have been a tailor.

The bra was next. White cotton with the front between the two underwires cut from top to bottom. The straps as well. The bra went right beside the skirt. Finally, I picked up the underwear, the same white cotton as the bra. This had to have been the most terrifying part for Audrey. The thin swatch of cotton was the only thing separating her from what was inevitably going to happen. The last barrier between the illusion of safety and the harsh reality of life. The cuts were at the seams, one on the right and one on the left. All he had to do was yank, and bye-bye undies. I set the panties down next to the bra.

Her purse remained. It was about the size of a paperback book, barely big enough to hold a wallet and keys. I unzipped it and found the wallet and keys. I took out the wallet, black leather to match the purse, and unbuttoned it. She had about thirty dollars in cash and two credit cards. I pulled out the license and sure enough, it read
Audrey Fiona Burke.
Her brown hair was shorter here, an inch shy of her shoulders. If her hair had been that short now would he still have chosen her? Probably not. He liked their hair long. Funny how something so simple could mean the difference between life and death.

I returned to Luke, who was alone with the two photographers, hunched over, examining the outline of the body and telling the photographers where to shoot. He glanced up at me as I approached. Clarkson came up behind me at the same time.

“We found some footprints in the grass,” Clarkson reported. “They have the same indentations as before.”

Luke stood up from his uncomfortable position. “Make sure we get plaster casts.”

“The clothes were cut like before,” I said. “He cut the shirt three times, the skirt once, bra three times, and underwear twice, most likely with a scalpel. He left the shoes and purse intact; nothing was missing.”

“I have a question,” Clarkson said to me. “Why didn't he take the clothes off before he tied her up? It would have been a lot easier.”

“To show her he has the power,” I explained. “By slowly cutting off her clothes with a sharp instrument, it prolongs the fear. She's powerless to stop him, which fuels her fear, thus fueling his excitement. He feeds off her pain like a vampire, and what could be more frightening than a psychopath cutting off your panties while you're tied up?”

“God, this guy is sick,” Clarkson muttered.

“That's why we have to get him off the streets,” Luke said. “Clarkson, go up and wait for the ME. Bring him down here the second he gets here.”

“Yes, sir.” Clarkson hopped to, walking quickly up the path into the woods.

Luke looked at me. “Do you think he still has her?” he asked, voice low.

“I seriously doubt it. She's somewhere downriver.”

“How does the ranger fit in?”

I walked over to the stained red ground and kneeled down. “Judging from the blood, he did get around to cutting out her heart. The ranger either came in when he was doing it or a little after when he was cleaning up. My guess is right after, and that's why she isn't tied up to the shore. He knew the ranger would be missed and couldn't take the chance.”

“The unexpected intrusion could have unnerved him enough to make mistakes,” Luke said.

I stood up, wanting to get away from the bloodstain. “Possible.”

Luke turned back toward the ranger's Jeep. “He's a good shot,” Luke said. “He hit him from thirty feet away center mast both times. He has weapons training.”

“I told you he's probably a hunter,” I reminded him. “They can hit a deer from fifty feet away if they're experienced enough.”

“This guy is really impressive, I have to admit,” Luke said, shaking his head. “I'm getting less and less optimistic here. I have the worst feeling we're never going to catch him.”

“Bite your tongue!” I snapped. “Of course we'll catch him. He's only human. We all make mistakes, even him. We'll get him—I know it.”

“When did you become such an optimist?” he asked with a touch of warmth.

“I'm not optimistic,” I corrected, “I'm stubborn. I'll catch this freak or die trying.”

“Let's hope it doesn't come to that.”

“Yeah,” I scoffed.

Jones, who'd just materialized out of thin air, tapped Luke on the shoulder.

“They found her, sir.”

I was not really a nature person. Concrete, that's where it was at. So standing at the bank of a river, being eaten alive by all manner of insects, surrounded three ways by trees with large branches and a million little leaves, was not really how I would normally choose to spend my day. But there I was, watching two men in black wet suits swim the limp body of Audrey Burke toward the shore. As if the woods weren't bad enough.

In the hours since her death, Audrey managed to travel a half mile down the Willis River until a fallen tree halted her journey. The majority of her body was underwater as they brought her closer, so only her light brown hair and waxen arms showed. The divers dragged her to the shore by the forearms, facedown. Her body was literally white as snow, except for the faintest dark blue and purple color covering her back. Postmortem lividity. Half an hour to three hours after death the blood in the body drained to the lowest point, congealing in the capillaries. If the lividity was visible on the back, then they died on their backs. If it pooled in the face or chest, they died facing down. You didn't attend as many autopsies as I had without picking up a few things.

Audrey now lay motionless, face down on the light sand. I had seen so many bodies…too many to count, and it never got any easier. In the end, we were all reduced to slabs of meat. Made me wonder what the point was. Luke walked beside me, staring down at Audrey's flaccid naked body, his face contorted into a scowl. I expected him to start growling and growing fangs at any minute.

“She was dead. You were right,” he said, his voice hard.

“For the first time in my life, I wanted to be wrong.”

A photographer took pictures. We heard branches breaking behind us and turned toward the noise. Agent Martinez came walking up to us from the dirt path. “The ME's here,” he told Luke. “He's with the ranger now.”

“The second he's done, get him over here,” Luke said.

“Yes, sir,” Martinez said. He spun around and strode up the path toward our cars.

“We should start without him,” I said.

Luke nodded. “Turn her over.”

One of the divers grabbed Audrey's bruised right wrist and turned her over so she was looking up at us, her one green eye staring vacantly up at the trees, glassy like a doll's. You could always tell just by the eyes that they were gone, even if it happened just seconds before. The white of her eye had turned red from the capillaries bursting as he strangled her. Petechial hemorrhaging. The other eye was missing, probably in some lucky fish's stomach. Red tender flesh filled the hole. Her hair was matted with twigs and leaves, and a few small bits of flesh, no bigger than a penny, were missing from around her body. Fish got their fill.

There were four half-moon crescents on the palms of her hands from where her fingernails had dug in. Her wrists, ankles, and throat were covered—totally covered, every centimeter—with blue and purple bruises. They wrapped around her wrists and ankles like bracelets, with red diagonal indentations where the rope rubbed her raw as she struggled to get free. The ME would be able to match the rope used to tie up the other women to this one. Her neck had no such indentations, just six deep purple bruises right in the center of her throat, one on top of the other. That was where his thumbs were, pressing against her windpipe so air couldn't enter. He'd broken her hyoid bone, a little free-floating bone in the middle of her throat. When that broke, every breath taken felt like a dagger going into the throat. About eight inches on each side were more purple bruises where the rest of his fingers were. He'd squeezed the life out of her with his bare hands.

The pictures I'd viewed of the other victims didn't give the pulpy hole in their chests justice. In real life, it was beyond horrific. “It looks like he just punched a hole straight through her with his fist,” I commented to Luke. He nodded.

Jagged white ribs stuck out of the chest like ivory sticks, the skin around the hole raw like steak. Inside the hole was darkness surrounded by red and purple meat. It was almost a perfect square, like a window to her insides.

“He cuts a square hole and removes the thin layer of skin, fat, and pericardium until he can see the breastplate and ribs,” I explained. “He'd have the hacksaw ready, lying by his side, and he uses it to get through the ribs like you'd cut a branch. From the state of the ribs, I'd have to say he yanks the spare bone and meat out with his bare hands until he can see her still heart. Finally he cuts the half he wants with the scalpel and leaves the rest, dumping it and the rest of her in the river.”

“That sounds accurate,” Luke said.

I bent down on the shore next to her. With my newly gloved hand, I picked up her wrist to examine her fingers. Her arm was stiff from the rigor mortis, but I managed to lift it. Not full rigor yet, so she'd been dead less than twelve hours. The tips of her fingers were blue around the fingernails from the lack of oxygen. Another sign of strangulation. I gently put down her wrist and moved up toward her face. Her lips were blue too, another sign. Her mouth was open slightly, so her perfect white teeth showed a little. In the darkness of her mouth I saw the shadow of something move inside. Just a faint flicker of black, becoming blacker.

“I see something.”

I placed my middle and index fingers on her lower lip and pressed down. The jaw moved only a centimeter. Rigor started in the jaw and head at five hours, then everything else followed after that. I was lucky I could move it at all; the old cliché about the dead being as stiff as a board was true. I tried to open the mouth farther, but it wouldn't budge. There was that flicker again. I moved my face in closer, trying to get a peek.

Out of nowhere a black snake sprung out at me, mouth wide and hissing like a broken radiator. I leapt back in time, falling on all fours into the frigid river. “Jesus fucking Christ!” I shrieked.

The brave men managed to leap a few feet back as well.
What babies.
We watched as the small—it looked three times its size when it pounced at me—black snake slithered out of Audrey's mouth like a slick black tongue. I felt bile rise in my throat, and I had to swallow it back down. The snake made its way down her prostrate body, black scales moving in perfect rhythm, toward me. I leapt up from my crab position in the river onto my feet. It might have been coming to finish what it started, for all I knew. The snake glided like ribbon into the water, ignoring me completely. I breathed a sigh of relief when it disappeared under the water.

Luke took a few steps toward me when the snake had vanished. “You okay?”

“I fucking hate the woods!” I shouted so loud the birds flew from their perches above. “God!” I shuddered, shaking the willies away.

I padded out of the river and looked down at myself. I was entirely drenched from head to toe and covered with tan river sand. Goose bumps covered my whole body, but not the good, lusty ones I'd had before. I started shivering before I even reached the shore. It was over 70 degrees, but the water had to be in the 50s.

Luke removed his jacket, wrapping it around my wet shoulders when I reached the bank. The warmth from his body felt welcoming against my chilled one. Lord, even his coat smelled like Ivory soap. He took my shaky hands and pressed them together, rubbing them up and down in an attempt to warm them. He looked into my eyes and smiled. “That better?” he asked, still rubbing.

I nodded. “I fucking hate snakes.”

“They seem to love you.” He smiled that good-natured, drop-dead gorgeous smile of his, and I immediately felt the goose bumps turn back to the good ones. I was such a sucker for a smile. My cheeks turned warm despite the chills. Damn it, I was blushing again. I pulled my hands out of his too quickly and the confusion and embarrassment showed on his face.

“Thanks,” I said.

He cleared his throat. “Go back to the scene,” Luke instructed. “Someone's bound to have a spare set of clothes.”

“Okay.”

I walked past the smirking men, my ruined shoes squishing with every step. I pulled the heavy wool jacket off my shoulders and put it on. I could still feel Luke's warmth inside it. I pulled the jacket closed around me. The chills all but disappeared. The lower half of me was another story. Too bad he couldn't have given me his pants, too…Okay, I knew how that sounded. My legs felt like frozen fish sticks, and I couldn't feel my toes—that was all.

By the time I got back to the original scene, the number of cars parked in the lot had tripled in just a half hour. Federal sedans, a criminalistics van, cop cars, a coroner's van, and an ambulance filled the large lot. I saw people in white plastic space suits sans fishbowl helmets hunched over like old men walking the perimeter of the lot, picking up every piece of litter along the way. By the afternoon we'd have the most extensive cigarette butt collection in the state. Each one would have to be dusted for prints just in case our guy decided to light up before he was due for surgery. Such a waste of manpower, but cases had been cracked that way. You just never knew.

The only female I noticed—those space suits left everything to the imagination—was the female photographer, who was in the process of changing film in her camera by her sedan. I worked my way through the crowd toward her car. She heard the squishing and turned around. Her eyes narrowed in intrigue. God knew what I looked like.

“Do you have any spare clothes I can borrow?” I asked, trying to keep the chattering to a minimum. “I fell in the river.”

She assessed my soaked body and shook her head at my stupidity. “Sure.” The trunk popped open and she pulled out a white tank top and pale blue jeans. “No shoes, though. Sorry.”

“It's okay. Thank you.” I scuttled away to find somewhere private to change. Since there were about twenty-five people scattered around, I didn't think I'd be able to find one. I scanned the lot and noticed a bit of forest nobody was picking through. I walked into the bushes and prayed there wasn't any poison ivy around. I seemed to attract it as much as I did mosquitoes. When trees and leaves safely camouflaged me, I took off Luke's jacket and hung it on a branch. It could be saved if he could get the river smell out of it. I hoped he could; the jacket was worth more than I made in a month, though that wasn't saying much. I peeled off my wet clothes, dropping them on the ground. One of my best outfits ruined.
Stupid snake.

The jeans were a tad baggy on me, but I didn't think they'd fall down. That would be just what I needed. The tank top fit perfectly, showing off my flat stomach, adequate bosom, and nonexistent curves. I needed to gain some weight. The whole crack-whore look was so nineties. I gathered up my clothes and Luke's jacket. As I grabbed it from the branch, his black leather wallet fell out open. I bent down to pick it up, but not before I noticed something in the plastic slits. It was a picture, a little worn and torn from age and handling, but very familiar. I pulled it out.

It was from the night we were awarded the Bronze Cluster for Distinguished Service after we tracked and talked down Bob Wallace by ourselves. I remembered the Wallace case very well. He kidnapped a small boy that he had been sexually molesting and brought him from Newark to Baltimore, where I was assigned at the time. Luke was working in the Newark office and was one of several agents involved in the case. We had suffered through the Academy together and the powers that be decided to team us up, one of the FBI's better decisions. As two of the junior-most agents on the team we were just supposed to cruise the area and look for the perp's car, but through some deductive logic and
a lot
of luck we tracked good old Bob down to an Amtrak station just outside BWI airport.

We spotted him on the platform and called it in. Unfortunately, the approaching sirens spooked Bob, and he pulled his gun, pointing it at the five-year-old boy's head. I talked to Bob, using every psychological trick I could think of, while Luke flanked around the back and managed to tackle him just before he pulled the trigger. The press ate us up thanks to a tourist's video of the takedown, and we got into Violent Crimes in Washington. It was the beginning of a beautiful partnership.

In the photo Luke and I are standing together, holding up our medals and grinning like idiots in front of the FBI seal. I looked so much younger there, even though it was only six years before. No dark circles or premature wrinkles, just a kid, full of promise and hope. This was the girl who died that night; I was just her carcass. I shut the wallet and stuck it back in his jacket pocket.

I walked out of my hiding spot through the parking lot and back down the path toward the riverbank where all the action was. I noticed a few space suits turning their heads to eye me up and down, stopping at my chest as I hurried across the lot. I dropped my eyes to the ground like the shy girl I was. I was not used to being looked at by the opposite sex. The only looks I got lately were ones like that of a zoologist examining a tiger to gauge if it was dangerous. I ignored the men as I walked to the clearing. When I reached it, I noticed someone new hunched over the ranger. The medical examiner, an old man with a ring of white hair from temple to temple and a face like a prune, was putting bags on the corpse's hands to preserve fibers, gunpowder, or anything McIntyre might have scratched off. I knelt next to the ME, whose eyes immediately went to my cleavage. “Any idea what time he died yet?”

“Judging from lividity, rigor, and body temp, I'd say between midnight and two this morning,” he said with a slow Southern drawl.

“Did he die instantly?” I asked, praying the answer was yes.

“Yes, ma'am,” he replied. Some prayers did get answered. “From the placement of the bullets, I'd say the aorta was hit with the first round. He lived for maybe five seconds.”

“What caliber?”

“Best guess is a nine-millimeter, but from the tearing around the wounds I'd say the bullets were dug out.” He pointed to the holes, which to me looked like perfect circles inside the ranger's broad chest. I didn't see any tearing, but then I was not an ME.