Pressing the record button on a video camera, the doc began his monologue: “The victim is an unidentified female whose dental findings estimate her age to be in her early twenties.” He pointed to a set of dental x-rays that were displayed on a digital monitor behind him. “The films of the victim’s teeth show wear and eruption that would be indicative of a female in that age range.”
Using a swiping motion, his arms traced the body of the young woman—head to toe. “The difficult part will be to remove all the layers of paint while preserving the skin. I took some small tissue samples from the face and leg earlier in order to gauge the type of materials that were used. I’ve also begun a tox-screen.
“The toxicology report will not be back for a few days, but the tissue samples as well as the blood samples did divulge some rather peculiar findings.” Quincy took a quick breath before continuing, “The deceased has been dead longer than we first assumed, and she has been embalmed.”
Troy reached over and paused the video camera. “Embalmed,” he said, “doesn’t that require special equipment?”
“Indeed,” Quincy answered. “The body only underwent the process of arterial embalming—”
“Meaning?” Troy interrupted.
“Meaning, the cardiovascular system was filled with embalming fluid being pumped into the right carotid artery while blood and interstitial fluids were drained through an incision made in the right jugular vein. It’s a process called ‘single point injection.’ ”
Troy nodded and made a mental note. The killer wanted to keep the body around for a while.
Troy cleared his throat to get Quincy’s attention. “Would it be okay if we took a short break,” he asked.
“Not a bad idea.”
The men left the operating suite and gathered in Quincy’s office.
“Your use of videotaping,” Troy asked, “is that something you always do?”
Quincy grinned, pouring Troy a glass of water. “I’m not as young as I used to be, and I find it helpful when I go to write my report. Attorneys have become so quick to object to anything these days, I find it best to dot my ‘i’s’ and cross my ‘t’s’ far ahead of time.”
“Are you ready to proceed?” he asked.
Setting down the glass, Troy stood up. “Lead the way,” he said, taking a deep breath.
…It was the last deep breath he would take for the next couple of hours.
Troy and Quincy stared—speechless—at the body, as the layers of paint and shellac washed away.
“Wow,” Troy finally vocalized.
“Indeed,” Quincy echoed his surprise.
The doc motioned to his tech to shut off the camera.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” Troy said, “but it doesn’t even look like the same girl.”
“Someone went to great pains to make a plain girl look beautiful,” Quincy added.
“Someone with a lot of talent,” Troy said.
When the autopsy was finished, the two once again congregated in Quincy’s office. Troy was anxious to see what was inside the mystery envelope.
Gloved up, the doc held the plastic bag containing the envelope. “CSI dusted but they found nothing.” He opened the evidence bag and slid the envelope from its confinement with a pair of tweezers.
Troy stared at the envelope. “It looks fancy.”
Quincy eyed it with scrutiny. “It appears to be handmade; linen. It’s not rare, but—”
“Somebody can trace which stores in the area carry them,” Troy finished. “Might help narrow down the suspects.”
Quincy nodded. “Are you sure about leaving the department? You would make a good replacement for Jonathan.”
Troy’s chest rose up and down as he laughed. “I’m sure, now how about we open the envelope.”
Quincy took a scalpel and sliced along the bottom seam. He gently slipped a piece of paper from its cocoon and laid the lone sheet on a sterile lining on top of his desk.
Troy glared at the few words written on the paper, but they were difficult to read from his vantage point. What he did observe was the elegant style of calligraphy that’d been used, a penmanship that spoke yet again of the artistic. “You have a better angle,” he said, “care to read it?”
Quincy cleared his throat.
“Cruelty has a human heart.”
Troy stood and ran his hand through his hair. “That’s it? One line? What the hell does that mean?”
Quincy simply stared at the paper and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. “I don’t know, but it doesn’t sound like he’s finished. I have a very disturbing feeling that there will be more to come.”
4
Troy and Quincy sat in plastic, pastel, art-deco chairs at the Sand & Street Café on Collins Avenue, South Beach—both checking their watches. Troy glanced at his phone and started tapping out a text message.
“Don’t bother,” Quincy said, “I sent Jonathan an email and voicemail. He is a stickler for being on time. He’d be here if something important hadn’t held him up.”
As Quincy was talking, his voice was drowned out by the sound of a motorcycle’s exhaust. The corner of Troy’s mouth turned upward at the same time that he lowered and shook his head. That particular exhaust noise was coming from a 1952 Harley Davidson Panhead and not just any Panhead. From his peripheral vision, he watched the people in the crowded café turn their collective attention toward the noise.
Troy knew that flashy bikes and expensive cars were nothing unusual in South Beach, so there was only one thing that could have drawn and kept the crowd’s attention—the rider. “I have a feeling Captain Rand’s distraction just arrived,” he said without turning around to see who it was.
Quincy’s attention had veered from what he was talking about to the person who had stepped off the bike.
“Let me guess,” Troy said, looking at Quincy, “you’re staring at a five-foot, four-inch, raven haired bombshell, moving with a confident swagger.”
Quincy’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. He glanced at Troy for an explanation and then back at the view in front of him. “How did you know?”
Troy was about to answer when a shirtless valet, wearing white overalls, stomped past the table and headed toward the rider.
“You’re
