A Perfect Evil. Alex Kava
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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 Greg, a gift he would certainly notice if she never wore again because of unremovable stains. He would accuse her of being thoughtless and irresponsible, just as she had been with her wedding ring, which now sat somewhere on the murky bottom of the Charles River. Oh, well. She rolled up the sleeves.
She had brought with her a small, black bag that contained everything she would need. She opened it and began laying its contents on the counter, first taking out the small jar of Vicks VapoRub and dabbing a bit around her nostrils. She had learned long ago that even refrigerated dead bodies gave off a smell that was worth avoiding. She started to close the lid, then stopped and turned to Morrelli, who watched from the door. She tossed him the jar.
“If you’re going to stay, you might want to use some of this.”
He stared at the jar, then reluctantly opened it, following her example.
Next, she took out plastic surgical gloves. She handed him a pair, but he shook his head.
“You really don’t have to stay,” she told him. He was beginning to look pale again, and they hadn’t even rolled out the body.
“No, I’ll stay. I’ll just … I don’t want to be in your way.”
She wasn’t sure if it was out of a sense of duty, or if he simply felt it was required for his macho reputation. She preferred to do the examination alone but reminded herself this was Morrelli’s territory and his case. Whether he assumed the role or not, he would technically be the head of this investigation.
She continued as though he weren’t there. She pulled out a recorder, checked the tape inside and set it for voice activation. She took out a Polaroid camera and made sure it was loaded with film.
“Which drawer?” she asked, turning to the vaults, ready to begin, her hands on her hips. She glanced back at Morrelli, who stared at the wall of drawers as if he hadn’t realized they would actually have to take the body out.
He moved slowly, hesitantly, then unlatched the middle drawer and pulled. The metal rollers squealed then clicked as the drawer filled the room.
Maggie kicked the brake off the wheels of the steel table and rolled it under the drawer. It fit perfectly. Together they unhitched the drawer tray with the small body bag, so that it lay flat on the table. Then they pushed the table back to the middle of the room under the suspended lighting unit. Maggie kicked the brakes back into place, while Morrelli closed the drawer’s door. As soon as she began unzipping the bag, Morrelli retreated to the corner.
The boy’s body seemed so small and frail, which made the wounds even more pronounced. He had been a good-looking kid, Maggie found herself thinking. His reddish-blond hair was closely cropped. The freckles around his nose and cheeks stood out against the white, pasty skin. He was bruised badly under the neck, the strands of rope leaving indents just above the gaping slash.
She began by taking photos, close-ups of the puncture marks and the jagged X on the chest, then the blue and purple marks on the wrists and the slashed neck. She waited for each Polaroid to develop, making sure she had enough light and the right angle.
With the recorder close by, she began documenting what she saw.
“The