“Laying with her head on her mother’s left shoulder. I moved her when I felt her pulse,” Mendez said.
“And what had been done to her? Was she stabbed?”
“I couldn’t tell. She was covered in blood. I couldn’t tell if it was hers or her mother’s. Looked to me like she might have been strangled, though. There were bloody finger marks on her throat.”
Leone took a handkerchief out of his pocket to hold over his mouth and nose as he moved closer to the body on the floor. He was careful not to step in the blood. He squatted down for a different angle.
The woman’s breasts had been cut off. There was no sign of them anywhere in the room. The killer had to have taken them with him when he left. A macabre souvenir. The gaping wounds were alive with fly larvae.
She lay spread-eagle, faceup, staring at the ceiling. She was naked. Wounds slashed her arms, her legs, her torso. She had been stabbed so many times in the lower abdomen, the area looked like a lump of ground meat, crawling now with maggots.
The blade of a butcher’s knife protruded from her vagina.
Leone arched a brow. “That makes a statement.”
“Have you ever seen that before?” Mendez asked.
“I’ve seen the blade inserted. Never like this. What do you make of it?”
Leone looked up at him, ever the mentor. He sure as hell had an opinion. The man was a legend. He probably had already begun to build the profile of the killer in his head. By the time they broke for coffee he would have decided the perp had a stutter and walked with a limp.
He wanted Mendez to think for himself, read the scene in front of him, call on cases he had studied and things he had been taught at the National Academy and in the field.
“I think maybe the statement is about her more than it is about her killer,” Mendez said.
Leone nodded. “It would seem so.”
He stood up, took a step back, crossed his arms. His gaze slowly scanned the room, taking in every detail. Outside the house an engine died, a car door slammed.
“He didn’t bring the knife with him,” he said, pointing to a wooden block of knives on the counter. “The big one is missing.”
“That’s a lot of overkill for a crime of opportunity,” Mendez said.
Leone hummed a low note. “Any signs of a robbery?”
“I made a quick pass through the house. There’s no sign of forced entry. A couple of rooms have been tossed, but I don’t know why. There’s some expensive-looking jewelry on her dresser. It doesn’t look like anything in the way of electronics was taken.”
“Drugs?”
“No paraphernalia. The house is too clean for a junkie. I don’t make it for drugs. It doesn’t feel that way.”
“No,” Leone agreed. “This was personal. No question. We’re looking at maybe thirty or forty stab wounds.”
The screen door opened and Cal Dixon stepped into the scene. Dixon was fifty-four, silver-haired, and fit. His uniform always looked freshly pressed. He turned his piercing blue eyes first to the victim, then to Leone and Mendez. His expression was grim and washed pale.
“What the hell is the world coming to?”
“First murder in a year, boss,” Mendez said, as if that were a bright spot in their lives.
Dixon came over to stand with them, hands jammed at his waist. He pointedly did not look down at what remained of Marissa Fordham.
“Dispatch had a nine-one-one call yesterday,” he said. “Early morning. A child’s voice saying that daddy had hurt mommy. That was it. No address. No name. The phone went dead and that was that.
“The supervisor came to me, but what could I do? I can’t have every house in the area searched on the off chance there might have been a crime committed.”
“I read Orange County has the enhanced nine-one-one system,” Mendez said. “All the info comes up on the screen with the call. Name and address.”
“That costs big bucks,” Dixon said. “I’ve filled out the paperwork for a grant, but who knows how long that will take.”
Once again, progress progressed at a painful crawl toward Oak Knoll, California. Mendez kept abreast of the latest technology being developed for law enforcement, yet tantalizingly out of reach—particularly for smaller agencies. They didn’t have the budget or the clout.
He glanced down at the corpse of Marissa Fordham, two days into the decaying process, smelling like an open sewer on a hot summer day. “Too late for her.”
3
Vince excused himself from the kitchen, made a beeline for the designated tree, and threw up. He had looked at every kind of horror during his career with the Bureau. His life’s work was the study of murderers. He had spent three years traveling the country from one maximum-security prison to the next, interviewing men who had committed some of the most horrific crimes in the history of mankind as the Bureau gathered information and ammunition to aid in the hunt of human predators. He had stood over crime scenes, one bloodier and more depraved than the next. He’d seen so many bodies in so many states of decay, he had learned long ago not to attach that visual to any emotion other than disgust for the crime.
It wasn’t the visual that got to him.
It was the bullet in his head.
He’d been living with it now for a year and a half, and had grown familiar with the tricks it liked to play on him. The pain ebbed and flowed. Sometimes it was like a thunderstorm contained in his skull. Sometimes it was a dragon sleeping just under the surface.
There were no medical texts in which a list could be found of side effects to having a .22 caliber bullet in one’s head. Seeing as the great majority of people didn’t survive the experience of being shot at nearly point-blank range, anecdotal information was hard to come by. Vince’s own doctors usually had only one thing to say when he would tell them about his symptoms: huh.
One of the stranger side effects was the sudden heightening of senses. Sometimes his vision would become so acute, color so saturated, the light so bright, his eyeballs would ache. Sometimes the smallest sounds would be so amplified in his head he would cringe. Sometimes—now—his sense of smell became so sensitive, every molecule of scent seemed swollen, so full he could literally taste them.
It wasn’t the visual that got to him today. It was the smell.
Like any dead creature, the body of Marissa Fordham had begun its inglorious process of decomposition. Nature was without mercy or modesty. There were no exceptions to the rules. The business of death was dealt with in a no-nonsense, practical matter. Once the heart ceased to pump blood, systems shut down and chemical changes began the process of reducing the highest being on the food chain to food for other creatures.
It didn’t take long. Especially in the warm weather they’d been experiencing. Absent a soul, the eyes glaze over and flatten, the skin loses color, the body’s temperature begins to drop. As if summoned, the blowflies come, laying their eggs in the wounds and orifices. A couple of hours after the last breath, rigor mortis begins in the jaw and neck, slowly spreading through the body. Bacteria rampaging through the abdomen cause gases to form, causing bloating, and the smell begins to gain strength.
It was the smell that got him today.
Vince dug a pack of Doublemint gum out of his pocket, unwrapped two sticks, and began to chew the taste of vomit out of his mouth.
He felt a little weak, a little dizzy. He had no time for either. To clear his head he thought about his bride of five months burrowing under the covers of their bed as he had dressed to leave for this crime scene. A warm sense of calm washed over him and he smiled a little at what a lucky son of a bitch he really was.
“You want to talk to the neighbor?”
