CHAPTER SIX

      MEREDITH SWEENEY, the assistant ME, had Alicia Mercer’s X-rays waiting for Doggett a few hours later when he arrived at the Chicago Technical Park where the morgue was located.

      He studied the skull X-rays. “Was I right about the bullet hole? A .45 caliber slug, right?”

      Meredith shook her dark head. “No, but that’s what I thought, too, at first, so don’t feel bad. When I calibrated the hole, though, I found it somewhat smaller than .5 inches. The wound is more consistent with a .40 caliber or 10 mm bullet.”

      Doggett glanced at her. “You sure about that?”

      She shrugged. “You can measure it for yourself if you want.”

      “I’ll take your word for it.” The information didn’t necessarily mean anything, but on the other hand, Doggett found it interesting. In recent years, .40 caliber weapons had come into wide use by law enforcement agencies all over the country, including the Chicago PD. Doggett’s own service weapon was a Glock 27, a piece favored by a lot of undercover cops.

      “I wouldn’t get my hopes up for any kind of ballistics match,” Meredith told him. She pointed to the left side of the victim’s skull, in the area behind the eye socket where metallic density showed as white flecks on the X-ray.

      “A lead snowstorm,” Doggett muttered.

      “Exactly. You can actually see where the bullet disintegrated as it traveled through the body, which means it must have been partially jacketed.” She moved to another X-ray and indicated an anomalous object in the pelvis area. “I suspect this is where we’ll find the bullet, what’s left of it.”

      Doggett nodded. “What about the bruises around her wrists?”

      “Looks like he used a nylon cord, the kind you can buy in any hardware store.”

      “And the mark on her shoulder?”

      “We’ve sent a sample of the ink to the lab, but you can get stamp pads in any discount or office supply store, and those temporary tattoos are sold out of vending machines.”

      “It’s the symbol that’s bugging me,” Doggett said. “Why a trident?”

      “At least it’s not a swastika,” Meredith said dryly. “Or a pentagram. God knows we see our share of those.” She gave Doggett a moment longer to study the X-rays. “Are you staying for the autopsy?”

      “Yeah.” It wasn’t just a matter of duty, but a matter of conscience. His way of paying respect to the victim. Doggett never walked out on an autopsy, no matter how gruesome.

      Meredith nodded briskly. “Let’s get started then, shall we?”

      Doggett followed her into the autopsy room where Alicia Mercer’s nude body waited for them on a cold, stainless-steel table.

      * * *

      THE AIR-CONDITIONING in the courtroom was operating in hyperdrive, and Fiona shivered as she glanced around the packed benches, picking out faces in the crowd that she recognized. She was seated at the prosecution table with Milo, who was busy going over his notes. Fiona knew that she should do the same, but her gaze kept straying back to the visitors’ block where a dozen or more cops from Area Three, both in uniforms and plainclothes, had turned out in a show of support for Vince DeMarco.

      Fiona came from a long line of cops. The Gallaghers were almost legendary in the police department. Her grandfather, her father, her three brothers...all Chicago PD. So she knew cops. She knew how they walked, how they talked, how they thought. But the one thing she’d never been able to understand about them, no matter their rank, was the blind loyalty to the brotherhood.

      Most of the police officers she knew were good, decent, hardworking guys who would never, in a million years, condone rape. They recognized the crime for what it was—an act of violence. In most cops’ estimation, a rapist ranked just slightly above a child molester, and yet here a dozen or so of Chicago’s finest—those good, decent, hardworking men—sat lending moral support to a creep like DeMarco. And all because he was a fellow police officer.

      But that view was simplistic and more than a little unfair, Fiona knew. Most of the officers in the courtroom had undoubtedly managed to convince themselves, with Quinlan’s help, that DeMarco was the victim. He was a good cop being railroaded by a vindictive junkie and by an out-of-control prosecutor who had started to believe her own press. Fiona Gallagher, the Iron Maiden, was building herself quite the reputation by going after cops—first Quinlan and now DeMarco.

      As for Fiona, she had no doubt whatsoever of DeMarco’s guilt. She didn’t care what his fellow cops thought. She didn’t care what Frank Quinlan had force-fed them into believing. All she had to do was look into DeMarco’s eyes, those cold, dark, soulless eyes, to know the truth.

      “You raped that poor girl, didn’t you, Detective DeMarco? You saw her on the street that night, you accosted her, and you’re not the type to take no for an answer. When she wouldn’t go with you willingly, you forced her into that alley, tried to beat her into submission, and then, when that didn’t work, you put your gun to her head and threatened to blow her brains out if she screamed. Isn’t that what happened? Admit it, Detective. You raped that girl, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

       “No! I didn’t touch her! I swear! I wouldn’t do something like that. I’m a cop, for God’s sake. I took an oath to protect people like Kimbra Williams. I would never hurt anyone.”

      So earnest, so sincere. The jury had hung on his every word.

      But his eyes had told Fiona something very different. His eyes had taunted her, conveyed to her secretly that, yeah, he’d done it. He’d do it again, too, if the mood struck him, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

      Maybe you’d like to be next, Counselor.

      He hadn’t said it aloud, but the message was so clear in his eyes that for a moment, Fiona was the one who had been rattled by the cross-examination. And it hadn’t helped her poise to know that Frank Quinlan was sitting on the front row, his beady eyes tracking her every move as she walked back to the prosecution table.

      He was there again today. Fiona had seen him when she first entered the courtroom. He’d been sitting front and center, in full-dress uniform, brass stars shimmering in the fluorescent lighting as he’d clapped a supportive hand on DeMarco’s shoulder.

      Milo muttered something under his breath, then leaned toward Fiona. “Did you see all the brass from police headquarters walk in? What the hell are they doing here?”

      “Are you kidding? Didn’t you see the TV cameras out front?” Fiona glanced over her shoulder, her gaze once again sweeping the crowded courtroom. Milo was right. The big guns were out in full force, including Deputy Chief of Detectives Clare Fox. She wore her dress uniform, too, and her stars seemed to shine just a little more brilliantly than Quinlan’s.

      Milo tugged at his tie. “Hell, with all this attention, you’d think we had O.J. in here.”

      “A cop accused of rape is pretty good copy,” Fiona said. “Especially a hero like DeMarco. But at least the reporting so far has been fair.”

      “Fair?” Milo grinned. “Ever since you cooperated with that IAD investigation, you own the guy at the Trib.”

      “Which I’m sure endears me even more to Frank Quinlan,” she said dryly.

      Milo’s grin disappeared. “Quinlan’s got some heavy-duty connections, Fiona. Don’t underestimate him.”

      She turned in surprise. “Gee, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were starting to get paranoid on me, Milo. What’s with all these warnings? First Guy and now Quinlan?”

      He frowned. “Those two have more in common than you