Bloodletting (12 page)

Carver understood Vargas's insinuation: case closed.

"Do you think Mondragon might have done this?" Carver asked.

"He never even got out of his car. I was the one who pressured him into dropping me off here. And I don't know why he would even consider doing something like this unless..."

"Unless what?"

"He did extend the offer to stay with him and seemed rather disappointed that I didn't take him up on it."

"Why would that--?" A brick of comprehension struck Carver. A spurned advance wasn't a good enough reason, though. None of this was getting them anywhere. Obviously, the figurine was an integral piece of the puzzle, but it was secondary to figuring out where Ellie fit into the case.

The officer passed Ellie his business card, on the back of which he had written the case number and his personal extension. "If you need anything at all, please don't hesitate to call," he said. He looked at Carver, nodded, and joined his partner outside the door. "But it looks like everything's under control here."

Wolfe entered the motel room once the officers were in their cars and followed his nose to the pillow. He drew his pen from his pocket and rolled the tapir over and over. Bits of crusted bodily fluids flaked off onto the fabric. He said nothing, but his face didn't betray even a hint of surprise.

"What do you think?" Carver prodded.

"We should be going," Wolfe finally said.

"Where?" Elliot asked.

Wolfe turned to Carver. "Anywhere but here."

What did he know that he wasn't sharing?

"We should talk to the good professor," Carver said. "And Ellie and I have some things to discuss on the way."

Wolfe grabbed Elliot's bags and headed for the door while Carver carefully inverted the pillowcase to wrap the foul carving inside without touching it.

"Pax," Ellie said softly, taking him by the arm.

He paused and turned to face her.

"What's really going on here?"

"I'm hoping you can help me figure it out," he said, leading her out into the parking lot, one hand holding the pillowcase, the other beneath his jacket on the grip of his Beretta.

Wolfe closed the trunk and climbed into the driver's seat. Carver opened the back door for Ellie and slid in beside her.

"There's something I need to show you," he said. He wedged the pillowcase beneath the seat in front of him and retrieved his cell phone from his jacket. "I had a friend of mine run the pictures I took of the corpse through a facial reconstruction program."

"No answer on Mondragon's home phone or cell," Wolfe said. "GPS confirms his car's at his home address."

Carver brought up the picture and passed it to Ellie. "This is what the computer produced."

She covered her mouth to stifle a startled gasp.

X

Rocky Mountain Regional Computer Forensics Laboratory

Centennial, Colorado

Marshall couldn't stop thinking about the Schwartz case. Granted, Carver had already been reassigned and the case was now unofficially closed pending the autopsy and other final details, yet he still found it nagging at him. He worked on so many cases, helping local law enforcement in addition to the FBI. Computer evidence storage, crime scene analysis, digital encryption and imaging, everything that could be monitored or scrutinized. Throw in teaching and serving as an expert witness in court, and it was a wonder he had time to think of anything at all. So many investigations crossed his desk that they all started to blend together, but Schwartz stood out. It took a great deal to pique his curiosity, but now that Schwartz had, he felt like a dog refusing to relinquish a bone. Something about the murders was gnawing at him. It wasn't his nature to simply let something go until he had clarified every variable to his satisfaction, and there was still one enormous inconsistency that was driving him mad.

Schwartz was a true nut-job. No doubt about it. The edginess Carver described, the impulsiveness, the schizophrenia. All classic traits of an unstable, disorganized mind; a profile suited to a serial killer. And that was the problem. The nature of the killings was a contradiction. Everything about the murders was methodical, organized. The abductions were all well planned and executed to avoid any witnesses, a sign the girls had been followed to learn their routines. They had been confined for so long, but why? There were obvious signs of physical abuse, but nothing sexual. None of the bruises or abrasions had been life-threatening, the bloodletting performed in such a way so as not to waste a drop. The post-exsanguination butchering was the only aspect of the crime that reflected anything other than a dispassionate, clinical methodology. It was almost as though two separate people had performed the task: one a chef laboring over an exquisite meal, carefully following the recipe before handing it to the slavering patron who attacks and consumes it in a fraction of the time it had taken to prepare.

And why drain their blood and then slaughter a lamb for appearance's sake? Or was the lamb's blood more than just for show? Where was the victims' blood and for what reason could the killer possibly need it? The bodies were meant to be found, but not the blood. What were they hiding? He had to break it down to the most basic level. Samples of blood could be used to determine type and cross, complete blood count, metabolic levels and organ function, hematocrit, erythrocyte sedimentation rate, DNA, the presence of toxins or drugs, but he couldn't imagine how any of those tests could be either important to or pose a threat to the killer. There had to be something he was overlooking. All of the girls were recently post-menarche. Following their first menses, the hormone levels would be dramatically altered and elevated, but if the hormones themselves were of interest why not take the glands as well?

Marshall leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers behind his head, and stared at the row of framed degrees on the wall above his computer monitor. Fat lot of good any of them were doing him now. They were just pieces of paper with fancy signatures and seals to justify his ass being in this chair. He sighed and leaned forward again, grabbing his coffee mug but only managing to slosh the last cold swig onto his lab coat and jeans. At least he hadn't spilled it on his Mudvayne concert tee. That would have totally ruined the day. Tucking his long blonde bangs behind his ears, he scooted forward and started typing on the keyboard.

The screen filled with the restriction fragment length polymorhysm DNA profile of Jasmine Rivers, seemingly endless rows of black lines like a bar code forming her genetic fingerprint. Only a small portion of DNA was useful. The rest was just "junk" used for filler or for functions yet to be determined. He brought up Angela Downing's profile beside hers and instructed the computer to compare them for the hundredth time. Again, the only matches were among alleles common to the species, and nothing specific to either girl. He widened the database search and Jasmine partially matched samples provided by her parents and other family members. No matter how many times he tried, no matter how many different ways he attempted to run the tests, nothing was going to change. None of the girls shared any genetic traits with one another that would necessitate the removal of their blood to hide a motive. Maybe the sicko had just drained them dry so he could fill his bathtub and wallow in it like the completely deranged psycho that he was.

He grabbed the coffee cup again. Still empty.

"Crap," he said, tossing the mug onto the desk. He didn't want to go all the way down the hall to get a refill, especially since no one else ever brewed a stupid pot, and if there was still any left, it would undoubtedly be the same stale black sludge he had made hours ago.

He needed to clear his head regardless, he supposed. His mind could only run in circles so long before wearing itself out anyway.

Rising from the chair, he stretched his back and yawned. Maybe he should just take a quick nap and be done with it.

Human blood. Lamb blood. Why was one important and not the other?

He was getting punchy. Time for an influx of caffeine or he was a goner.

To amuse himself, Marshall leaned over the keyboard and widened the database search again, this time to include all known DNA profiles.

He had just turned to head down the hall, mug in hand, when the computer signaled a match. There were Jasmine's parents and random relations, same as before, only now there was another, this one a direct match to a long sequence of the uncharted junk DNA.

"You've got to be freaking kidding," he said.

The coffee forgotten, he dropped his cup and plopped into the seat, clearing all extraneous data to study the match.

"No way. That can't possibly be right."

He grabbed his phone and hit redial.

"Come on," he said, tapping his feet anxiously as the dial tone droned on. "Pick up. Pick up. Pick up!"

Chapter Three

Without order nothing can exist--

without chaos nothing can evolve.

--Anonymous

I

Flagstaff, Arizona

"You coming or what?" Wolfe called.

"Right behind you," Carver said. He stood on the sidewalk before the Mediterranean-style house, white stucco with arched windows, the red clay-tiled roof like corduroy to a giant, staring at the somehow forbidding façade. All of the blinds were drawn. Only a faint glow emanated through the curtains in the window beside the closed front door.

"What's wrong?" Ellie asked, climbing out of the car behind him.

"I don't know." And that was the truth. A cold sensation crept up his spine, raising the hair on his arms despite the blazing sun. He couldn't explain the feeling, but right now he couldn't think of anyplace in the world he wanted to be less.

He walked up to the porch with Ellie at his side, gnawing on the inside of his lip, scrutinizing each of the windows before looking back upon the empty street, unable to shake the impression that he was being watched.

Wolfe rang the doorbell and took a step back. After a brief moment, he rang again.

"Maybe he isn't home," Ellie said.

"He's in there," Wolfe said, banging on the door. He tried the knob, which turned easily in his hand.

At the first whiff of the smell from inside, both men drew their weapons.

"Stay here," Carver said to Ellie, pulling her away from the partially opened door and pressing his back against the house beside the trim. Wolfe did the same on the other side. The two agents locked stares, and Wolfe gave the nod. Carver went in low, ducking across the threshold, sweeping his Beretta from left to right, while Wolfe came in high behind him, taking in the living room before whirling to check behind the door. Carver absorbed the details of the room as fast as he could. Computer monitor on in the corner to the left. Desk. Television. Stereo tower. Coffee table. Chair and couch. Darkened hallway at the back of the room. Staircase to the right, shadows waiting at the top. Coat rack and closet behind the front door, now at his back.

The metallic stench of raw meat surrounded them.

Wolfe inclined his head sharply to the right to signal his intent and darted up the stairs, leaving Carver to clear the kitchen. Carver hit the light switch with his left elbow, and scanned the room along the barrel of the pistol. Modern, stainless steel appliances. Eating bar, upon which sat a bottle and a glass. Keys on the counter. Half wall, over which he could see the family room through the beveled rails. Couches and projection TV beyond. He spun around the wall and cleared the room before heading back to the living room.

Wolfe's footsteps drummed down the stairs behind him as Carver approached the corner, weakly illuminated by the rolling images on the computer screen. He recognized Mondragon in the pictures first, and then on the floor, crumpled under the desk, partially hidden by the chair.

The smell was overwhelming now, like tearing the butcher's paper from a slab of venison that had been sitting out to thaw for too long.

Carver tasted copper dripping onto his tongue from his sinuses. He carefully rolled the chair away from the desk with his foot.

The carpet made a wet slapping sound under Wolfe's advance.

"He's quite photogenic," Wolfe said, nodding to the monitor.

"How thoughtful of the killer to clearly display his motive for us."

"Too easy?"

"And then some."

Carver crouched in front of Mondragon's corpse, balancing like a catcher, careful not to touch anything. The professor's knees were drawn to his chest, the crown of his head between them, arms pinned by his thighs in the same compressed fetal position as the bundled mummies.

Wolfe directed a pen light at the body. "Defensive wounds on the palms," he said, highlighting deep lacerations across the middle of the upturned hands. "Straight, clean cuts. A razor or similar thin blade. Not a knife. Too clean."

"He saw his killer," Carver said, glancing back over his shoulder. The living room was a cluttered mess, but there was no apparent sign of a struggle. "But not soon enough. All of the blood's confined to this corner."

"And there's a lot of it," Wolfe said, shifting his weight to illustrate the slosh of fluid in the carpet. "Too much for just the hand wounds."

Carver tilted Mondragon's head back with the Beretta, propping it up for Wolfe to examine with the thin beam of light. Half-lidded, milky brown eyes already recessed into bruises. Straight-set nose; no sign of fracture. The lips had begun to gray, parted from a slightly open mouth with no evidence of chipped or broken teeth.

"Can you lean his head back a little farther?" Wolfe asked.

Carver applied more pressure and the head tilted backwards. The vertex struck the wall and rolled into the corner, where it wedged against the right shoulder.