was sawn off, expertly.”
“With a chain saw?”
“That would be a logical assumption.” Was there a touch of irony in his voice? He held up the hand, stump first. “But the markings indicate otherwise. Something rotary, certainly. But delicate.” He shrugged. “My best guess would be a medical saw.”
Jack leaned in. The stench of formaldehyde and acetone was nauseating. “We looking at a surgeon as the perp?”
“Possibly.”
“Well, that narrows it down to a couple hundred million.”
“Amusing.” Schiltz glanced up. “Here’s what I do know: This was done with a sure hand, no remorse in the cut, no hesitation whatsoever. Plus, the immersion in water has made the pruning permanent. He’s betting we won’t be able to get fingerprints to make an ID.”
“So—what?—the perp’s done this sort of thing before?”
“Uh-huh.”
Jack held up the gold-and-platinum ring in its plastic evidence bag. “I took this off the third finger. It belongs to Alli Carson.”
“Which doesn’t speak to her state of health.” Seeing Jack blanch, he hastened to add, “All it means is your perp has access to her.” Schiltz used a dental pick to scrape under and around the nails, one at a time. “Look.” Holding aloft the implement so that the working end was directly in the light, he said, “What do you see here?”
“Something pink,” Jack said.
“And shiny.” Schiltz put the end of the pick close to his eye. “This is undoubtedly nail polish. Plus, the nails are newly cut, so my guess is that for whatever reason—”
“The perp cut this girl’s nails and removed the polish,” Jack finished for him. He stood up. “Alli Carson never wore polish; her nails were square-cut, like a boy’s. This isn’t her hand.”
“You may be sure, Jack, but I’m a forensic pathologist. I need proof before I say yea or nay.” He went to a sink, filled a pan with warm water. Immersing the hand in it, he gently loosened the skin, worked it off, starting at the wrist. The gray, amorphous jellyfish swam in the water. With the care of a lepidopterist working on a butterfly’s wing, Schiltz unrolled the translucent material.
“Ami!” he called.
A moment later, the AME poked her head into the room. “Yes, sir.”
“Got a fingerprint job for you.”
Ami nodded, took a place beside him.
“Left hand,” he said.
Ami put her left hand into the water. Schiltz rolled the skin over her hand like a glove. Ami air-dried the skin by holding her left hand aloft. Then he fingerprinted the human glove.
“You see,” he said, rolling each finger on the ink pad, “wearingthe skin smooths out the pruning.” He held up the fingerprint card, nodded to Ami, who removed the skin, took the card, and went away. “We’ll soon know whether or not this hand belongs to Alli Carson.”
He took the severed hand out of its warm-water bath, laid it back on the metal examining tray, studying it once again. “Care to make a bet?” he said dryly.
“I know it’s not hers,” Jack said.
Several moments later, Ami popped back into the room. “No match in any system for the Jane Doe,” she said. “One thing is certain, she isn’t Alli Carson.”
Jack breathed a huge sigh of relief, dialed Nina’s cell, told her the good news. Pocketing his cell, he tapped a forefinger against his lips. “Alli’s ring, the nails cut to Alli’s length, the water pruning of the fingertips—clearly, someone wants us to believe this is her hand. Why play this grisly game? Why go to all the trouble?” Why had he taken her? What did Alli’s abductor want? “What sick mind has maimed a girl Alli’s age just to play a trick on us?”
“A very sick mind, indeed, Jack.” Schiltz turned the hand over. “He cut the hand off while the girl was still alive.”
Rain made a stage set of the parking lot, beaded silver curtains slid down the beams of the arc lights. Jack walked through the glimmer of the near-deserted asphalt. After jerking open
“With a chain saw?”
“That would be a logical assumption.” Was there a touch of irony in his voice? He held up the hand, stump first. “But the markings indicate otherwise. Something rotary, certainly. But delicate.” He shrugged. “My best guess would be a medical saw.”
Jack leaned in. The stench of formaldehyde and acetone was nauseating. “We looking at a surgeon as the perp?”
“Possibly.”
“Well, that narrows it down to a couple hundred million.”
“Amusing.” Schiltz glanced up. “Here’s what I do know: This was done with a sure hand, no remorse in the cut, no hesitation whatsoever. Plus, the immersion in water has made the pruning permanent. He’s betting we won’t be able to get fingerprints to make an ID.”
“So—what?—the perp’s done this sort of thing before?”
“Uh-huh.”
Jack held up the gold-and-platinum ring in its plastic evidence bag. “I took this off the third finger. It belongs to Alli Carson.”
“Which doesn’t speak to her state of health.” Seeing Jack blanch, he hastened to add, “All it means is your perp has access to her.” Schiltz used a dental pick to scrape under and around the nails, one at a time. “Look.” Holding aloft the implement so that the working end was directly in the light, he said, “What do you see here?”
“Something pink,” Jack said.
“And shiny.” Schiltz put the end of the pick close to his eye. “This is undoubtedly nail polish. Plus, the nails are newly cut, so my guess is that for whatever reason—”
“The perp cut this girl’s nails and removed the polish,” Jack finished for him. He stood up. “Alli Carson never wore polish; her nails were square-cut, like a boy’s. This isn’t her hand.”
“You may be sure, Jack, but I’m a forensic pathologist. I need proof before I say yea or nay.” He went to a sink, filled a pan with warm water. Immersing the hand in it, he gently loosened the skin, worked it off, starting at the wrist. The gray, amorphous jellyfish swam in the water. With the care of a lepidopterist working on a butterfly’s wing, Schiltz unrolled the translucent material.
“Ami!” he called.
A moment later, the AME poked her head into the room. “Yes, sir.”
“Got a fingerprint job for you.”
Ami nodded, took a place beside him.
“Left hand,” he said.
Ami put her left hand into the water. Schiltz rolled the skin over her hand like a glove. Ami air-dried the skin by holding her left hand aloft. Then he fingerprinted the human glove.
“You see,” he said, rolling each finger on the ink pad, “wearingthe skin smooths out the pruning.” He held up the fingerprint card, nodded to Ami, who removed the skin, took the card, and went away. “We’ll soon know whether or not this hand belongs to Alli Carson.”
He took the severed hand out of its warm-water bath, laid it back on the metal examining tray, studying it once again. “Care to make a bet?” he said dryly.
“I know it’s not hers,” Jack said.
Several moments later, Ami popped back into the room. “No match in any system for the Jane Doe,” she said. “One thing is certain, she isn’t Alli Carson.”
Jack breathed a huge sigh of relief, dialed Nina’s cell, told her the good news. Pocketing his cell, he tapped a forefinger against his lips. “Alli’s ring, the nails cut to Alli’s length, the water pruning of the fingertips—clearly, someone wants us to believe this is her hand. Why play this grisly game? Why go to all the trouble?” Why had he taken her? What did Alli’s abductor want? “What sick mind has maimed a girl Alli’s age just to play a trick on us?”
“A very sick mind, indeed, Jack.” Schiltz turned the hand over. “He cut the hand off while the girl was still alive.”
Rain made a stage set of the parking lot, beaded silver curtains slid down the beams of the arc lights. Jack walked through the glimmer of the near-deserted asphalt. After jerking open
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