Fireproof (17 page)

He had stayed for a while, parked in an area where he could continue to watch until the guy with the dog came up the front lawn. He thought he was her husband. Decided to leave. He thought he’d scout the neighborhood, maybe go pick up some fast food. That’s when he found the motel. It was just off the interstate, not far from her house, and he had an intense urge to stay close to her for the night.

He was settled in bed, almost dozing, when he saw her face on TV. He was sorry the television didn’t have a larger screen so he could get a really good look at her. It was an old TV, not the sleek flat-screen he was used to. Everything about the motel was old, but
he learned when he was on the road that sometimes he couldn’t be choosy. Besides, the room was clean and he liked that it had a front and back door.

The show had made him antsy. He’d never sleep now that her image had been inside this motel room. Almost without realizing it, he had dressed and was back in his vehicle, back on the road, driving through the fog and the rain. Heading back to her neighborhood.

It was impossible to see inside her house, even from the back. He might have ventured closer if that damned dog hadn’t been crouched in the tall grass, growling like some rabid animal ready to pounce. A black creature with snarling white teeth, standing guard.

His mother used to talk about black creatures of the night that warded off evil. That Margaret O’Dell should have one of these guarding her made her a worthy adversary indeed.

His outing stirred him up more than ever. Driving away from Margaret O’Dell was like pulling away from a magnetic field.

He passed by the exit for the motel and kept on driving, despite the sleet. He knew the only thing that would help calm him.

Maggie thought the dead body looked almost artificial, splayed out on the stainless-steel table, gray and waxy under the fluorescent lights. A brutally murdered body could sometimes bear little resemblance to anything human. This was one of those times.

Maggie and Racine stood side by side, gowned up and waiting now for Stan. One of his dieners had already photographed, washed, and X-rayed the dead woman. Stan had been interrupted shortly after he started, called away to take an important phone call. He’d already cut and spread opened the victim’s chest. The woman’s heart lay on a tray, her lungs on another, and the stomach on a third—all in a row on the counter like some freakish display.

Since she hadn’t been at the scene, Maggie flipped through photos that had been taken of the body back in the alley beside the Dumpster. Some of the woman’s clothes had been singed and covered with cinders, but Maggie didn’t see any burn marks on her flesh.

“Had to be someone who knew her, right?” Racine said. “Strangers don’t usually bash in the face like that.”

“Unless he wanted to destroy her identity. It’s possible he knew her. That she wasn’t a random victim.”

“The cardboard box definitely wasn’t hers.”

“She wasn’t homeless,” Maggie said. “Her legs are shaved.”

“Doesn’t cross off prostitute,” Racine said. She pointed to the purple bruising that colored the woman’s entire left side, from arm to hip to leg. “Livor mortis—she had to be on her side for several hours after she died. Wherever she died, it wasn’t in that alley.”

Racine was right. Livor mortis, called the bruising of death, was often a telltale sign of the victim’s last position. After the heart stops circulating blood, gravity pulls the blood down to settle at the lowest spot where the body meets a surface.

“Even left an imprint,” Racine added. “Looks like she was on some kind of a grate.”

Maggie took a closer look. The skin on the woman’s hip was embossed with a meshlike pattern.

“Anything found in the alley that would match that?”

“Not unless they pulled it out of the Dumpster. I’ll check later.”

They were quiet again. Maggie looked through more of the photos. Racine glanced over her shoulder for Stan. She crossed her arms over her chest. Her foot tapped out her growing impatience.

“So what are you getting Ben for Valentine’s Day?”

“Excuse me?”

It wasn’t the strangest question ever asked over a dead body. Maggie had learned long ago that law enforcement officers talked or joked about some of the oddest stuff. Their way of releasing the tension of the moment.

“Valentine’s Day,” Racine repeated. “It’s next week. This is the first time I’ve ever been with someone long enough to give a Valentine’s Day gift. I’m like Houdini when it comes to relationships—constantly looking for the trapdoor or an escape as soon as the ‘L’ word is exchanged.”

“Really? What about Jill?”

“I forgot you met her. Nope. Four months.”

“She seemed nice.”

“She was psycho.”

“I thought she was an MP in the army?”

“Yeah, I should have taken that as a warning. So what are you getting Ben?”

“Ben and I aren’t there yet.”

“Right.”

“We’re friends.”

“For real? I thought for sure you two were doing it.”

The automatic door buzzed open and Maggie tried not to look relieved as Stan returned.

“Ladies, my apologies for the delay. Where were we?”

“Weapons,” Racine said, going from Valentine’s Day to murder without missing a beat. “What does that to a face? Baseball bat?”

“No, not a bat. It had to be something with a sharp end. Maybe a claw of some sort. It gouged her flesh. Didn’t just create flyers but pulled out chunks of tissue, some of which we found in her hair and on her clothes. We didn’t find it all, though, which makes me certain she wasn’t killed in the alley.”

“Anything under her fingernails?” Maggie asked.

“No. Actually there are no defensive wounds. Something like this would have left her arms and hands with tremendous bruises, not to mention possible broken bones. Teeth and jaw are pretty much shattered. They won’t be much help with ID. I do think she was spared and wasn’t conscious for long.”

“You think the first blow incapacitated her?”

“That’s my initial thought. I won’t be able to confirm that until I finish.”

“So what the hell did he use?” Racine asked.

“A crowbar or a claw hammer?” Maggie offered.

“Either’s a possibility. It didn’t splinter. Something metal makes sense. There’s a bit of residue inside the nasal cavity, or what’s left of it. Something oily. Hard to tell with all the caked blood. I’ve sent a swab to the lab.”

“If her fingerprints aren’t on file and we don’t have teeth, you’re not giving me much to work with, Stan,” Racine told the medical examiner. “No one’s going to be able to make a visual ID.”

Stan shrugged. That wasn’t his problem. He was finished with the outside for now. He walked over to the counter, where he had left the extracted organs. He was methodical in processing the body. It was up to Maggie and Racine to take those facts and piece them together as evidence of what happened.

Maggie watched him take what looked like a bread knife and slice open the stomach, tugging back the lining.

“Full house here,” he said.

Racine covered her nose while both she and Maggie stepped closer.

“So she’d just eaten,” Maggie said.

“Within two hours of dying.” Stan poked at the contents, slipping a glob of it onto the tray. “Actually I’d say within an hour. Kind of an odd combination here. Looks like maybe doughnuts. I’m guessing until we can test it. Maybe potato chips.” He pushed a red piece around the tray. “Licorice.”

“Licorice?”

“Sounds like road food,” Racine said.

Stan and Maggie both stopped to stare at Racine.

“I eat crap like that when I drive up to see my dad,” she explained. “Stop for gas, pick up something to munch.”

The automatic door wheezed open and Stan’s diener hurried in with the X-rays.

“Dr. Wenhoff, I think you’ll want to take a look at this.”

He slapped the pieces of film onto the front of a light box. Secured them in place and turned on the light.

Maggie immediately noticed the white oval in the chest X-ray.

Stan tapped it with his pen. “The killer evidently didn’t know the victim very well.”

“Is that what I think it is?” Racine asked.

“But there’s only one,” Maggie said.

“A single breast implant usually indicates cancer rather than just cosmetic surgery. Good news is, we should be able to figure out who she is. It’s considered a surgical device, so it’ll have the manufacturer and a serial number.”

“So they can match it in a database?” Maggie asked.

“The bastard didn’t count on that when he was bashing in her face and teeth.”

“Should be able to give us the name and address of the surgeon,” Stan said. “You’ll need to convince him to give you the patient’s name.”

“Simple as that,” Racine said.

“Not quite so simple. I’ll need to cut it out completely. The serial number’s on the other side.”

Tully settled into the editing studio, surprised at how small it was. His long legs folded uncomfortably, his knees against a panel of knobs, switches, and keyboards. The space reminded him more of a cockpit than a television news studio.

The engineer Samantha Ramirez introduced as Abe Nadira was not pleased to have Tully beside him. He glanced at Tully, eyes only, head straight forward. His lips pressed together, a thin line that barely moved when he talked. He gave one-word replies most of the time. Tully was relieved that Sam stayed. He didn’t get the whole story of what had happened last night at Maggie’s, but it had changed the young camerawoman’s attitude. Suddenly she was willing to do whatever she could to help them.

She stood behind them, directing Nadira like a backseat driver, only with a quiet and gentle patience.

“I think you might need to go back all the way to a minute, forty seconds. I did a brief test,” Sam said, “then a full sweep of the area.”

She was referring to her film footage from the fire, the minutes before the rescue teams arrived. Tully still didn’t buy her reason for getting to the fire so quickly. She claimed she and Jeffery Cole
were supposed to meet for a late dinner after finishing up what she called a “puff piece” on the District’s homeless. They had spent several hours shooting in front of the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Library, where the evening buses unloaded the homeless who had commuted downtown for the day and were returning.

That he believed.

Racine had mentioned the program. He had checked and found that the last bus dropped off passengers at about six thirty. Even if Sam and Jeffery had hung around to do more filming, the time stamp on her footage displayed 11:10. That was a pretty late dinner for a thirty-two-year-old woman who had a six-year-old son at home.

He’d checked out Samantha Ramirez last night, too. As remorseful as she seemed about switching cartridges on him, there was something this woman wasn’t telling him. Something she didn’t want him to know.

Nadira had started playing the film and Tully sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees, since they were up to his chest anyway. He pushed his glasses up and settled his chin on his fists. The position pulled at his shoulder, reminding him that it was still tender from his fall in the alley.