Mark of the Demon (11 page)

Doc continued his perusal of her injuries. “Some of these cuts are healed or healing.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. “How healed? I mean, how long was he doing this shit to her?”

“A few days. Maybe a week.” He pointed to a section of her lower legs that was scabbed over. “I don’t think more than a week.”

Shit
. “That’s a long time to be tortured.”

“And I have a bad feeling that we’re going to be seeing more of this,” he said, picking up his scalpel and beginning the Y incision. “I guess our boy is back in action after his little holiday.”

I grimaced in agreement as I backed a few feet away from the metal table—far enough to avoid accidental blood spatters but close enough to still be able to see if anything interesting or unusual was found. It was obvious that Dr. Lanza had performed several thousand autopsies. He had the torso Y-incisioned and filleted back in about half a minute. But once he got into the body, he was meticulous and thorough, cataloging trauma and irregularities with precision.

For some reason I felt incredibly comfortable around Doc. He was one of the few people around whom I didn’t feel ever so slightly inadequate. Maybe it was the way he talked to me like an equal, even though he had light-years more education, training, and experience. Or maybe it was because he was so incredibly patient when answering my questions about trauma and the human body, even when I knew the questions were stupid. He never acted as if the questions were silly, even when I could see as well as sense the other detectives rolling their eyes. He always gave me a patient and thorough explanation and then would tie the answer in to some aspect of whatever case I was working on.

“So, Kara,” Doc said as he removed the lungs. “How’d you get lucky enough to get into Homicide
and
snag this case as primary?”

I shrugged. “The captain says I’ve busted my ass enough in property crimes, and handling a big case like this will be good experience for me.”

He glanced up at me, a lung in his hand. “Well, that’s a pretty big vote of confidence.”

I smiled wryly. “Now I just have to make sure I don’t fuck it up.”

He
tsk
ed at me and placed the lung on the cutting board, slowly slicing through it and looking for defects. “You have a team, you have your supervisors, you have your coworkers, and you even have me.” He grinned and gestured grandly at himself with the bloody knife. “The only way you could really fuck it up would be if you got in over your head and didn’t ask for help.” He sliced a sample of the tissue off and dropped it into a tub of formalin.

“Careful, I may end up bugging the shit out of you,” I teased. “Of course, I also have a sneaking suspicion that they figure it’s not that risky to have me working it, since the Symbol Man victims are usually ‘nobodies.’”

An annoyed expression crossed his face. “Much as I would love to argue with you, I think you might have a point, serial killer or no,” he said. “No one gives a shit about this woman. She hasn’t been reported missing, and she’s apparently never been arrested. She’s possibly mentally ill and probably has been homeless or living out of shelters for years.” He took up a pair of large scissors and began to cut out the heart. “The serial killer in Baton Rouge got a ton of reaction because the victims were young women from nice families. The serial killer in St. Charles got about a tenth of the attention, because the victims were homeless men who led ‘high-risk lifestyles.’” He shrugged. “The response to this killer has always been a bit below par, in my opinion. But that’s just my take on it.”

“Yeah, well, I give a shit.”

He glanced up at me and smiled. “I know, Kara. That’s why you’re going to do great.”

I could feel a blush rising, and I ducked my head as Doc returned to his examination of the woman’s interior.

A tapping on the observation window drew my attention, but I couldn’t see who was standing on the opposite side. The other room was darkened to make it easier for observers who didn’t want to get too close to the smell and gore to view the autopsy. Doc apparently knew who it was. He lifted a blood-covered gloved hand and motioned the person in.

The door to the autopsy room opened, and a man dressed in a dark-blue suit with a bland yellow-and-blue-striped tie entered. Brown hair that held just the barest touch of red in it was cut short but still had enough length to show that it would probably be wavy if ever grown long. Green eyes flecked with gold that were almost too pretty for a man were set in a rugged face that was
not
pretty but still managed to be handsome. He had an athletic build and was taller than I was by about a head, which I figured made him about six feet tall. And he was a Fed. I could almost smell it on him.

He gave me a brief, almost dismissive glance, then turned his attention to Doc. “Good morning, Dr. Lanza. I’m sorry I’m late. I hope I haven’t missed too much?”

I kept my expression controlled, trying not to show my annoyance at the way he’d dismissed me. Okay, so I didn’t look very detectively at the moment, wearing jeans and a T-shirt with my hair in a ponytail, but I’d learned the hard way about wearing nice clothing into an autopsy. Had a task force been formed already? Was this one of the Feds assigned to the case? It would have been nice if someone could have given me a heads-up.

“How ya doin’, Agent Kristoff?” Doc said. “Have you two met? This is Detective Kara Gillian. She’s the lead on this case for the Beaulac PD.”

Agent Kristoff returned his attention to me again, eyes narrowing in another appraisal—one I obviously failed the second time around as well, since he merely gave a tight shake of his head. “No, not yet. Special Agent Ryan Kristoff, FBI.” He extended his hand and, when I returned the gesture, he shook my hand for the absolute minimum length of time necessary for politeness, then dropped it and returned to ignoring me—even going so far as to step around me and approach the body.

Doc caught my eye and gave a barely perceptible shrug. I just sighed. And to think I’d been looking forward to having the help of the FBI.

“Dr. Lanza,” Agent Kristoff said, hands clasped behind his back as he leaned over and peered into the already dissected torso, “does the symbol on this victim match what was found on the previous Symbol Man victims?”

Doc gave Agent Kristoff a slightly puzzled smile, which delighted me, since I knew the expression was a total act. “I can’t say, Agent Kristoff. I haven’t reviewed the old case files to be able to make a comparison.” He paused. “Detective Gillian’s the resident expert on the Symbol Man.”

At that moment I
loved
Doc.

Kristoff’s eyes slid back to me. “You know the case?” he asked, the trace of disbelief so slight that I wasn’t sure if it was even there. Maybe I was being overly sensitive.

“I do. I’m sorry, but are you on the task force?” I asked, keeping my tone ingenuous.

The skin around his eyes tightened fractionally. “Yes, I was assigned this morning. I just drove over from New Orleans.”

I put on a friendly smile, forcing my face into the position. “Ah, I see. I’ll have to get you up to speed, then.”

“I’ve read the files,” he said flatly. “I was only hoping that Dr. Lanza had some recollection of the markings from when the previous Symbol Man was working this area.”

Dr. Lanza shook his head. “Sorry to disappoint you. The only Symbol Man victim I posted was three years ago, right after I first came over here. We had a hard time finding the symbol at first, and even when we did it was tough to make it out. I just trusted the detectives when they said that it matched the others.”

I folded my arms across my chest. “I’m sorry, Agent Kristoff, but you keep saying ‘the previous Symbol Man.’ What makes you think this isn’t the work of the same person?”

His expression shifted to something between a glower and a smirk. “I’m not willing to jump to the immediate conclusion that this is the same person. That line of thinking would limit the investigation far too much, and I don’t think that would be a wise thing to do so early on.”

Holy shit, how I wished I could smack the smug right off his face! But through sheer force of will I managed to merely give a shrug and a nod. “I suppose I can see that point of view. But, in my opinion, it’s a waste of time and resources to be looking for other options when so much of the data and evidence points to it being the same person. Sure,” I hurried to continue when he opened his mouth to speak, “I can understand that we need to keep other options open, but I prefer to keep them on the back burner at the moment, unless some compelling evidence comes up to give us more of an idea that it’s a different individual.” I tilted my head and smiled. “I’m pretty familiar with the case and the symbol and all of his methodology.”
And the arcane traces
, I added silently. “So I figure that if this guy
is
a copycat, he’s a damn good one. Which means that he’ll most likely follow the same methodology as in the previous murders. Which means that focusing on that methodology would be a good thing.” I found myself masking a grin. Had I really just said all that?

I could see a muscle in his jaw twitch. He opened his mouth to reply, but Doc spoke, interrupting the brittle tableau.

“She was strangled repeatedly.”

Agent Kristoff and I both turned to Doc. I stepped over to the table. “Repeatedly?” I asked, peering down at the neck muscles that had been peeled back.

“See the bruising?” he said, pointing to clots of blood within the muscle with the tip of his scalpel. “It’s in several lines across these strap muscles. She died of ligature strangulation, but it was tightened and loosened several times.”

“More torture,” I murmured. “Poor thing.” I wanted to add,
Just like his other victims
, for Agent Kristoff’s benefit, but managed to resist.

Doc grimaced. “Yeah, she didn’t die easy, that’s for sure.”

I glanced at Agent Kristoff. He was watching me again, those too-pretty eyes fixed on me and an unreadable expression on his face. He shifted his gaze back to the body when he saw my attention, not speaking.

I felt another flare of annoyance. Was he looking down on me because I expressed sympathy for the victim? I’d run into that a time or two among other police officers—disdain for people who’d lived the sort of lifestyle that made them easy prey.

Well, if he’s that sort, he won’t last long on my task force
, I decided. Not that I was sure I even had the power to remove people, but it made me feel better to think it.

We stepped back as Carl snapped pictures of each layer of muscle, showing the depth and position of the bruising. Then Dr. Lanza took a pair of scissors and removed the throat. I watched him as he palpated the trachea.

“Hyoid bone’s fractured. Definitely a strangulation.”

This wasn’t a surprise, since the markings had been so livid on the girl’s neck, plus there’d been so much haemorrhaging in her eyes and face. But it was still hard hearing it actually said out loud. It was almost as if it could be denied, as if the obscene cruelty had not occurred if it was not voiced.

“So that was the cause of death?” I asked.

Doc nodded and set the section of throat aside. “That’s what I’m going to put in my report. I mean, she’s suffered a ton of other trauma, but as hideous as it all is, none of it’s life-threatening. She was tortured for probably close to a week, then killed slowly.”

“Fucker,” Agent Kristoff muttered. I glanced at him, then back to the body. Finally something we could agree on.

“But I think she was bled too,” Doc continued.

A cold knot formed in my gut. “What do you mean?”

Doc lifted her arm and pointed to a notch cut in the crook of her elbow. “The vein is nicked there, and there are similar cuts in the other elbow and in her ankles.” My sick horror grew as Doc pointed out the notches in the veins. I’d missed those deeper cuts among all the other shallow ones. Had those been on the other victims? After a couple of weeks of decomposition, there’d be no way to tell with all of the other trauma.

“So she might have died of blood loss?” Agent Kristoff asked.

Doc shook his head. “No. She died of the strangulation, but she could have lost up to a liter of blood and still been alive when he decided to finish her off with the ligature.”

I suppressed a shudder, with effort. This was very unwelcome news. Especially with the arcane traces on the body and the timing of this new murder. Bloodletting and death magic were an ugly combination that could lead to all sorts of unpleasant possibilities.

Dr. Lanza stepped back and motioned to Carl to take over and sew the body up. He peeled off his bloody gloves, then stripped off the apron and plastic smock and tossed both into a wastebasket with a red plastic liner. “I’m just glad that this one was so fresh. I’d say that she’d been dead only a few hours when she was found. Rigor was beginning to recede and lividity wasn’t fixed.”

“Can you give a closer estimate of time of death?” Agent Kristoff asked as I pulled my gloves and shoe covers off and dropped them into the same biohazard container.

“Nope,” Doc said flatly as he picked up his clipboard and started to make notes. “Time of death is pretty inexact and depends on too many different factors, despite what you see on TV. Unless the death is witnessed, all the other factors are merely sufficient to give a range of time. Skin slippage—when the body decomposes enough that the outer layer of skin starts to slough off—is usually around three days, but that can be hastened or slowed by humidity, temperature, etcetera. Rigor mortis can come and go anywhere from three to thirty-six hours, depending on the person’s physical condition and what they were doing right before they died. Lividity—the settling of blood in the body—is a good indicator, but even that gives us a pretty broad range of time.”

I resisted the urge to smirk. I’d been through this with Doc before. People were always trying to pin him down about time of death, but he maintained that if he was the one who had to get on the stand and testify to it, he wasn’t going to just guesstimate. Especially since, most of the time, it really didn’t make a difference.