The Dying Hour (8 page)

T
o Benton County, the victim was file number 05-6784-54.

To Brad Kintry, the lead detective, she was more than a number. More than a Jane Doe, unidentified white female victim of a homicide. She was someone’s daughter. Someone violated.

She was his case.

Now he watched over her as Morris Pitman, Benton County’s coroner, and Pitman’s assistant Cheryl Nyack, were preparing to autopsy her remains in the Benton County Justice Center, in Kennewick. No matter how he tried, Kintry never got used to the room’s chill and its ever-present smells of ammonia and formaldehyde.

Pitman tied off his apron and then he and Nyack began the procedure, washing, weighing, measuring, then taking X-rays of the victim before moving the gurney to the stainless steel tray of the autopsy room.

Kintry’s stomach clenched when they began transferring her to the table. He tried to control it. Like Pitman and Nyack, he was paid to examine the county’s human carnage. All three were professionals who had witnessed the results of every tragedy on victims of all ages. Human beings reduced to charred, cooked flesh from fires and electrocutions, to pulpy, meaty masses from car wrecks, multicolored organs spilling from stomach cavities in stabbings, or gunshots, bloated and putrid from drownings, or suicides. In his early years on patrol, Kintry went home with nightmares. Over time his emotional armor hardened.

Today, as Pitman and Nyack carefully set the body on the table, Kintry’s armor fractured.

The victim was in six pieces.

First, the complete right leg, severed at the hip, then the left leg, severed in exactly the same location. Together they set her torso down, leaving a wide space between the legs for examination. Next came the right arm, severed at the shoulder. Then the left, severed at the shoulder. Again they left distance between the limbs and torso for study.

Then came the head, severed at the neck.

Eyes open wide.

Frozen.

As if still registering the horror.

Her face was a sinewy mask. Much of the skin below the eyes was shredded, as if ripped from the skull in fury, exposing teeth. Her hair was pulled from the scalp in spots, shorn in others. Visual identification was impossible.

Kintry blinked at the outrage.

This was not like any other death. There was a cosmic breakdown between heaven and humanity on the table. As if some malevolent force had clawed from a dark world into this one. The killer had cut her to pieces. Destroyed all that was human limb by limb. The sheer magnitude of the act commanded awe, nearly eclipsing Kintry’s anger. He steeled himself by taking notes, remembering Lieutenant Buchanan’s order to pass every detail to Ansboro from Sawridge County for the guys working on the missing Seattle college student.

Maybe this was her right here.

Karen Harding.

It was going to take time before they knew with certainty.

“Most of her fingerprints have been mutilated. He knew what he was doing,” Pitman said. “We might have a shot with the right pinky.”

He and Nyack spoke in soft clinical tones as they worked, dictating into the overhead microphone. Kintry caught snippets of terms like clavical, femur, trachea, femoral, and subclavian. He watched Pitman from time to time, consulting the state’s form, protected in plastic, for unidentified remains, headed
Body Condition and Status of Parts.

Pitman was thorough with the external examination before they began the internal examination. He and Nyack betrayed no emotion. They maintained a steady professional calm.

Then something changed.

Pitman’s brow tightened with concentration as he scrutinized a new aspect of the remains. A number of small distinguishing marks trailed along the upper shoulder and leg. Given the web of abrasions that covered the victim’s flesh, they were easy to miss. Upon closer study, he determined they were the letter X, burned into the skin. In all he counted eleven stylized Xs. In the upper left quadrant, over the heart, he found, stylized in the same script, the letters VOV. Just one instance. A word, name, or abbreviation of some sort.

Pitman exchanged glances with Nyack and Kintry and continued. Perspiration moistened his brow as he reexamined the points of separation, drawing his face closer. Pitman’s hand trembled and at that stage Nyack began blinking faster as if something terrible, something previously unencountered, had revealed itself to them.

Kintry searched their eyes for an answer.

None was offered.

They continued working. Only this time in silence.

After finishing, Pitman disappeared to the washroom for a time before meeting in his office with Kintry to discuss his preliminary observations. He worked at his computer with a neutral expression. Kintry had already gotten a Coke from the vending machine, grateful for the hint of orange blossom from the aromatic machine Pitman’s secretary had insisted on.

The phone in Pitman’s office rang. His chair squeaked when he took the call.

“Coroner,” he said, then, “Yes, who’s calling please?” Pitman looked at Kintry as he listened for several moments before saying, “No, I’m afraid I can’t confirm anything like that at this point. You might want to try the Sheriff’s Office in the morning.”

“Who was that?” Kintry asked after Pitman hung up.

“Jason Wade from the Seattle Mirror. Looking for an ID.”

“He’s the joker who ticked off Buchanan.”

“He’s tenacious. I’ll give him that. All right,” Pitman turned to his report.

“We have a female. White. Approximately five feet four inches or five feet three inches. Twenty-one to twenty-five years of age. One hundred ten to one hundred twenty pounds. Brown hair, blue eyes. No confirmed identity.”

“Who’s going to do that?” Kintry was taking notes.

“We’ll get you the fingerprint to bounce through AFIS and I’ve got Seth Lyman, our forensic odontologist, coming in. Should be an hour. He’ll look at the X-rays and Karen Harding’s dental chart for a comparison. If Seth says it’s Harding, then you can bank on it. If not, well, it’s not.”

“Cause?”

“Loss of blood from the trauma.”

“Approximate time.”

“A couple of days.”

“So it would fit with the Harding case.”

Pitman nodded.

“All right, Morris. Give me the rest of it.”

Pitman removed his glasses. He was in his sixties and had worked with the U.S. forces in Vietnam and Iraq. Retirement was close. Today, he wished it were closer. He ran a hand across his face.

“I saw something I’ve never seen before.” He looked to the ceiling. Then at his clipboard. “It’s
how
he did it that’s shaken me.”

He touched his notes lightly with his fingers.

“From the condition, from what I could see, he started with the right leg. I suspected he used a hacksaw. Not a surgical bone saw, because the cut would have been finer. Nevertheless, it was a clean amputation. Quite good. But he did it while she was alive, then attempted to cauterize it while he moved to the left leg. He repeated it with the arms. Cutting, then cauterizing.”

“Why?”

“He wanted to reduce blood loss so that she’d be alive and conscious of what he was doing. He had removed her limbs and wanted her to witness and experience the fact he was reducing her to a mere torso.”

“So she would’ve been conscious through all of this trauma?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“She would’ve passed out, or gone in and out of consciousness from shock, but I believe she would’ve been aware.”

Kintry looked off.

“I think he removed her head as slowly as possible, so she again would be aware.”

Kintry closed his eyes.

“He tortured her first. I found a series of the letter X seared into her skin here and here.” Kintry touched his pen to a generic body sketch among his notes.

“Seared? Like branded?”

“Yes, and there was something else that was chilling. Here, over her heart, were the letters VOV.”

“VOV? What does that mean?”

“I’m just speculating, but it could be someone’s initials, a message, or a signature.”

“A signature?”

“At the outset, it appears the style of the script is late sixteenth to mid-seventeenth century. Xs were sometimes symbols of the church at war, an all-out defense of God.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“What you have here is evocative of torture techniques used by executioners during the Inquisition, against heretics, sorcerers, enemies of the faith. It looks like he used a pear, a Spanish or Venetian pear.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a metal device that emerged in the 1500s. It’s thrust into an orifice like the mouth, rectum or vagina, then enlarged with a screw mechanism. It rips away all tissue.”

Kintry tried to comprehend what he was facing.

“I’ve got to do research on his techniques and signature, which might yield a lead for you,” Pitman said. “It’s obvious the killer here wants his victim to suffer as much pain and torment as possible. And by the way he displayed her, he wants people to be aware of his work. He’s a proud artist.”

Kintry nodded.

“Brad, I don’t think this is the first time he’s done this and I don’t think it will be the last.”

“Why?”

“The cutting technique.”

“What about it?”

“He’s practiced.”

T
he caller’s name was Erika.

She’d refused to give Jason any more details over the phone, except a time and place to meet.

He debated on whether he should do this. If Erika had credible information, why didn’t she call the police? Maybe she was involved. Or had a criminal record. Or was a whack job. But his rookie instincts urged him to follow this through. He had nothing to lose.

He had ninety minutes to decide.

After showering, Jason sat at his kitchen table peeling an orange while reading the
Mirror
’s front page.

His story was there. Along with one by Astrid Grant on a little boy who’d survived a ten-story fall by landing on a mattress in a Dumpster. Ben Randolph had an investigative take on some city tax rip-off, and Gretchen Saunders, who’d written for the
Washington Post,
had a feature on Seattle-Tacoma International Airport. Plenty was happening beyond Karen Harding’s story, and the other interns were scoring major play. Jason needed to keep breaking news.

Some ninety minutes later, he was sitting on a park bench holding a copy of the
Mirror,
as Erika had instructed. Like something out of a B-movie. He decided to give it twenty minutes.

“Jason?” a woman said from behind him.

She had short, spiky brown hair and looked about the same age as Karen Harding. Fair face, good figure. Her left eyebrow was pierced with a ring. She wore faded jeans, sneakers, a long-sleeved black cotton shirt under a pink T-shirt with a small hummingbird embroidered on it.

“Erika?”

“Yes.”

She sat beside him, clasped her hands together, and held them between her knees. “First,” she asked, “is that body in the hills Karen?”

“The police don’t know yet.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, then looked toward the skyline.

“Here are my rules. You didn’t get any of this from me and you can’t use it. I’m just telling you where to look.”

“All right, but we’ll negotiate everything when we’re done.”

“Agreed.” Erika took a deep breath. “I’m a student at Karen’s college. A few weeks before they found her car, she told me one of our instructors was creeping her out.”

“Who?”

“Gideon Cull.”

“Spell it?”

Erika unfolded pages torn from the
Mirror
and circled grainy news pictures of Cull with search groups at the scene.
The mystery man.

“He’s a part-time instructor,” Erika said, “an ordained reverend who’s involved with the ecumenical group and charities. He’s also a toucher.”

“A toucher?”

“He stands close to you when he talks. At first it all seems innocent, like he’s an affectionate, warm conversationalist. But when he talks to you he’ll touch your shoulder, your arm, your hand, whatever. He touches.”

“Has he been reported?”

“No, because it’s so subtle. Some of the women ignore him, but he makes others uncomfortable.”

“And Cull was giving Karen the creeps?”

“She confided to me that he seemed to be touching her more and more and inviting her to his office for counseling, insisting she come. I think she went to see him to talk about her plans to do aid work in Africa after graduation.”

“Did she ever tell anyone else about this guy?”

“I don’t know.”

“So what happened?”

“Well, a few of the women got talking about Cull one night and it came out how he had a nickname, Creepy Cull, because of his creepy past.”

“Creepy how?”

“We think there was an incident at some other school and he’d been charged, maybe went to prison. Or, it was a complaint that he’d sexually harassed a student. And how he had strange books on satanic worship, murder, criminal psychology. He also had some scary friends who visited his campus office because he worked on helping ex-cons and did some spiritual work in prisons and in soup kitchens. He traveled a lot.”

“I can see how all of that might make you a little uneasy.”

“And there was his tattoo, on one arm, something like a Reaper’s scythe over the words
The Next Life.
The story was that he got that in prison.”

“Sounds like quite a legend around this guy. Any of it confirmed?”

“Not much, but we think most of it is true.”

“Thinking it and knowing it are two different things, Erika. It’s all quite a leap to connect him to Karen.”

“There’s more. Karen told me that one night she had this feeling she was being followed by a stranger. I don’t think she did anything about it. She said it was just a feeling.”

“Has anyone told the police any of this stuff?”

“No. We don’t think they’ll believe us, because we’re relying more on instinct than what you’d consider facts. We think they’d hush up things.”

Ah, there it was. The conspiracy rumor panic that swirls after a major tragedy hits a community. He’d read a
New York Times
piece on it.

“Why would they hush things up?”

“There’s a story that he’s connected to the governor because he’d helped the governor’s daughter through his Samaritan work or something.”

Jason was skeptical but said nothing.

“We read your stories and thought you could do some investigation on Gideon Cull’s background, see what you could find out.”

He thought it over.

“Give me some time, I’ll see what I can do.”