“I have now.” He shook her hand.
“I can’t believe we’re just standing around here doing nothing!” Simone said. “That’s my body they’re taking. You can kiss any prosecution good-bye.”
“Don’t take it out on the D.A.,” Phineas Ward said. “He delayed them long enough.”
“What does that mean?” Megan asked.
Ward shrugged. “When we process the body, we take certain samples. I forgot that I’d put the vials in the lab, and the lab director is already processing them.”
Simone wrapped her arms around him and kissed his cheek. “You’re wonderful.”
“It still won’t help with a prosecution,” Matt said. “Without physical evidence for the defense to test independently, most judges will throw it out.”
“But it can help with victimology,” Megan said, admiring Phineas Ward’s foresight. “Was Price on drugs? Drunk? Did he have any illnesses? Did the killer drug him in any way? There’s a connection between Price and the other two victims, and this is one way, albeit small, that we can try to figure it out.”
“Exactly,” Simone said.
Megan turned to Ward. “Did you inspect the body? Did you see anything strange?”
“Other than collecting blood and hair samples, I only performed a visual examination, weighed, and measured him. Six feet tall, one hundred seventy pounds, forty-five to fifty years of age. I don’t have a positive I.D. on him, other than the identification on his person. But I collected fingerprints and already sent them off for processing.”
“So at least we’ll be able to confirm his identity,” Megan said. “You remembered those details?”
“My mind is full of useless trivia.”
“Not so useless,” Simone said, taking notes.
“I don’t think he died from the bullet in his skull.”
“What?” Megan and Simone said simultaneously.
“There wasn’t enough blood. Was there a lot at the crime scene?”
“He lost a lot of blood when his hamstrings were cut,” Simone said.
“But that didn’t kill him. The blood was clotted behind his knees, and you’d be surprised at how little blood can come from a wound like that. It tears the muscle but doesn’t hit any major arteries. The blood would clot quickly, yet the victim would be completely incapacitated. Not to mention being in intense pain.
“There was no clotting around the head,” Ward continued, “at least I didn’t see any. There might have been contamination, or perhaps a postmortem ritual of cleaning the body, but I think I would have noticed something like that.” He shrugged. “It’s just a guess.”
“The victim’s hands were very clean,” Megan remembered. “Compared to what I would expect from a homeless man.”
“Actually,” Ward said, “now that you mention it, the body was relatively clean. I see a lot of the homeless in here, and few take regular, or even weekly, baths. His clothing, however, was quite ripe.”
“Abrahamson,” Matt said, snapping his fingers.
“Who?” Megan asked.
“Detective Greg Abrahamson. He was undercover on the streets last year while investigating a series of murders. Found the killers and I have the trial coming up next month, so I’ve been working with him. I wonder if he knew the victim.”
“It’s worth a shot,” Simone said. “I’ll talk to Black about it.”
“You’re trying the case yourself?” Megan asked.
“It’s very complex. I just won the motion to try the two juveniles as adults, but the battle wasn’t pretty. Our office is going to be under scrutiny.” He didn’t have to explain why-California’s entire criminal justice system had taken a huge public slap last year for sending an innocent man to death row.
Megan knew exactly what kind of pressure Matt was under. When his knee got shot out in Desert Storm-the same war that killed their father-he turned to a law degree, became a prosecutor, then a state senator, and eventually the district attorney. Putting criminals behind bars meant more to Matt than playing politics. The events of last year had put Matt back in the political spotlight, and he hadn’t liked it.
“I’ll call Black about Abrahamson,” Simone said.
“And let me know when the security tapes come in,” Megan said. “Maybe we can put a face on the killer.”
“Killers,” Simone corrected her.
Naked, Ethan stood in the middle of the forest.
The darkness was complete, the earth and his mind. Black. Bottomless. He breathed, but he was not alive. He spoke, but he did not think. Sucked dry by the needles that controlled his nerves, an empty shell of a man told him what to feel and when. The pain, the pleasure, the pain, the nothing.
Nothing.
He’d wanted to die. Death meant nothing. He wasn’t really alive, was he?
He raised his bare arms toward the towering canopy of trees, a sliver of early light fighting its way in among the leaves. Arms outstretched, legs spread, he begged for lightning to strike him from above.
The phantom smell of charred flesh rushed through his nose, on his tongue. He snorted and moaned. The pain of electricity surging through his body, now a memory.
He looked down at his limp penis, but instead of the dank earth below he saw himself suspended by ropes, his feet barely touching the packed dirt floor. Rubbing his hands together, he felt the scars on his wrists, faint now, there for him to see and feel but no one else knew.
His body jerked as if he were on a string. He watched the needles that had pierced him years ago sink into his flesh. Wires this time, wires connected to a battery- what he thought was a battery. He looked straight ahead, the tree limbs holding the device, the wires crawling out for him.
Wires slithering as snakes, boa constrictors, wrapping around his ankles, knees, thighs, penis, down his throat …
The pain tore all pleas from his mind, his throat, his scream suspended in midair. His body jerked violently from the electric jolt, a brief jolt that kept him bobbing long after they were done.
The room had been dark. The room had been bright. Hell. Heaven. Laughter. Laughter bubbled out of his scream-scarred throat. There was only Hell, Hell on earth, and all he wanted was nothing. Nothing. Empty, painless, nothing …
Dropping to the ground, he buried his face in the dirt, burrowing in the leaves. He would escape, run, hide.
They would find him.
She would find him.
He was being watched.
The cold hit him first. He shook uncontrollably. Raw earth assaulted him. He breathed in and coughed up dirt. His mouth was coated with the damp, moldy soil. He rose, resting on all fours, barely able to breathe.
“Ethan.”
Salty tears mingled with dirt on his tongue.
“Wa-water.” He could hardly speak. Where was he?
“Shh.”
It was his angel of death, the one who’d saved him. Over and over. She didn’t leave, didn’t desert him, leave him to the enemy, leave him to be tortured. She raised him from the dirt, draped a blanket over him. He was naked. It was so cold, where were his clothes? How did he get here?
“Walk with me.”
He went with her, her arm around him. He remembered tearing his shirt. His chest stung. He’d scratched himself. How bad? It hurt. She would take care of him.
