The Lover. BEVERLY BARTON
Читать онлайн книгу.
the ground near the victim, Jim surmised that she had been killed elsewhere and brought to this spot. And it was apparent, even to an untrained eye, that she had been posed in a somewhat seductive manner. One arm was draped across her breasts and one hand covered her mound, as if although the killer had wanted to expose her lush body, he’d also wanted to present her corpse with a small degree of modesty. The way he had arranged her limbs and long dark hair said that, in his own sick, perverted way, the killer had cared about his victim. Jim had seen this before, usually in cases where a member of the family turned out to be the murderer and in one case where the perpetrator had been a serial killer and posing his victims had been part of his MO.
Just as Jim noticed several marks on Stephanie’s otherwise flawless skin, Bernie walked up beside him.
“I have to call Sheriff Mays over in Jackson County,” she said. When Jim looked at her questioningly, she added, “Ed Mays is Stephanie’s uncle.”
Jim nodded. “Take a look at those marks on her.” He pointed them out, one by one. “What do they look like to you?”
“I’m not sure. Some look like small burns, as if—” Bernie swallowed hard. “They look like cigarette burns. And the others look almost like bite marks.”
“I’d say the body was placed here recently, within the past few hours, so it’s hardly likely that any wild animals would have caused those bite marks. If they had, there would be deeper wounds, some tearing, some flesh torn away.”
“They’re human bite marks, aren’t they?”
“That would be my educated guess,” Jim told her.
“Someone tortured Stephanie.” Bernie closed her eyes for a couple of seconds, then reopened them and cleared her throat.
“It’s okay to be upset,” Jim said. “You don’t have to pretend that it doesn’t bother you to know that not only was this young woman killed, but she was probably tortured for a couple of weeks before he slit her throat.” He glanced at Bernie and noted how pale her face was. “It bothers me a hell of a lot, too. I’m just better at hiding my feelings.”
“I don’t have the luxury of crying or screaming. I’m the sheriff. How would it look to my deputies—to anyone for that matter—if every time I’m exposed to something terrible, I break down and boohoo like a … a …”
“Like a woman?”
Bernie blew out a disgruntled moan. “Since she’s naked, do you think that means he raped her?”
“Probably, but it’s possible he didn’t. An autopsy should tell us everything we need to know about what she endured in the what, two weeks since she came up missing.”
“Our coroner, Morris Claunch, is the local undertaker,” Bernie said. “He’s not trained to do the kind of autopsy we need.”
“I figured that. So you’ll recommend that Claunch contact Department of Forensic Sciences, right? Or am I being presumptuous in assuming the sheriff’s department usually calls in the state boys when there’s a murder?”
“You’re my chief deputy, the lead investigator for my department,” she told him. “Is it your recommendation that the DFS and the Alabama Bureau of Investigation be brought in on this case?”
He looked her square in the eyes. Was she testing him by asking what he thought should be done? “Yeah, it’s my recommendation, but you’re the sheriff. It’s your call.”
“Look, I’m more aware than most that law enforcement in many Alabama counties still suffers from a prevailing ‘turf’ mentality, and some sheriffs and police chiefs are reluctant to call in the ABI. I’m not one of those sheriffs.”
“I had a feeling you weren’t.” The corners of his mouth lifted, hinting at an approving smile.
“Adams County simply doesn’t have the resources we’d need to do justice to this type of crime investigation,” Bernie told him. “My only other murder case was simple. Cut and dried. The killer confessed. So I haven’t worked with the ABI, but my dad knows the ABI area commander in Huntsville, and I’ve heard him say that he’s never had a problem working with the Bureau.”
Jim glanced at the cell phone clipped to Bernie’s belt, then said, “The sooner the better.”
“Right.” She removed her phone and scanned through the programmed numbers, then walked away from Jim and farther away from the crowd before placing her call.
Hensley came over to Jim and nodded toward Bernie. “Is she calling in the ABI?”
“Yeah.”
“Morris Claunch just drove up,” Hensley said. “What should I tell him?”
Day one as Hensley’s supervisor and Jim noticed that the guy was already playing by the rules. That was a good sign. “Tell him the sheriff is calling in the ABI and she’ll want DFS involved.” Jim looked directly at his deputy. “How long’s it going to take to get an autopsy report from DFS?”
“Average time? A week to a month. And for DNA evidence, that could be up to six months or longer. Worst case scenario—up to a year.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“The DFS guys are overworked and underpaid, and there aren’t enough of them to go around,” Hensley said. “In the past, we’ve worked with a preliminary draft right up to the trial.”
“Unless the coroner can tell us otherwise, I’m going to work under the assumption that Stephanie Preston was repeatedly raped and tortured before being killed.”
A tall, gangly man with thinning brown hair and a decided slump to his shoulders plodded casually over to them; he spoke to Hensley and glanced at Jim. “You the new chief deputy?”
“Yeah, I’m Jim Norton.”
The man held out his hand. “I’m Morris Claunch, the coroner.”
Bernie replaced her cell phone on the belt clip as she approached them. “A response unit is on its way from Huntsville, along with an agent, a guy named Charlie Patterson.” She looked right at Claunch. “I called Dad and he said you and he had worked with Patterson several years back.”
“Hmm … yeah, we did. Patterson’s okay. As I recall, he’s a team player. He’ll work with you”—Claunch glanced at Jim—“with your chief investigator and his team.”
“Once you take a look at the body, I’d like to know what you think,” Jim said.
Claunch raised one eyebrow, then nodded before making his way toward the beautiful young woman lying naked on a dirt lane in the middle of a soybean field.
* * *
Thomasina Hardy loaded the dishwasher and cleaned up her mother’s kitchen, then washed her hands and applied scented lotion. Her brother had a Friday night date and her mother had just left to go to her older sister Amanda’s to babysit the children so Amanda and her husband could go bowling over in Adams Landing. So here she was all alone on a Friday night. She and Ron broke up six months ago, so she should be back in circulation by now, shouldn’t she? She’d had a total of five dates in the past few months and not once had she accepted a second date with any one of the guys. Yes, she was picky. She might give just about any guy a chance with one date, but if he didn’t measure up, she didn’t waste her time or his.
Paul Landon, the richest bachelor in Adams County, had thought buying her dinner meant he got to screw her on a first date. The guy was a jerk. Neither his good looks nor his sizable bank account impressed her enough to give him a second chance.
Her mom had fixed her up with widower Steve Banyan, an Adams Landing pharmacist, but an hour into their date, she’d been bored to tears. All the man talked about was his kids and his deceased wife.
Her sister had fixed her up with two different duds—one worked at the phone company