“My guess is that he was like that when they arrived here. Does the coroner have an approximate time and place of death yet?” She brought out a small notebook and jotted down details.
“He was killed out here, probably less than twenty-four hours before I found him.” The nausea was back. He wondered if he would ever be able to get the image of the dead boy out of his mind. Those wide, innocent eyes staring up at the sky.
“When did the victim disappear?”
“Early last Sunday morning. We found his bike and bag of newspapers against a fence. He hadn’t even started his route yet.”
“So the killer had him for at least three whole days.”
“Jesus,” Nick mumbled and shook his head. He hadn’t thought about the time between the abduction and the murder. They had all been so sure the boy had been kidnapped by his father or someone who would demand a ransom. Nick had believed the boy was being well cared for.
“So how did the chain get broken?” Nick wanted to think of something other than the torture the boy may have endured.
“I don’t know for sure. Maybe the killer pulled it off. It was a silver cross, right?” She looked to him for assurance. He only nodded, impressed that she had equipped herself with so many details from his report. She continued as if thinking out loud. “Maybe the killer didn’t like staring at it. Maybe he wasn’t able to do what he wanted to do as long as the victim was wearing it. Its religious significance is some sort of protection. Perhaps the killer is religious enough to have known that and have been uncomfortable.”
“A religious killer? Great.”
“What other trace do you have?”
“Trace?”
“Other evidence-other objects, torn pieces of fabric or rope? Was the FBI able to pull any tire tracks at all?”
The tire tracks again. How many times would he need to be reminded of his screwup.
“We did find a footprint.”
She stared at him, and he saw a flicker of impatience.
“A footprint? Excuse me, Sheriff, I don’t mean to sound skeptical, but how were you able to isolate a footprint? From what I can tell, there must have been over a dozen pairs of feet out here.” She waved her hand at the shoe impressions trampled in the mud. “How do you know that the prints you found weren’t one of your men or the FBI?”
“Because none of us were barefoot.” He didn’t wait for her reaction but moved closer to the river. He grabbed on to a tree branch just as his boots slid partway down the bank. When he looked up, O’Dell was standing over him.
“Right here.” He pointed to the set of toes imprinted in the mud and highlighted with remnants of casting powder.
“There’s no guarantee those are the killer’s.”
“Who else would be nuts enough to be out here without shoes?”
She grabbed the same branch and slid down next to him.
“You mind giving me a hand?” She extended a hand to him and he took it, allowing her to hang on while she bent down and stretched over the impression without sliding into the water.
Her hand was soft and small in his, but her grip was strong. Her jacket swung open, and he made himself look away. Jesus, she certainly didn’t look like an FBI agent.
After a few seconds she pulled herself up and immediately released his hand. Back on solid ground, she started writing in the notebook. Nick stared up at the thick, gray clouds. Suddenly, he wished he was anywhere else. The last forty-eight hours had drained him. His calf muscles ached from the 10K race he had pushed himself to run that morning. And now, here he was feeling incompetent and nauseated again, remembering Danny Alverez’s white body, those wide eyes staring up at the stars. A flock of snow geese honked as they passed overhead. Nick caught himself wondering what had been the last thing Danny had looked up at. He hoped it had been some geese, something tranquil and familiar.
“The puncture marks and the carving in the boy’s chest were exactly like the Jeffreys murders,” he said, forcing his attention back to O’Dell. “How could anyone have that information?”
“His execution was recent. July, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Oftentimes, local news media run stories about the murders when an execution occurs. A person could get plenty of information from those accounts.”
“The good ole media,” Nick said, remembering the sting from Christine’s articles.
“Or someone could get detailed information from the court transcripts. They’re usually public record after the trial is over.”
“So you think this is a copycat killer?”
“Yes. It would be too much of a coincidence to duplicate this many details.”
“Why would anyone copycat a murder like this? For kicks?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” O’Dell told him, finally looking up from the notebook and meeting his eyes. “What I can tell you is this guy is going to do it again. And probably soon.”
Chapter 12
The hospital’s morgue was in the basement where every sound echoed off the white brick walls. Water pipes thumped and a fan wheezed in motion. Behind them, the elevator door squeezed shut. There was a whirl and a scrape as cables strained and pulled the car back up.
Sheriff Morrelli seemed to be walking on tiptoe to avoid the clicking of his freshly cleaned boot heels against the tile floor. Maggie glanced up at him as they walked side by side. He was pretending that all of this was routine for him, but it was easy to see through the disguise. Back by the river, she had caught him wincing once or twice, betraying his calm, cool exterior.
Still, he had insisted on accompanying her here after discovering that the coroner had gone hunting for the day and couldn’t be reached. Even the idea seemed ironic to Maggie-a coroner spending the day hunting. After all the dead bodies she had examined, she couldn’t imagine spending a relaxing Sunday afternoon participating in more death.
She stood back while Morrelli fumbled with a tangle of keys, then discovered the door to the morgue unlocked. He held it open for her, pressing his body against its weight and requiring her to squeeze past him. She wasn’t sure whether it was intentional or not, but this was the second or third time he had arranged for their bodies to be within touching distance.
Usually her cool, authoritarian manner quickly put a stop to any unwanted advances. But Morrelli didn’t seem to notice. Somehow, she imagined he treated every woman he met as a potential one-night stand. She knew his type and also knew that his flirting and flattery, along with the boyish charm and athletic good looks, probably got him as far as he wanted to go. It was annoying, but in Morrelli’s case it seemed harmless.
She had dealt with much worse. She was used to lewd comments from men who were uncomfortable working with a woman. Her experiences included plenty of sexual harassment, from mild flirtation to violent gropes. If anything, at least, it had taught her to take care of herself, protect herself with a shield of indifference.
Morrelli found the light switch, and like dominoes falling, the rows of fluorescent lights blinked on, one after another. The room was larger than Maggie had expected. Immediately, the smell of ammonia hit her nostrils and burned her lungs. Everything was immaculately scrubbed. A stainless-steel table occupied the middle of the tiled floor. On one wall was a large double sink and a counter that held various tools, including a Stryker saw, several microscopes, vials and test tubes ready for use. The opposite wall contained five refrigerated vaults. Maggie couldn’t help wondering if the small hospital had ever had use for all five at one time.
She took off her jacket, laid it carefully over a stool and started rolling up the sleeves of her blouse. She stopped and looked around for a lab gown or utility apron. She looked down at the expensive silk blouse, a gift from
