CHAPTER THREE

      CRAIG HATED ATTENDING an autopsy.

      He did, however, attend whenever possible. No detail was too small when seeking a murderer.

      And here, downtown, it was easy enough to get to the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. Young and old, victim of accident or murder—or just having faced death unattended or from causes unknown—the bodies of the deceased in lower Manhattan came here. The OCME had two other locations—in Brooklyn and in Queens, serving those who died farther afield or when a death toll rose dramatically due to assaults by nature or by man.

      This office was located on Twenty-Sixth Street—not far from Finnegan’s and Le Club Vampyre or the NYC offices of the FBI.

      “You’ll have my tape for anything you might have forgotten here,” Dr. Andrews said when he was finished, stepping back from the gurney and nodding to his assistant so that the man could take the body to finish the sewing-up procedure. “But it’s the weirdest damned thing I’ve ever seen. From my findings, I believe she’s been dead for most of the two weeks she’s been missing. Maybe only ten days, though, which would mean that he kept her for just a few days—and has preserved her or tried to preserve her until he chose to leave her. Obviously, gentlemen, we all know that she wasn’t killed in the crypt. Wherever she was killed, there has to have been a massive blood spill—she was stabbed straight in the heart. But what’s so disturbing is the way that she was kept. She was not sexually assaulted, and her remains were treated tenderly.”

      “As if the killer regretted the murder?” McBride asked.

      “I can’t speak to the killer’s mind. The facts of the case are this—she has been dead approximately ten days up to two weeks. There are no defensive wounds anywhere on her body. She was kept on ice, or at a very low temperature, slowing decomposition, until she was brought to the crypt. The temperature below the ground is much cooler than above, more toward the preservation side, but not enough that more decay didn’t begin to set in. But, even on ice, I believe she had begun to decay before being brought to the crypt. There is no other wound on her other than the fatal jab to the heart. I’m going to suggest a strong, broad knife, one-and-one-half to two inches in breadth, five to six inches long. The fatal stab was inflicted in one smooth and determined motion.”

      “By someone strong? A man?” Mike asked.

      “Certainly, no one feeble delivered the thrust. But, no, if the knife was sharp enough, which it was, a person of average strength could have easily done the deed. I don’t know as yet what chemical compounds might have been in the body. When I receive the lab tests, I’ll let you know.”

      “Well, we know how she died and when she died,” McBride said. “Now, if we only knew the name of the killer.”

      “I want to get an info board and timeline going,” Craig said. “Also, see if they came up with anything from the security cameras in the club. We’ll set up in one of the conference rooms. I have a feeling our task force might get bigger, and we’ll be briefing a lot of people.”

      He thanked Dr. Andrews and they headed out.

      It was always good to leave the morgue.

      * * *

      Kieran thought that she was incredibly lucky in her employment. Dr. Fuller was a truly decent man—totally unaware of his looks and completely dedicated to his field. There wasn’t a narcissistic bone in his body. He was always courteous and caring of others.

      Of course, if all else should fail, she also had Finnegan’s!

      But her two roles converged nicely that day.

      Traffic was exceptionally bad, and by the time Dr. Fuller arrived, Jeannette Gilbert’s body was long gone. Still, he headed first to the church to view the scene of the discovery, then he came around the corner to Finnegan’s and met with Kieran in Declan’s office.

      Kieran got him a scotch—he said he needed one, just one—and ordered shepherd’s pie for him. He’d been driving a long time.

      He ate quickly. He sipped his scotch as if it were nectar from above.

      She’d already texted the pictures to him; she went over her sketches and her notes.

      He sat for a minute, thoughtful.

      “They’re going to suspect her manager and agent, Oswald Martin,” he said.

      “Yes, I know. But you don’t think it was him?” Kieran asked.

      “She was his meal ticket. He also worked with her for years,” Fuller pointed out. “Tell me—what were your impressions?”

      Kieran looked at him and then plunged in. “Organized. The killer knew what he was doing. It’s likely he’s killed before.”

      Fuller nodded. “As I understand it, the FBI’s on it because a body was found similarly in another state.”

      Kieran continued with her assessment. “She trusted whoever killed her, so, therefore, I don’t think it was a random person off the street. Also, whoever did it is meticulous in his own habits. Maybe not clinically insane, but I’d say crazy, just not visibly so. Sociopath, beyond a doubt. His own satisfaction excludes any concern for others. The usual profile would suggest a young man, late twenties to early thirties. But I think he’s a little older. I also think he’s got a decent income, is well educated. After all, he can definitely do some research. He found out about the crypts under the church. What puzzles me, though, is why he placed her in a coffin there. He had to have known that she’d be found quickly.”

      “Maybe he wanted her found,” Dr. Fuller speculated. “His first victim, however, was in a mausoleum many weeks before the woman whose space she was in died. Then again, maybe that didn’t please him.”

      “You mean that killing is like art to him?”

      “Killing—and displaying the body.”

      Kieran nodded. “Jeannette was stunningly beautiful in life. Living art. Maybe he tried to preserve his victims, but couldn’t?”

      “Possibly. Buying mortuary supplies might raise a question.”

      Kieran gave him a brief, grim smile. “He’s living his life in his own mind. Maybe he saw something in her.” She thought of the original murder. “Dr. Fuller, what was the other victim like? What do you know about her?”

      “Young. Her name was Cary Howell. That’s all I have. Frankly, we need to get over to the FBI offices. It’s just a short walk south on Broadway—I won’t even have to drive again. You ready?”

      * * *

      “Two hundred and eighty-five miles—driving time approximately five to six hours, with a couple of pit stops, down to Virginia,” Craig said. He had his board set up, having accrued more records on the Virginia case. “Victim number one—that we know of—Cary Howell, was found in a crypt when the matron of a family was about to go in.” He pointed to her picture. “Killed six months ago.”

      Then he pointed to Jeannette’s photo. “Gentlemen,” he told McBride and Mike, “please note Cary and then Jeannette. I think you’ll agree it’s highly unlikely that we have a copycat on our hands—not when you see the details.”

      “A rose in her hands,” Mike murmured.

      “White dress,” McBride said. “Let me guess—Cary Howell was stabbed in the heart?”

      “She was. Of course, you’ll note the decay of the body is much greater in the first case. She’d been there longer, and Virginia can be hot.”