run,” Quinn said. “There was a case in Canada a few years ago where the victim's Achilles tendons were severed for the same reason. Did the other victims have similar wounds?”
“They had each been tortured in a variety of ways,” Stone answered. “Neither exactly the same. I can get you copies of the reports.”
“That's already being taken care of, thank you.”
There was no hope of removing the victim's clothing without taking skin with it. Stone and her assistant snipped and peeled, coaxing the melted fibers gently away with forceps, Stone swearing under her breath every few minutes.
Anticipation tightened in Kovac's gut as the destroyed blouse and a layer of flesh were worked away from the left side of the chest.
Stone looked across the body at him. “Here it is.”
“What?” Quinn asked, moving to the head of the table.
Kovac stepped in close and surveyed the killer's handiwork. “The detail we've managed to keep away from the stinking reporters. This pattern of stab wounds—see?”
A tight cluster of eight marks, half an inch to an inch in length, perforated the dead woman's chest roughly in the vicinity of the heart.
“The first two had this,” Kovac said, glancing at Quinn. “They were each strangled and the stabbing was done after the fact.”
“In that exact pattern?”
“Yep. Like a star. See?” Holding his hand three inches above the corpse, he traced the pattern in the air with his index finger. “The longer marks form one X. The shorter marks form another. Smokey Joe strikes again.”
“Other similarities too,” Stone said. “See here: amputation of the nipples and areola.”
“Postmortem?” Quinn asked.
“No.”
Stone looked to her assistant. “Lars, let's turn her over. See what we find on the other side.”
The body had been positioned on its back before being set ablaze. Consequently, the fire damage was contained to the front side. Stone removed the undamaged pieces of clothing and bagged them for the lab. A piece of red spandex skirt. A scrap of chartreuse blouse. No underwear.
“Uh-huh,” Stone murmured to herself, then glanced up at Kovac. “A section of flesh missing from the right buttock.”
“He did this with the others too?” Quinn asked.
“Yes. With the first victim he took a chunk from the right breast. With the second, it was also the right buttock.”
“Eliminating a bite mark?” Hamill speculated aloud.
“Could be,” Quinn said. “Biting certainly isn't unusual with this kind of killer. Any indication of bruising in the tissue? When these guys sink their teeth in, it isn't any love nip.”
Stone took up her little ruler to measure the wounds precisely. “If there was any bruising, he's cut it out. There's considerable muscle gone.”
“Jesus,” Kovac muttered with disgust as he stared at the shiny dark red square on the victim's body, the flesh cut out precisely with a small sharp knife. “Who does this guy think he is? Hannibal Fucking Lecter?”
Quinn gave him a look from the headless end of the body. “Everybody's got a hero.”
CASE NUMBER 11–7820, Jane Doe, Caucasian female, had no organic reason to die. She had been healthy in all respects. Well fed, carrying the extra ten or fifteen pounds most people did. Although what her last meal had been, Dr. Stone had not been able to determine. If this was Jillian, she had digested the dinner she'd eaten with her father before her death. Her body was free of disease and natural defect. Stone had judged her to be between the ages of twenty and twenty-five. A young woman with most of her life ahead of her—until she crossed the path of the wrong man.
This type of killer rarely chose a victim who was ready to die.
Quinn reviewed this fact as he stood on the wet tarmac of the morgue's delivery bay. The damp cold of the night seeped into his clothes, into his muscles. Fog hung like a fine white shroud over the city.
There were too damn many victims who were young women:
“They had each been tortured in a variety of ways,” Stone answered. “Neither exactly the same. I can get you copies of the reports.”
“That's already being taken care of, thank you.”
There was no hope of removing the victim's clothing without taking skin with it. Stone and her assistant snipped and peeled, coaxing the melted fibers gently away with forceps, Stone swearing under her breath every few minutes.
Anticipation tightened in Kovac's gut as the destroyed blouse and a layer of flesh were worked away from the left side of the chest.
Stone looked across the body at him. “Here it is.”
“What?” Quinn asked, moving to the head of the table.
Kovac stepped in close and surveyed the killer's handiwork. “The detail we've managed to keep away from the stinking reporters. This pattern of stab wounds—see?”
A tight cluster of eight marks, half an inch to an inch in length, perforated the dead woman's chest roughly in the vicinity of the heart.
“The first two had this,” Kovac said, glancing at Quinn. “They were each strangled and the stabbing was done after the fact.”
“In that exact pattern?”
“Yep. Like a star. See?” Holding his hand three inches above the corpse, he traced the pattern in the air with his index finger. “The longer marks form one X. The shorter marks form another. Smokey Joe strikes again.”
“Other similarities too,” Stone said. “See here: amputation of the nipples and areola.”
“Postmortem?” Quinn asked.
“No.”
Stone looked to her assistant. “Lars, let's turn her over. See what we find on the other side.”
The body had been positioned on its back before being set ablaze. Consequently, the fire damage was contained to the front side. Stone removed the undamaged pieces of clothing and bagged them for the lab. A piece of red spandex skirt. A scrap of chartreuse blouse. No underwear.
“Uh-huh,” Stone murmured to herself, then glanced up at Kovac. “A section of flesh missing from the right buttock.”
“He did this with the others too?” Quinn asked.
“Yes. With the first victim he took a chunk from the right breast. With the second, it was also the right buttock.”
“Eliminating a bite mark?” Hamill speculated aloud.
“Could be,” Quinn said. “Biting certainly isn't unusual with this kind of killer. Any indication of bruising in the tissue? When these guys sink their teeth in, it isn't any love nip.”
Stone took up her little ruler to measure the wounds precisely. “If there was any bruising, he's cut it out. There's considerable muscle gone.”
“Jesus,” Kovac muttered with disgust as he stared at the shiny dark red square on the victim's body, the flesh cut out precisely with a small sharp knife. “Who does this guy think he is? Hannibal Fucking Lecter?”
Quinn gave him a look from the headless end of the body. “Everybody's got a hero.”
CASE NUMBER 11–7820, Jane Doe, Caucasian female, had no organic reason to die. She had been healthy in all respects. Well fed, carrying the extra ten or fifteen pounds most people did. Although what her last meal had been, Dr. Stone had not been able to determine. If this was Jillian, she had digested the dinner she'd eaten with her father before her death. Her body was free of disease and natural defect. Stone had judged her to be between the ages of twenty and twenty-five. A young woman with most of her life ahead of her—until she crossed the path of the wrong man.
This type of killer rarely chose a victim who was ready to die.
Quinn reviewed this fact as he stood on the wet tarmac of the morgue's delivery bay. The damp cold of the night seeped into his clothes, into his muscles. Fog hung like a fine white shroud over the city.
There were too damn many victims who were young women:
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