wrong for this profession, yet she'd never had a more enthusiastic intern. Despite her frail refugee appearance, she possessed an enormous capacity to learn. She seemed to feed on knowledge, reminding Jessica of herself at that age.
Jessica asked, “J. T., will you please oversee our two young interns from here alone.”
“Sure, sure, Jess. Get out of here for a while.”
Jessica stripped off her blood-smeared gloves and lab coat, preparing to exit the room. Glancing at her watch, she saw that 5:40 p.m. had crept up on them. She shouted over her shoulder at J. T. and the others, 'Time to get a life, people. Have a nice night. What's left of it…”
THREE
There is no neutral ground in the universe: Every square inch, every split second is claimed by God and counterclaimed by Satan.
Exhausted, Jessica stepped into her office, only to find her divisional chief, Eriq Santiva, waiting there with two distinctly unfamiliar, well-dressed gentlemen. The men with their rumpled London Fog coats, equally rumpled three-piece suits, and inexpensive ties hanging limp about their necks, looked the part of a pair of weary travelers- two wise men from afar, she flashed-who have come not bearing gifts but bad news.
Santiva forced a smile while still fondling the female skull which Jessica used as one half of a pair of bookends-the other a male skull-from her bookshelf. He stood just behind her desk with the visitors, one sitting and the taller, more good-looking one, staring out the window. It appeared Santiva had timed her arrival fairly closely to meet with the visitors. Obviously, Gloria had kept him informed of her movements. She'd called down to the autopsy room for Jessica's estimated time of arrival, and Jessica had told Gloria to go home for the night.
“Dr. Coran!” Eriq began, bouncing the skull in his hands as if it were a Nerf ball. “I want you to meet our guests from New Scotland Yard. They are here on an unusual mission.”
Jessica immediately reclaimed her skull and space. Eriq Santiva, inching from behind the desk now, gave ground to Jessica. “Afternoon, gentlemen,” she said, replacing the skull against the books Santiva had disturbed. She noticed that DiMaio's Forensic Science and Helpern's Autopsy had their spines upside down. “I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” she continued while straightening the books, making a show of it for Eriq's sake.
“Please, forgive me. This is Inspector Richard Sharpe, CID, New Scotland Yard and-”
The tall one at the window eagerly stepped to her desk, reached across it, took her hand, and firmly shook it. His eyes were alight with energy but something darting and mysterious hid there as well. Something dangerous unless left alone. She loved the salt-and-pepper look of his thick, short, and unruly hair. “I believe we've met, or rather had words, a couple of weeks ago… When I rang you up,” he crisply said to her. “Richard Sharpe.”
“It's an honor.”
“No, I am honored to meet you, Dr. Coran. I've read a great deal about your successes in forensic investigation. I know we can learn much from you-at the Yard, that is.”
“And this is Lieutenant Inspector Stuart Copperwaite,” Eriq completed the introductions. “Also of New Scotland Yard.” Eriq had managed to master his Cuban accent to the point that no one could tell where he was from. The only remaining giveaway was his dark features.
The one with the charming name, Copperwaite, had an equally firm handshake, Jessica thought.
“So, you're visiting from England?” she asked, returning Copperwaite's smile, turning her eyes again to Sharpe.
“Yes,” Copperwaite readily replied, eyes beaming, “come to learn what we might from your famous profiling division.”
“Looking for help?” she asked. “Then you've come to the right place. Our experts are the best,” Jessica assured, dropping into her desk chair thinking, My feet are killing me, not realizing until now that the Britons, unlike Santiva, had remained standing until she sat. How awfully British of them, she thought with a touch of disdain, but finding that she actually liked the affectation.
Santiva asked, “How goes it with Horace, our Tattoo Man?”
'Tattoo Man's become quite the celeb corpse since arriving at Quantico. Everyone wants a look at him. I peeled a section of his skin for ink and tattoo experts to have a look at.” She now fingered some of the books on her shelf, still reclaiming her invaded space. “You wouldn't believe the lineup outside the autopsy room to get a look at this guy's skin.”
Santiva laughed heartily in response. “Speaking of horror, gentlemen, Dr. Coran is currently involved in a most interesting and weird case of murder, and a particularly brutal one at that.”
Jessica picked it up from there, adding, “The man died of rabid dog bites to sixty percent of his body, and he was conscious the whole time. I see no blunt trauma, inconsequential organ disease, and I rather doubt that toxicology will report anything but inconsequential blood alcohol and barbiturate levels.”
Santiva grimaced. “So the man was both alive and lucid when the animals attacked him.”
“Unfortunately, yes. Prelim autopsy report will indicate that he died of the attack, the shock setting in before the rabies could take him out. But believe me, it was one slow, agonizing death.”
“So then, it's true that someone actually set him up to die in this gruesome fashion?” asked Eriq, shaking his head over the image.
“No longer just possible, highly probable,” she replied, pushing back in her chair, working out the autopsy kinks. “Someone loaded those dogs with the disease and used them as lethal weapons, turning them into voracious, mad wolves. After having been bitten ninety to one hundred times, escaping over that junkyard fence, Mr. Tattoo Man would've been paralyzed with pain. There was no way out, no escape.”
“I've had any number of peculiar cases over the years myself,” put in Sharpe, who now sat alongside Copperwaite, “but such a death… horrible.”
Copperwaite tried on a smile for Jessica, adding, “We can match your American horror stories horror for horror over the centuries. We've been at it a great deal longer.”
“Is that so?” She looked at Sharpe for an answer. While Sharpe's penetrating gaze engaged her, the other man fiddled with a notepad and pen as if trying to learn their use for the first time. He flipped through the pad, obviously searching for some questions he'd meant to pose. Stuart Copperwaite, Inspector Sharpe's right hand, as you Yanks would say, she thought she heard him thinking.
“So, you gentlemen of the Yard have come calling on the colonies for help,” she quipped.
“Stuart and I have come a distance on this crucifixion case, you see. Awful business.”
“Indeed, you've come a great distance.”
“To ask for your assistance, Dr. Coran.”
“But you have it already.”
Sharpe, obviously a man of few words, tossed a manila file folder he'd been holding close to his chest since she'd walked in the room. The file came cascading across her already cluttered desk, crime-scene photos spilling from it, crime-scene shots of crucifixion victims-three in all.
“Three bodies? There've been three now?” she asked, her quick perusal of the photos confirming the answer.
'Two men and a woman,” said Sharpe.
“And you're certain it's the same killer at work in all three deaths? “Same MO.”
“Precisely,” added Copperwaite, “detail for detail.” Jessica's whiskey voice took on a tone of doom. “Then it's a serial killer you're after, one who crucifies his victims. I knew about the woman found in the park, but I thought it a freak thing, a onetime incident, not likely to be repeated.”
Copperwaite lamented, “So hoped everyone.”
“Would you have a concerted look?” asked Sharpe, his finger jabbing at the file folder filled with pictures of the victims.
“Yes, let's have a look,” she replied, bracing herself for the crime-scene and autopsy photos, for even though
