Crush

woman who was brought in last night. Sheriff—”

“Owens. Stan Owens. Call me Stan.”

“Right. Sheriff—Stan—if we could have a few minutes, we won’t bother you about this again.” A promise she might not be able to keep, but again, it sounded good—and judging by the look on Owens’s face, he seemed to like the idea, too.

“I don’t suppose it’d hurt anything,” he said, then nodded to the legal clerk beside him to make it happen.

Owens swiped his electronic proximity card over the sensor, then led Vail and Robby downstairs and into the morgue conference room on the first floor. There was an ovoid conference table surrounded by high-backed, burgundy office chairs. There was a periodic table hanging in the corner of one of the long walls, a TV/VCR setup mounted on the wall, and a large whiteboard.

Owens walked over to the whiteboard and slid it to the left, revealing a window into the morgue. Behind the glass and to their right stood two lab-coated technicians in front of a gurney that was parked by a stainless steel dissection table, above which was suspended a large scale for weighing resected organs. The sheriff pressed a wall-mounted intercom, and the woman behind the glass looked at him.

“Dr. Abbott, we’re here to see the murder victim brought in last night. This is Special Agent Vail and Detective Hernandez.” Owens turned to Vail and said, “Dr. Brooke Abbott.”

Brooke Abbott wore a clear face shield, a Tyvek biohazard suit, disposable booties, and latex gloves, and was up to her elbows in—well, she was in the middle of an autopsy. But it was the body on the adjacent table that Vail and Robby had come to see.

Abbott handed the scalpel to the technician. “Continue just like I showed you. I’m going back to Jane.” Abbott shuffled to her left, to the adjacent table, and, with the movement of a gloved hand, indicated the corpse. “Meet Jane Doe.”

Owens moved his hands to a small remote control box to his left. He shifted the levers and the image on the closed circuit monitor above his head zoomed and rotated. “No ID yet?” Owens asked.

Abbott turned to the window. “Should have something soon.”

Vail stepped closer. They hadn’t gotten too far into the procedure, because the Y incision had not yet been made. That was good—she’d wanted a look at the body under better conditions—on a table, in an optimally lit environment.

“What can you tell me about her?” Vail asked. She craned her head toward the monitor and tried to orient herself.

Abbott tilted her head. “From the cursory exam, I’d say late forties, but fit and with good muscle tone. Well maintained teeth, evidence of facial makeup.”

“So she cared about her appearance and was not a vagrant or high-risk victim.”

“Fair assessment.” Abbott nodded at the body. “But there is something a bit bizarre, right up your alley, I’d imagine. Look at the feet.” Abbott angled her headlamp and brought up a magnifying lens. “Second toe, right foot. Nail’s been ripped off the bed.” She pointed with a probe.

Vail moved closer to the screen as Owens maneuvered the lever. “Are those tissue tags on the nail bed?”

“Yes.”

“Definitely ripped off postmortem.”

“Exactly.”

Vail moved away from the monitor, trying to get a better view. “Can we come in? It’s really difficult doing it this way.”

“For evidence control—”

“I understand, Doctor. But I need to see nuances that might not be picked up by the camera.”

Owens nodded. “Fine with me.”

Abbott shrugged. “Send her in. Just her.”

Robby waited in the conference room while Owens took Vail into the corridor, out through a door into another hallway that opened to where the bodies were off-loaded into refrigeration units, and then into the Clean Room. Vail slipped into a Tyvek suit, then donned a face shield and gloves.

Owens pointed the way into the Dirty Room. “Go past the scrub sink and around the bend. That’ll take you directly into the morgue.” Owens left her to return to the conference room, and Vail followed his instructions.

Morgues all have a familiar look and smell. They’re never cheery, sometimes downright depressing, always chilly, and often utilitarian. In keeping with the overall building, however, this morgue was the most spacious and technologically advanced facility Vail had seen.

She walked into the large room and crossed the shiny taupe floor toward the far wall, where the gurneys were docked. To her right, on the other side of the window, stood Robby.

Robby leaned close to the glass. In a filtered voice, through the intercom, he said, “So we’ve got severed breasts and a torn-off toenail.”

“You’re looking for the behaviors,” Owens said, standing to his right. “What’s it called?”

Vail leaned back from the body. “Ritual behavior. The things the killer does with the body that aren’t necessary for the successful commission of his crime. They’re unique to each particular offender. He does them repetitively, and he doesn’t change them—so you’ll see them in every one of his kills.” She looked to Owens. “If this UNSUB has struck before, it’s likely these ritual behaviors will help us link his victims.”

Owens was nodding. “Hate that. If you don’t use this stuff regularly, you forget it.”

“There’s a lot to it,” Vail said. “And we’re always learning more, expanding our knowledge base.” She nodded at Abbott. “Anything you can tell us?”

“I haven’t gotten too far into it—uh, I mean her—but both wrists were sliced. Very sharp utensil, which is . . .” She reached beneath the stainless autopsy table to a lower shelf and lifted a plastic-wrapped and evidence- labeled knife. “This.”

Vail didn’t take it, but she visually inspected it.

“Must’ve brought it with him,” Vail said. “Not the kind of thing you find in a wine cave.”

“Definitely not,” Owens said through the intercom.

Vail turned back to the body. “Anything else?”

“Knife was found beneath the lower back. He wanted us to find it.”

“Apparently. COD?”

“Asphyxiation, actually.” She moved the light to the woman’s neck. “See?” Abbott pointed with a gloved index finger. “Hallmark injuries to the lower jaw. Man strangs. The victim was moving her head back and forth, producing those abrasions. If I had to guess, he used a blunt object, possibly even a forearm, like a bar arm, to crush her trachea.”

Vail looked over at Robby, who was craning his neck to look at the monitor. “Crush her trachea?” he asked.

Vail leaned in for a look. “That’s a new one. I don’t think I’ve seen that before. Usually the offender uses manual strangulation, or a ligature. But crushing the trachea . . . that’d take an awful lot of force. I mean, there’s a lot of tissue there. You’ve got the thyroid and cricoid cartilage in front of it and the spinal column behind it. And the trachea itself is pretty tough cartilage.”

Abbott was nodding. “It was a very violent act.”

“Was a device of some sort used—a bar or pipe?”

Abbott looked down at the body, considering the question. “I’m not sure. There are no tool marks. I’ll look to see if there are any traces of metal or paint embedded in the skin, but I didn’t find anything unusual during the initial exam. Then again, I couldn’t guarantee you’d find anything. Especially if it’s wrapped in something.”

Vail leaned forward and looked at the eyes. “Petechial hemorrhages?”

“Yes.”

Vail nodded. Makes sense. “Any scrape marks on her back?”

Abbott stepped back, eyebrows raised. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, there are. Upper back and the parietal region of the skull. Pretty deep, actually.”

“He pushed her against the cave wall as he cut off her air supply. And the lips—inside, indentation marks?”