Mark of the Demon (Kara Gillian #1)

Mark of the Demon (Kara Gillian #1) Page 10

Carl snapped pictures of the body, starting with overall shots, then focusing in more closely on face and hands. The pictures of the injuries took a while, but I knew how important it was that all of this was documented thoroughly, and I didn’t mind waiting. Finally he unslung the camera and set it aside, then retrieved a syringe from the table by the sink. He glanced at me with a questioning look and the barest flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Ready to give it a try?”

He did this to me every time. It was the only evidence of a sense of humor I’d ever seen in the placid tech. “No way,” I replied, shuddering.

He twitched his shoulders in a shrug, then moved to the body and plunged the needle into the side of one eye. I cringed and stepped back as he slowly drew the vitreous fluid out, filling the syringe. Even though I knew that vitreous was very useful when running toxicology tests on the victims, it still gave me a shiver to see a needle stuck into an eye, and Carl loved to tease me about my squeamishness.

I turned away and looked at Doc. “Do you have an ID on her yet?” It was the office of the Coroner that was responsible for making identification and then the subsequent notification of next of kin, though of course law enforcement always worked hand in hand with them.

A pained expression crossed Doc’s face. “Not yet. We’ll take dentals and make a DNA card for comparison in case anyone comes forward, but Jill said that her prints didn’t come up with anything. If this is anything like the other Symbol Man cases, it’s going to be hard as shit to ID the victim.” He sighed. “And his previous victims were usually too decomposed to get prints from. We were lucky on this one, except for the fact that she’d never been arrested and wasn’t in the system.”

I echoed his sigh. “No missing-persons reports match her so far. She probably wasn’t somebody who was missed.”

“Just like the others,” said Doc. “What was it, twelve? Thirteen?”

“Thirteen. The skulls were sent to a forensic anthropologist at Tulane, who did facial reconstructions on all of them. IDs were made on four, so I guess it was worth the effort.” I’d spent several fruitless hours poring over the photographs of those clay faces, trying to see if there was any possible link between the victims, other than their social status.

My gaze traveled over the precise design of cuts in the woman’s skin. “All these cuts—could she have bled out from this?”

Doc took a gloved finger and probed one of the cuts. “Doubtful. None of them is very deep, but they would have hurt like shit.” He motioned toward the ligature marks on her neck. “We’ll probably find that the cause of death is strangulation. She’s got a ton of petechial hemorrhaging.” He pulled the lower lids of the woman’s eyes down to show the pinprick spots of blood inside the lid and in the eyes—a clear sign of strangulation. I could see similar pinprick marks all throughout the woman’s face and neck. I could also see the faintest prickles of arcane energy but so faded and fleeting that, if I hadn’t already known it was there, I would have likely missed sensing it.

“Go ahead and roll her,” Doc said to Carl. The morgue tech moved to the opposite side of the table and grabbed the woman’s wrist and hip, rolling her onto her side with a practiced yank so that Doc could examine her back. “Well … that’s interesting,” he said with a frown.

I peered at her back, trying to see what he deemed interesting. All I could see were more of the precise cuts amid the dark red lividity. I glanced at him to see if he was going to elaborate.

“There are injuries consistent with a fall.” He palpated the back of her head and then moved his hands down to her hips, taking hold of her pelvis and shifting it in a gruesome and unnatural manner. “From a considerable height, too, I’d say. Ten, maybe twenty feet or so. Looks like she landed mostly on her back and left side. Her pelvis is shattered. The back of her skull is a mess, and so is her shoulder.” He picked up Carl’s camera and snapped a series of pictures, while the morgue tech silently held the body on her side. Then Doc motioned for Carl to roll her back to a supine position.

“Was she still alive?” I asked. “Could that be the cause of death?”

He shook his head. “There’s some abrading of the skin, but there’s no bruising or swelling, so it was after she was already dead.”

I thought of the vats at the wastewater plant. Could the killer have carried the body up those stairs, hoping to dump her up there? Perhaps he’d dropped her? That could explain why this body had been so much easier to find. If he’d left her atop one of the vats, it might have been much longer before she was found.

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 tsked 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?