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The man who’d killed Officer Ted Ferris had left some DNA evidence at the scene of the shooting. Apparently Ferris had injured his attacker. Blood not belonging to Ferris had been found on his uniform. The crime lab had stopped everything to run the needed tests on the blood they’d found in the abandoned Caddy.
I smiled. Clarence Johnson was a match. The blood wasn’t proof positive that he’d killed Ferris, but it was solid evidence that he’d been there when Harris died. The scumbag was going down. All Metro had to do was find his sorry hide. Then again, maybe he’d crawled into some hole and bled to death. That would save the taxpayers having to foot the bill for his trial.
I still felt furious at my new partner. But I would have died before I’d have let him see how he annoyed me as we’d muddled through the day yesterday.
Introducing him around and showing him all the important destinations, such as evidence lock-up, the Chief of Detectives’ office and the archives, my old stomping grounds, had been standard procedure. Ray Patterson smiled and shook hands with everyone he met. He played the good-old-boy charm to the hilt.
Mostly I wanted to puke.
The guy was a fake. He pretended to be cool with his new assignment, specifically with me as his partner, and yet I had been in the room when he’d made his position more than clear to Barlow. He was the quintessential male chauvinist. A pig, no pun intended.
As I’d tossed and turned last night I’d considered why Barlow had decided to partner me up with a dinosaur mentality like Patterson. He could have easily shuffled someone else around. It wasn’t unheard of. There might have been rumbles of complaints but it would have passed.
I knew Barlow. He was a smart man. His first loyalty was to the job. He had his reasons for doing this the way he did. I just wasn’t privy to them yet. As much as I disliked the idea of working with a guy who considered himself a better cop than me simply because he was a man, I trusted Barlow’s judgment. We might not be able to work out our personal feelings but the guy had it on the ball where his work was concerned.
I felt totally confident that his reasons would be revealed eventually. And all would have been for the best for all concerned. The question was, would Patterson live to see it?
My lips quirked.
I padded into the kitchen for more coffee. As I surveyed the room I considered whether or not I really wanted to jump into a kitchen renovation. I’d been thinking about it since I returned from the academy. My whole house could use an update. Though I liked the cottage-style, it was getting a little worn. New cabinets and countertop, definitely new appliances would be good. The hardwood floors throughout I would keep, but a fresh coat of paint and maybe some new slipcovers for the living room furniture. Maybe.
I thought about calling my mom to see if she’d heard from Sarah or Michael this weekend.
Michael is one of my brothers. He’s also a fireman in Brentwood. His wife, Sarah, was my best friend all through high school. We’ve always been like sisters, which is great, since I never had one for real. She’s also the Chief of Detectives, Barlow’s boss’, secretary. But more important, she’s pregnant, due any second. This was actually her second pregnancy—she’d lost the first baby at six weeks. That was a tough time but she and my brother had been determined and they’d gotten through it. Her maternity leave from work had started a week ago. I missed her smiling face around Metro but I sure was happy for her.
The arrival of the first grandchild in any family is a monumental occasion. But in my family it ranked right up there with the second coming of Christ. We could hardly wait for this baby to come.
I would be turning thirty-one in a couple of months with no prospects of marriage, much less childbearing. I don’t have a problem with that. I love kids. I definitely love men and sex. But I’m still enjoying my second career and my newfound independence. Besides, staying unattached was so simple. Love was too complicated…still, the sex part would be nice. Truth is, like most women, I told myself what I wanted to hear. I didn’t have any offers, so I focused on my career and, for now, that was for the best.
Besides, whenever I thought of sex…I thought of Steven Barlow and what it might be like to have hot, frantic sex with him. We’d kissed, but nothing else. And every time I let myself dwell on how much I wanted him…well, it wasn’t good. I got all frustrated and then I started thinking about another man, one as equally forbidden, or maybe more so, as Barlow. Mason Conrad. He was totally off limits. I’d been undercover to take down that mob boss I told you about and he’d been one of the bad guys. But that didn’t stop us from connecting in a big way. What we’d shared, which wasn’t actually sex, but had the same result, had rattled me, still did, when I obsessed on the memories. Hanging on to my feelings for Barlow was probably all that had saved me from a monumental mistake.
The smell of overheated coffee made my nose twitch and dragged me away from thoughts of my lack-luster sex life. I should make a fresh pot. Feeling lazy, I tightened the sash of my robe and opted for taking my chances with the already brewed stuff. If I could drink the junk at the office I could handle anything.
Getting back to my personal life—I’ve always been an independent woman…to an extent. I guess I didn’t realize how cautious I’d actually been or how far I’d gone out of the way to avoid risk in my professional life until the hearing loss happened. In the process of relearning to live my life, I’d come to understand there was more I wanted to do.
Much more.
This was right where I wanted to be.
Ray Patterson had better watch out. I had every intention of showing him what a woman could do. Including leaving him in the dust on our first assignment.
The light above the door leading from the living room into the kitchen flashed, alerting me to another phone call.
I missed the little things, I considered as I made my way into the living room. A ringing phone, a dripping faucet. All those irritating noises you wished would go away forever. Guess what? You missed them.
This time the caller ID showed Metro dispatch. Not a good start to a Sunday morning. I should have gone to IHOP. Now I would end up going to work hungry.
“Walters.”
I watched the display as the words spilled across. A possible homicide victim had been discovered. The location came next. I recognized the Green Hills neighborhood. Patterson and I had our first case.
Now we’d see what the guy had to back up all that macho bluster.
I headed to my bedroom to change. Thank God my usual uniform didn’t include fishnets or stilettos.
To my surprise Chief Barlow waited at the crime scene.
The lessons I’d learned at the forensics academy immediately kicked in, drawing my attention to the grisly details of the scene that had been cordoned off by yellow tape.
According to the uniform who filled me in, the body had been discovered by a young woman walking her dog. A walking trail between a swanky residential area and a shopping mall provided the background.
The techs were already in place, marking potential evidence and snapping photographs. The medical examiner’s van arrived as I walked over to speak with Barlow.
I wanted to see the body but since he stood between me and it, I took that as my cue.
“What’ve we got?” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard detectives in movies ask that same question. God, I’m turning into a cliché.
Just like the Harrison murder, Barlow told me.
It wasn’t necessary to analyze the grim expression on his face or the statement to understand what he meant. I had worked the Harrison murder, which was still unsolved.
Reba Harrison had been found scarcely a block from her upscale home. The primary detail that stood out in my mind about the case was the brutal way in which she had been raped.
Most of the sexual activity had taken place while she was still alive, but not all. The foreplay leading up to murder had lasted several hours. The bruising around the wrists and the ankles indicated she had been restrained most of that time. She’d been strangled with the same type of cord used to restrain her.
Finally, her body, adorned with nothing more than exaggerated makeup and a tiara, had been dumped in the meticulously landscaped bushes along her street.
“Has the victim been identified?” As I asked this question my new partner strolled up next to me. I didn’t bother saying good morning. Clearly it wasn’t going to be one.
Barlow acknowledged Patterson’s presence with a nod then said to me, Mallory Wells. Twenty-four. Single. Moved to Nashville three years ago to break into the country music business.
Just like Reba Harrison, only Reba had been a lifetime resident. She’d had the same professional aspirations.
Looks like we’ve got ourselves a serial killer.
This from Patterson.
I resisted the urge to say duh. What he didn’t know was that we had already made that connection when Reba Harrison died. Almost every step of her murder matched those of a suspected serial killer from four years ago, before my time. The killer had murdered six women in the Nashville area, all involved with the country-music business on one level or the other, then he’d apparently disappeared. The case was still unsolved.
Perhaps, Barlow allowed. The evidence will confirm or refute that conclusion.
I knew Barlow was thinking the very same thing I was, this guy is back, but I couldn’t help reveling in his noncommittal response to my cocky partner. Before I had time to fully enjoy the moment, Barlow shifted his full attention back to me.
I’ll need you and Patterson to focus solely on this case, in the event the two murders are connected to each other or to any past cases. I’ll be passing the Johnson case to Holderfield.
I opened my mouth to argue and Barlow motioned for me to follow him away from the fray of ongoing activity.
Patterson had the good sense to make himself scarce.
“You know that’s my case, too,” I said the instant Barlow stopped and shifted his attention back to me. “Shameka is my witness and Johnson is my perp. It’s my job to help find him.” It was the least I could do after what Shameka had gone through.
Those analyzing blue eyes studied me a moment before he spoke. Barlow did that a lot. He liked to mull over what he wanted to say before he opened his mouth. Saved him the taste of shoe leather quite frequently, I reasoned. I should take a page from that book. But then, I had pretty much acquired a taste for the stuff. Why change now?
We’re going to get Johnson. He’s made. Every cop in the city wants him. This one— he glanced toward the victim and the crime-scene techs circling around her—is going to be different. If it’s connected to those old murders, I don’t want the killer to get away this time. I want your keen eye on this one, Merri. I need my best and freshest on it.
Okay. He’d earned himself some major points with that monologue. Still, I couldn’t help thinking he was only doing this to get me off the Johnson case. It seemed like every time I got close to nabbing a perp he hustled me out of harm’s way. This turn of events sounded suspiciously like that. Johnson had seen me just as clearly as I’d seen him. He would likely want revenge for those who set him up, and it wouldn’t take a scientist to figure out I’d been part of a sting. I knew how guys like him thought. He was going down, he had nothing to lose. That put me in the line of fire right along with Shameka.
Irritation niggled at me. I’ll bet if I checked the roster I would find that a unit had been stationed outside my house since the op to take down Johnson went sour. Part of me understood that was a reasonable move, but another part, the side that worried my hearing impairment would be considered first and foremost even before my skill level, didn’t like the idea that he thought I couldn’t take care of myself.
“I guess I should be flattered,” I said, allowing him to hear the skepticism I felt. “I’m assuming I’m lead.” I had seniority over Patterson so that should have been a given, but I wanted the point clarified.
You’re lead. Patterson will fall in line.
Maybe he would and maybe he wouldn’t, but either way this investigation would be conducted my way.
“I’ll let you bring him up to speed,” I offered charitably. He was here, might as well make himself useful. I had a crime scene to analyze. “You know more about the old cases than I do.”
Barlow held my gaze for a few pulse-pounding seconds and I was certain he wanted to say something more, but he didn’t. That’s when I walked away. If he could let it go, so could I.
After slipping on shoe covers and latex gloves, I moved beyond the yellow tape that visually declared the boundaries of the scene.
The shrubbery appeared undisturbed. The path was decorative gravel, which basically ensured there wouldn’t be any usable pedestrian or vehicle tracks.
Like the first victim, Miss Wells was nude. The bruising around the ligature marks on her wrists and ankles indicated she had been forcibly restrained. The additional bruising apparent on her thighs suggested rape or some seriously rough sexual activity but the M.E. would confirm that conclusion once the body was in his territory at the lab.
Her eyes were open, a frozen mask of terror on her face, also like the previous victim. Makeup had been applied to the point of appearing grotesque and clownish. The tiara sat atop her head as if it had been carefully placed there after her body was dumped. Probably had been.
Any jewelry she had worn had been removed, either for the purpose of financial gain or as mementoes of the deed. Dropping into a crouch I leaned closer and peered at her fingers. She’d worn something on her right ring finger. Maybe a high-school ring, judging by the width of the tan line. Any other personal items, including clothing, she’d had in her possession at the time of death wouldn’t be found if this murder followed the same MO—modus operandi—as the Harrison murder.
There was no way to know just yet whether the guy collected the items or disposed of them, either to prevent the possibility of leaving evidence behind or for cold hard cash since nothing had been recovered. I had to operate under the assumption that this case wasn’t related to any other…until something proved otherwise. The similarities to the old cases were becoming glaringly more obvious.
For example, the last victim, Reba Harrison. Though she had been repeatedly and savagely raped, not a single speck of semen, not one body hair, not even a trace of saliva that didn’t belong to the victim had been recovered from her body. It was as if a phantom had carried out the horrific crime.
Considering the hours the perp took to do the job, it was outright amazing he didn’t leave behind so much as a molecule of evidence, physical or biological.
The tech working on the other side of the body looked up abruptly. I did the same. Patterson stood behind me and had apparently spoken.
Time for him to understand the situation.
“I should explain something to you,” I said as I pushed to my feet. I moved a few feet away from the body and the nosy tech still doing his job. Patterson followed somewhat reluctantly.
Yeah?
“I’m deaf, Detective Patterson.” I didn’t call him Ray as he’d insisted I should do when we first met. “There’s no magic hearing aid. I can’t hear anything you say. The only way I know what you want to tell me is if I’m looking at your face. I read lips. When you have something to tell me you need to make me aware that you intend to speak. Especially if my back is turned to you.”
He didn’t bother hiding the fact that he was put off by the nuisance.
Gotcha. He shoved his gloved hands into his pockets. I’ll get the hang of it.
It was going to be a long day.
I glanced at Barlow and caught him watching us. I shivered in spite of myself. He shouldn’t even be here. But then, this case had just taken a turn for the worse. A single, random act of violence was one thing, but an encore performance down to the last detail made everyone in law enforcement nervous. Especially when it smacked of a past investigation, one still unsolved and marring Metro’s record.
There was work to do. What-ifs weren’t my concern right now, this latest victim was. I turned to my new partner. His attention was riveted to the victim. I wished I could read his mind.
Whatever Barlow’s motivation for teaming me up with this guy, I was reasonably sure I had gotten the short end of the stick.
Dr. Ammon, the M.E., agreed to push Miss Wells to the front of the autopsy line considering it was possible that we had a serial killer, one who may have lain dormant for four years, at work.
Patterson and I left the crime scene shortly after the body and headed to the lab to view the preliminary procedure. Since we had arrived at the scene in different vehicles, we left it that way.
We suited up, gloves, shoe covers and gown, before entering the exam room.
Dr. Ammon, a man of Middle-Eastern decent, stood about three inches shorter than me. Not a large man by any stretch of the imagination. Fifty or fifty-five. Wore a shiny gold band on his left ring finger. Pictures of half a dozen kids graced his desk.
The thick glasses he wore indicated he was likely blind as a bat without them. He was known for his close attention to detail. Ammon didn’t miss anything. I was glad he was the one on call today.
Extensive sexual assault, he noted aloud for the purposes of the audio tape. I didn’t hear him, of course, but I read the words on his lips. I call it assault because the activity was so savage, he clarified with a glance over his glasses at me.
Dr. Ammon shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he studied the victim’s ankles. The ligature marks appear the same size and depth as on the previous victim, indicating a similar material was used for restraint. Perhaps a nylon cord. I appreciated that he always looked at me when he spoke. Not everyone thought to do that, forcing me to remind them.
“No semen this time?” I asked. I was hoping the perp had made a mistake this go-round. If this victim turned out as clean as Reba Harrison, this case would only get more frustrating.
Ammon glanced at his assistant who was peering into a microscope at specimens. The assistant said something, but I could only see his profile so I missed it entirely. My gaze shifted back to Ammon who shook his head. No semen as of yet.
Damn.
I noticed Patterson looking away as Ammon thoroughly examined the victim’s pubic area. Maybe the guy had a conscience after all, or at least limits on his comfort zone. Even I felt like an interloper as that part of the examination proceeded. I felt sorry for the victim. No matter that she was dead, this business was humiliating.
The M.E. lifted a number of hairs and placed them on a slide. Anticipation surged past my softer emotions. All we needed was one break. One piece of evidence we could use to nail the bastard, assuming we figured out who he was. That sounds dumb, but there’s nothing worse than catching a perp, knowing in your gut he’s the one and not being able to prove it in a court of law.
Ammon moved to the table where his assistant worked and slipped the slide into another microscope.
I surveyed the victim’s body once more. She looked different under the harsh lights of the lab. The marbling of her cold skin gave her a blue-gray hue. She’d definitely taken good care of herself. Worked out daily, I’d bet. The breasts were store-bought. An incision beneath each one gave away her secret. She had probably taken out all the stops to make her dream of fame and fortune happen.
My gaze shifted up to my partner, who stood on the other side of the examining table. He shook his head and looked at me. Another starlet bites the dust.
God, I hated those kinds of labels. The case from four years ago had been called the Starlet Murders. I hoped like hell that if we discovered these two recent murders were committed by the same perp, we would change that.
Patterson’s head turned toward the M.E., alerting me that the doc was saying something.
…got lucky. I have a couple of hairs that don’t belong with this body.
But they could be someone else’s. Not necessarily the perp’s. That possibility hampered the enthusiasm I wanted so much to feel.
“She could have picked them up at the scene or during an encounter of some sort prior to her final one with the perp,” I proposed.
Ammon shrugged. Possibly, but there’s always a chance one or both could belong to the killer or killers, considering they don’t match. I have hair samples from three different individuals here.
