Savage Art (A Chilling Suspense Novel) (4 page)

"M.E.'s on his way," Jordan said when the photographer was done, knowing there would be nothing else to do until the medical examiner moved the body. Jordan was praying this crime was a copycat, but he wouldn't know until the evidence was documented and analyzed. Still, he sensed the girl's leg would tell him. The party hat and bandaged head could be the work of a copycat, but only the killer would know his signature.

Just then, Jordan saw Ray Zambotti, the medical examiner, pushing through the crowd. Ray was a short, heavyset man with skin so pale it was almost blue like skim milk. He had been given the nickname "Skim" for this reason.

Ray shook his head, the bluish-purple circles beneath his eyes more enlarged than normal.

"Sorry for the late call."

"The dead never sleep," Zambotti said, laughing at his own joke.

"Right."

Impatient, Jordan crossed his arms and waited as Ray strutted around the body, waving his arms. "Bled to death. Look how pale she is. Paler than regular dead. Just like the other one."

"We're not making any assumptions," Jordan said. He didn't want anyone getting the idea that they could or couldn't link the murders until he had evidence. Despite the bodies, that was. Damn if this wasn't getting frustrating.

"We can assume there are some sick fucks, can't we?" Ray said, wearing a full grin.

"Sure."

They returned their attention to the body.

"She was moved, too," Ray continued. He stood and moved closer to Jordan and added in a hushed whisper, "Just like the other."

Jordan nodded.

"Hard to say how long she's been dead. Rigor is slowed with the temperature. But, I'd guess less than twelve hours. Smell's still fine."

That meant she had been killed in the middle of the afternoon. If that was the case, the killer had moved the dead body—just like Ray said. There was no way a little girl had been sitting dead in an alley all afternoon and evening without being noticed. "I'm going to need something more specific."

Ray put his hands on his hips. "Of course. I'll work with the entomologist and see what the bugs say."

Jordan pictured the tiny creatures that were already feasting on the girl's tissues.

With gloved hands, Ray lifted the girl's eyelids wider and studied the eyes. Bringing a mini tape recorder to his lips, he spoke into it. "You've got petechial hemorrhage in the conjunctiva," he said, pointing to the inner eyelids. "Also I can see slight traces of petechiae in the cheeks, confirming strangulation during the process. However, coloring suggests blood loss as means of death."

He turned the recorder off and pointed to the white gauze wrapped around the girl's head. "And the bandages—looks like more surgical work. Boy, you got a wacko here, Gray."

"Thanks for the input, Doc. I want the body moved so we can do a thorough search of the area, but let's check the thigh first."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever happened to 'patience is a virtue'?"

Jordan sighed. "It's late, Ray."

"Technically, Gray, it's early."

Jordan exhaled.

Ray laughed, leaning back with his face to the sky. "The thing I love most about working with the dead is they don't always rush you—rush, rush, rush."

Ray's assistant squatted beside the body. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing thick, blond curls and strong arms.

Jordan figured Ray had hired someone strong enough to move the bodies. With his gut, Ray could hardly lift a leg.

"Ready?" the assistant interrupted, though his tone wasn't at all impatient.

Ray raised his hands like he was about to conduct an orchestra. "Ready," he replied. "Let the fun begin."

Jordan shook his head, wondering if one day Ray Zambotti wouldn't end up on one of his suspect lists. As long as the city kept providing the bodies, maybe not. But he sure seemed to have a penchant for what the killers left behind.

"Here we go."

Jordan leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees and holding his breath.

Ray started to pull the sheet off the girl's leg, while others around him carefully swept for evidence around his every move. The thin leg was the same size as Will's. The sight reminded Jordan of teaching his son to slide into home plate. Will had slid so hard, he'd come home with bruises all up and down his left side. His little leg black-and-blue, just like this girl's.

Clenching his teeth, Jordan swore to catch this monster if it killed him. And when it was over, he was going to take a long look and try to figure out what the hell he was doing with his life.

Ray turned the body into the light, a thin gasp escaping from his lips as he did.

Jordan shined his flashlight and cringed at the sight. The same as the other's, the mark looked like an uppercase
L
with touching lowercase
Os
on either side of the L. Cut with something sharp like a small scalpel, the mark still oozed blood. Pre-mortem, just like the others.

Zambotti pulled a tape measure from his pocket and pulled one end out against the skin. "The middle mark is one and one-eighth inches; each of these ovals on the sides an eighth of an inch high, a quarter inch wide," Zambotti measured out loud. "I'll check for consistency with the last ones to try again for the type of blade." His gaze met Jordan's. "Looks like the same thing, though—some sort of signature."

Jordan raised his head and looked away. "Damn."

Chapter 2

Without lifting her head from the pillow, Casey McKinley snapped up the ringing phone after the machine had picked up twice. "What?" she groaned.

"It's Billy," came the soft male voice that had been her only contact to the outside world for the six months since her husband and daughter returned to Virginia.

Propping herself on her elbows, she pushed her overgrown bangs off her forehead and looked around the dark room, blinking. "Where are you?"

Billy sighed heavily, and Casey could picture his hand nailed dramatically to one hip. "I'm outside."

"Well, why the hell don't you use your key?"

"You didn't answer the door. I didn't know if you were dead or something." He paused and tapped on the phone. "I didn't want to walk in on a dead body."

"So you called?"

"Well," he snipped back. "It seemed like a better idea than just barging in."

"Hardly. Let yourself in, already," she said, hanging up on him and rolling over in the bed. It was nearly eleven a.m., and she'd been in bed at least twelve hours. Still, Casey was sure that without Billy's visit, she'd have spent all day in bed. Since her release from the hospital, nearly a year ago, zombie had been her role of choice. Hiding under the covers had been her favored pastime. Michael and Amy had fought with her for nearly five months to get off her duff and start living again. She'd refused until she had driven them away. After they left, the job became Billy's.

She looked down at her hands, as though by some miracle she might have regained the use of them during the night. Instead, her fists stared motionless back at her.

Using the forefinger on her left hand, Casey pulled open the drawer in the bedside table and lifted out the picture of her daughter. The image was several years old—Amy holding a soccer ball, posing for a photo at the end of the season.

The picture's edges were tattered and bent. Casey ran a finger over her daughter's face and then closed her eyes, holding the picture to her. What was Amy doing now? What did she look like? Casey heard the front door unlock and returned the photo to the drawer, the ache of guilt sharp in her chest as she rolled herself into a tight ball.

She stared at her lifeless hands. In his savage beating, the killer she called Leonardo had broken nearly every bone in her right hand and almost as many in her left. Over twenty in all. He had also severed a half-dozen tendons and ligaments in her right knee, plus he'd cut into her thigh. She had spent six full days in and out of surgery. And still she couldn't write with her right hand or drive. She was lucky she could feel her hands at all, the doctors had told her. Lucky was the last thing she felt.

She struggled to move the fingers on her right hand. They formed a loose fist as she fought to clench them into a ball. Her hand refused to close. Frustrated, she kicked and flailed at the bedsheets and then collapsed.

"Hello!" Billy called, his voice growing closer.

"I'm not getting up," Casey yelled.

Billy stopped in the doorway and shook his head. "Oh, so you tell me to let myself in for nothing. Geesh, you can be such a bitch."

She glanced over, and he caught her eye.

He clicked his tongue to shame her and shook his head again. He wore black jeans, a black turtleneck, and cowboy boots. But today, his short dark hair had been carefully gelled to the side, exposing his bright blue eyes, full of mischief.

Casey pulled herself up onto her elbows, ignoring the difficulty of moving around with useless hands. "You have a date!" she accused.

Without responding, Billy moved past the bed and pulled the shades open. "It's like a cave in here. You need light, woman."

Casey moaned at the bright light as Billy opened the window. Billy's hair had caught her attention, and the undesirable stream of sunlight became less important. "Who's the lucky guy?"

He ignored her, picking up the discarded clothing and throwing it over his arm as her mother had always done when she was avoiding an issue. "Have you eaten?"

"Not hungry. Tell me about him."

"You've got five minutes to get dressed and meet me in the kitchen. I'll start coffee." Billy set the clothes over a chair and then started out the door. "I'll tell you about him while you're eating breakfast."

Casey smiled, victorious. "Deal." With the door closed, she sat up and pulled her pajama bottoms off. Finding her jeans, she dropped them to the floor and pushed her feet into the legs. Her hands in fists, she worked the jeans up around her knees, using her fists to move the fabric up over her legs. With the jeans around her knees, she lay on her back to let them shake down around her hips.

Halfway, her teeth clenched, she paused for a breath. Then, with a deep groan, she continued. It was getting easier, but the feeling of helplessness had once come close to drowning her.

Using the pinky of her left hand, she grabbed a belt loop and pulled the left side of the jeans over her hip. The jeans had fit her at one time, but they were much looser now.

Reaching around, she grabbed the belt loop on the other side and heaved it over her other hip. Using a hook and line her husband had made for her right after she'd come home from the hospital, Casey looped the hook through the zipper's hole and tugged the line up with her pinky. Now, just the button remained. Casey sank down on the bed, wishing she had her sweatpants. Michael had bought her sweat suits in four colors to make dressing easier.

But Billy had taken them away, saying they were too close to pajamas and made her lazy. He had also told her that she looked like shit in them. It hadn't been their smoothest day together. But all her husband's love and affection had failed to have even a fraction of the impact Billy did.

Casey glared at the button hole, remembering the first time she'd fastened one after the attack. Concentrating, she set to maneuvering the button through the hole with the knuckle of her index finger.

"What's taking so long?" Billy called from the other room.

Casey snarled at the door. "If it takes too long, bring back my sweats."

"No chance," he snapped back.

Another minute passed and she heard two quick knocks. "Your eggs are ready." The click of Billy unlatching the door was followed by the sound of him padding back to the kitchen.

Casey smiled at the gesture. On one of Billy's first days, right after her husband and daughter had moved back to Virginia, the door had been latched and Casey had been unable to open it. Sobbing, she'd waited nearly an hour before Billy had come to check on her. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Couldn't you hear me?" she'd shouted.

He'd shaken his head slowly.

In response, she had shoved her crippled fists in his face. "I can't open a goddamn door, I can't tie a shoe, or cut a tomato, or brush my teeth, or fasten a belt, or shoot a gun. I can't do anything."