sent word he recognized her from a sketch in the Times. She'd gone missing.”
Copperwaite added, “Another is a white male butcher turned used automobile salesman.”
“The third,” concluded Sharpe, “renounced his Jewish faith live on his radio talk show, for which the BBC took great exception-doing it as he chose. Bad form, all that. And afterward, some years afterward, he converted to Catholicism. He lost all favor with his listeners, lost his radio show, everything-a prime candidate for suicide for a time, or so associates say.”
“The victims were killed in that order?”
“Yes. The woman first.”
“I see.”
As fascinating as Tattoo Man's cadaver had been for Jessica, she must admit that this madman in London, England, needed full attention. Besides, the prospect of traveling to London to catch a killer of such obvious theatrical panache could not be denied. The monster across the sea had already proved to be ghastly even from this safe distance.
“The plane has been held for your boarding, Jessica, gentlemen,” Eriq Santiva announced when the car stopped before the delayed flight on the runway. “Keep me informed!”
FOUR
Juries want bleeding bullet holes, sucking chest wounds with steak knives or hot pokers still attached to the victim of violent crime. Anything less-such as scientific evidence-leaves room for a junior high school definition of reasonable doubt…
In the back of her mind all the way to Dulles International Airport in Fairfax, Virginia, Jessica had worried about J. T. and her having dropped Tattoo Man's case in his lap.
Concern over Tattoo Man faded quickly, however, when she looked out on the runway at Dulles International to see the final preparations for takeoff of their nonstop to London.
With Scotland Yard paying the freight this time, Eriq Santiva displayed even greater pleasure at the combining of his FBI personnel with that of the famous Scotland Yard. The only downside: no ride on the Concorde. Perhaps on her return, Sharpe had promised, but not today since the Concorde only flew into JFK, in New York, and they would be departing from Fairfax.
They'd been the last to board the plane, which had indeed been held up for Dr. Jessica Coran, by order of the FBI and Scotland Yard on behalf of Her Majesty the Queen. It was enough to make Jessica blush at their boarding when the stewardess had said, “Dr. Coran, I presume?”
Once settled in their seats on the commercial flight, Inspector Sharpe wasted no time, asking her even before she had the opportunity to order a drink, “Shall I fill you in further on the three crime scenes that we have thus far?”
She loved his mastery of language, the little touches that made his culture bubble forth with each word, not to mention his melodic voice and lovely accent.
“Yes, I would like to see all that you have on each case, actually. Another look at the crime-scene photos and any forensic reports coming out of each case.”
“Good, then be my guest.” Sharpe snapped open his thin, black briefcase and produced several files. Each was marked with a victim's name scrawled in large, red marker across its label: O'Donahue, Katherine; Coibby, Lawrence; Burton, Theodore. No strange-sounding, exotic names with origins from faraway places, nothing to die for, she thought, simply homespun, middle-of-the-road, run-of-the-mill names that appeared as scattered as the victims themselves. Jessica read of a schoolteacher in retirement; a British used-car salesman with a mortgage, alimony, and child support to pay; and finally a stockbroker turned radio personality who'd strayed from his Jewish roots to embrace Catholicism, all in that order.
The victims appeared to share nothing in common save that they were all British subjects, the Irish schoolmarm having adopted Britain as her home in her youth, someplace called Bury St. Edmunds.
One of the crime-scene photos in O'Donahue's file gave Jessica a start. She hadn't seen it before. She helplessly stared at the tire marks, which were quite visible, like large tattoos across her back and shoulders where the skin had absorbed the impact of the automobile going over her. The tread marks shimmered beneath the lights in a perfect pattern, reminding her of Tattoo Man back in her lab at Quantico. “Did the killer run her over before or after crucifying her?”
“Neither.” Sharpe explained the sad origin of the tread marks.
The plane sped down the runway, lifting like an ancient bird of prey, ponderous at first but suddenly light and airy, free of all restraint.
Settling in, Jessica released her seat belt to relax more comfortably, and said to Sharpe, 'Tell me more about how you found the first victim: when, where, and the condition of the body at the time.”
“That'd be the schoolteacher, O'Donahue. In her early to mid-fifties. Not your typical serial-killer bait, I'd say.”
“No, although it's not unheard of.”
“Well, as I said, we found her run over by the fool that discovered the body, tire marks over her back. She'd been dumped facedown near the Thames on the Victoria Gardens Embankment, along a dirty stretch of levy along the parkway below a bridge.”
Copperwaite, who'd begun to listen in earnest, added, “We can take you to the scene if you like.”
“Yes, I would like to have a look… give it the once-over.”
“We suspect that body and perpetrator were en route to the Thames,” suggested Sharpe. “That the killer fully intended to dump it into the river when he was frightened off.”
“Points to the possibility it may've been his first-ever kill. Since he was so easily frightened off, you might look for a younger person,” she countered.
“Good thought.” Sharpe sat back heavily in his chair to consider this.
Copperwaite, from the other side of Sharpe, added as an afterthought, “We find a great deal floating in the Thames.”
“Her hands and feet had been spiked with three-quarter-inch thick nails. Like bloody railway spikes, but not quite. Still, large enough to make you wince.” Sharpe's matter-of-fact tone did battle with the content of his words. He paused for her benefit, fearing she might become alarmed.
“Go on,” she dictated.
“We didn't know what to make of it at the time, of course, and only later were we made absolutely certain-”
“Certain of what?” she impatiently prodded him.
“-certain that the holes in hands and feet had been part of a crucifixion murder, you see. Accepting the fact at the time, I tell you, we wanted to deny it.”
“I see, of course. Were the others similarly disposed of, the killer using water?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Do you think there's significance in that? Because I do.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Tell me about the other discoveries.”
“Very well, as you like…” Sharpe launched into a typical police description of the scene, the body, the surrounding area-a small lake in a park frequented by families on a daily basis where children saw the body floating like a balloon toy in Coibby's case.
Copperwaite interjected here and there, adding a bit of detail and color, the two detectives complimenting one another in rounding out the description of how Lawrence Coibby's body-victim number two-had been discovered.
“Any defensive marks on hands, forearms? Any blood or tissue, not his own, found under his nails?”
“Like the woman, no sign of any violence done to the body save the slight cut to the side, the spikes driven into palms and feet,” replied Sharpe. “No fight put up whatsoever.”
