The Ripper Gene (10 page)

“After you two,” I said, flipping through the charts and walking slowly behind as Donny led us through the front doors of the morgue.

*   *   *

We took an elevator to the bottom floor, where the overpowering pungency of formaldehyde instantly transported me back to classes in gross anatomy.

Donny led us into a small surgical room with a lime-green tiled floor and a copper drain in the middle. An array of empty metal gurneys sat scattered in disorderly fashion about the room. By the time we’d made it halfway across, a jolly little medical examiner stepped away from a body on one of the metal tables in the rear of the room and navigated the empty gurneys towards us.

“Agents Woodson and Madden, pleasure to meet you.” He snapped off a rubber latex glove and extended his hand. “I’m Dr. Wilkins. I was just about to get started back there when you called.”

Woodson shook his hand. “You mind if we have a look at the body and ask you a few questions before you start your autopsy?”

The coroner looked at Donny, who nodded. “Oh, sure you can. Take photos if you like. Let me know if you have any questions.”

We walked through the maze of empty gurneys and surrounded the victim under the lights in the rear of the room. Woodson asked all the right questions, impressing me with her knowledge of procedure and protocol. She clarified the body temp at the time of discovery, the temperature outside, the estimation of time of death prior to the body’s discovery, whether he’d found any evidence of entomological activity, and a host of other parameters.

As the ME gave her all the information, I looked down at the girl on the table.

Based on the manila folder, I was staring at Patricia Swanson, a twenty-six-year-old single. She had a closely cropped hairstyle, thick and wavy dark brown hair, and deep brown eyes. Brunette, I noted, which immediately removed a possibility that the SWK was targeting a specific “look.” Those kinds of killers are focused in their own right, but for some inexplicable reason I had a feeling that the look for which the SWK searched transcended simple traits like hair color or appearance.

It was evident that Swanson was a victim of SWK, even if I hadn’t already seen the telltale photographs of the apple and the extracted razor. The number of cuts on the young girl’s body approximated those seen on the other victims, and again, no defense wounds on the wrists, forearms, or hands. Just cuts. Long ones, deep, drawn out, almost in perfect straight lines.

I suddenly realized no bloody lettering remained on Swanson’s forehead, even though Jimmy had mentioned they’d found the word
cat
on her forehead when he told me about the victim at the hospital.

“What happened to the word on her forehead?” I asked aloud, with more urgency than I’d intended.

Wilkins looked at me, stopping midsentence with Woodson. “Forehead?”

“Yes. There were letters in blood written on her forehead at the crime scene. Where are they now?”

Wilkins pulled the corners of his mouth down in an exaggerated “whoops” kind of way. “That’s why I mentioned I’d just begun the autopsy. We already removed that blood.”

“Are you kidding—” I began, but Donny cut me off.

“Don’t worry, Lucas,” Donny said. “Terry had them swab the letters at the crime scene, long before the body arrived here. He called me as soon as he heard about the third victim and asked me to personally make sure the CSIs took samples.”

I exhaled in relief.

“Oh yes, they took several swabs at Sheriff Noden’s request,” Wilkins added. “But, if you don’t mind my asking, what do you expect to find?”

“I don’t know. I just want to find out whether it’s the victim’s blood or someone else’s. A quick set of STRs should tell us.”

“But whose blood would it be, if not the victim’s?”

“Like I said, I don’t know. I just have a hunch, that’s all.” I didn’t feel like going into my entire theory.

Wilkins raised his eyebrows. “Maybe the killer’s?”

“Maybe,” I said, glancing from Donny to Woodson. “Maybe.”

*   *   *

We didn’t stay around for the rib cage excision and organ weighing and the rest of it. If it turned out like the autopsies of the other two victims, nothing new would be found. Cuts on the body, nearly linear ones, with no defensive hand wounds. Bloody lettering on the forehead, and an apple with a razor in it. That would constitute the extent of the useful physical evidence on the body.

Donny, Woodson, and I reconvened at a small table on the upper floor.

“So, what’s the plan of attack?” Donny asked.

I shook my head. “Victim number three and we’re already not learning anything new about this killer anymore. He doesn’t seem to be evolving. It’s like he popped out of the woodwork with the full complement of an organized killer’s skills. We’ll check ViCAP again, see if he may have moved here from some other area. But it doesn’t look promising.”

“You think that DNA analysis from the bloody lettering on this girl and the other victims is going to show up as nonself?” Donny asked.

I shrugged. “It’s fifty-fifty. But it would be a break for us, in a case where we desperately need one. I’m starting to second-guess myself a little, but we should know one way or another today. If the DNA in the lettering is nonvictim, but matches across the different victims, then we’ll know. If that happens,” I looked at Woodson, “we’ll be able to run a genetic profile on DNA that’s likely being left behind by our very own killer.”

“You’re going to perform that technique you talked about in your lecture, the one that predicts behavior?” Woodson asked.

I nodded. “Yep. And Donny, we’re going to hold a debriefing on the three victims when I get settled back down in New Orleans. Unfortunately, you’re invited.”

Donny’s familiar frown came out. “I’d rather sit this one out, if I had my druthers.”

“Wouldn’t we all,” Woodson said simply.

I glanced up, but my new partner was already looking out a window, lost in thought. Usually a new agent would be champing at the bit to get started on a high-profile serial killer investigation. To this point I’d actually considered myself a lone anomaly in the criminal profiling world, with my inherent hesitation to engage in a serial killer case until faced with undeniable facts.

Maybe Woodson and I had more in common than I’d originally suspected.

We talked with Donny for another fifteen minutes, mainly about logistics of the upcoming debriefing—where and when it would be held, who’d be attending. We agreed to wait on it until Woodson and I had a chance to interview Mara to try and discover if she had any descriptions or other insights into the killer, since she was the only victim to have survived an encounter with the Snow White Killer to date. We decided to set up the debriefing at the New Orleans field office in two days’ time. All of the local law enforcement in the local counties and parishes where victims had been found would send representatives.

We bade Donny farewell. In the parking lot I climbed, with a good bit of difficulty, into Woodson’s car and noticed that the sun was just beginning to dip below the trees.

I faced her as she entered the driver’s side. “Listen, Woodson. I know I’m not in very good shape here. But have you had a home-cooked meal since you arrived down South?”

“Nope. After I drop you off tonight I’m driving back up to my hotel in Jackson, then turning around and driving back down tomorrow for our interview in Slidell. Nothing but McDonald’s for me tonight.”

I shook my head. “Hold on. You’re not driving all the way back up to Jackson just to sleep in a hotel room because your name’s on the reservation. Cancel it,” I said, “and for all the chauffeuring you’re doing, I’ll cook you my homemade jambalaya. You can stay at my house tonight.”

“Thanks but no thanks. It doesn’t seem proper. And you need rest. You look like you’re stiffening up.”

I waved her off. “That’s why they gave me painkillers. And don’t worry about that, anyway. I have way too many bedrooms in that old house and you can stay in any one that suits you. Honest,” I continued, “I’m just trying to do the polite thing here. There really is plenty of room. I mean, as long as you’re not allergic to dogs.”

“I’m not allergic to dogs, but I don’t know. I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“You wouldn’t be imposing. Sorry, Woodson, but it’s the least I can do after you’ve had to cart me around today. I can’t let you drive all the way back each way just because Jimmy had you bring me down here. This way, we both get a good night’s sleep and a fresh start tomorrow, a whole hell of a lot closer to that mental hospital in Slidell.” I paused. “What do you say?”

She cut her eyes to stare at my side, letting several seconds pass before she answered. “You’re sure it’s not an imposition? And that you’re up to it?”

“Sure on both counts.”

“Okay,” she said, adding, “I have to admit that it’ll be nice not to have to drive another three or four hours tonight.”

“Would’ve been closer to five,” I said. “Okay then, it’s settled.” I pointed out my window. “You’ll want to take a left out of the parking lot.”

Woodson turned the ignition. “You got it.”

THIRTEEN

Half an hour later the bright lamps along I-10 gave way to the infrequent mile markers dotting Highway 43 as the gray asphalt disappeared into the black night ahead. I gave Woodson a steady series of directions, taking us farther off the beaten path until she couldn’t stand it any longer. “How the hell far out do you live?” she finally asked.

“I told you, I live a little ways out. You can’t expect skyscrapers in a place called Bayou La Croix.”

“You call this a little ways out?” Woodson swooped her head in a wide arc, as if accusing the entirety of the black forests and swamps surrounding us as she drove.

I shrugged. “I have two dogs and plenty of room for them to run. I have seven wild outdoor cats that consider my porch their home. And I have a red-tailed hawk named Theta who probably can’t wait for Ellie to stop feeding her deer meat and for me to take her out hunting in the woods.”

“Ellie?

“A veterinarian friend of mine who’s taking care of Theta for me. She lives down the road from me, about a mile from where I live.”

“And that qualifies as a neighbor?”

“Oh yeah. My closest one, in fact. Like I said, I live a little ways out.”

Woodson sighed in false exasperation—she couldn’t hide a smile even as she shook her head.

“Okay,” I said, “see up ahead, past that oak? My driveway’s on the right, just past it.”

“Those are quite the directions,” she said, turning into the driveway. As she did, the four columns of the old antebellum house appeared in the headlights. We rolled beneath the cypresses on either side and stopped in the U-shaped cobblestone drive in front of the porch.

“Oh my God, Lucas. It’s beautiful,” Woodson said as we exited the car and walked up the steps.

“I like to think so. Thanks.”

A loud series of muffled barks ensued.

“Hush, Watson,” I said toward the door as I pushed my key into the lock.

“Your dog’s name is Watson?” Woodson asked behind me.

“Yeah. My other dog’s name—”

“Don’t tell me it’s Crick.”

“You got it.”

“You named your dogs Watson and Crick? After the discoverers of the DNA double helix?”

“Sure,” I said, turning the key. “I was a geneticist in a former life. The names sound good together anyway. I always call them both at the same time.”

Woodson laughed aloud again. “Oh, I can just hear it now.” She cupped a hand to her mouth. “Watson and Crick, come and get it!”

I pushed the front door open tentatively and entered the foyer, but before I could flip the light switch, Watson jumped up and knocked me backwards. An instant later, a thud pounded the floor behind me.

“Ouch! Shit!”

I found the light switch a moment later, only to reveal Woodson sitting awkwardly on the floor, her long legs splayed in the most unprofessional of poses. “Are you okay?” I asked, looking quickly away.

“Yeah, I slipped on something.” She picked up a handful of envelopes from the floor. “What’s all this stuff? Animal Rescue League, Defenders of Wildlife, SPCA?” She stopped and stared up at me.

I knelt down, Watson nuzzling against me gently as I helped Woodson gather the mailings. “I get a lot of junk mail,” I said. “I left a pile of it beside the door to take to recycling. Sorry.” I pulled away from Watson as he repeatedly tried to lick my face. “Stop it, Watson,” I said, just as he shot a tongue straight into my mouth.

Woodson laughed. “Gross.”

I wiped my mouth. “No, no. We’re all family here.”

Woodson smirked. “Yeah. Except at least one family member here also likes to lick their own ass.”

It was my turn to laugh. “You have a point. Not a dog lover, then?” I asked, pulling her up to a standing position again.

“No, no. I like dogs. I just don’t let them French me.”

At that moment Crick came padding down the hall without so much as a glance in Woodson’s direction. Neither of them really met the criteria of a guard dog. Crick, my lazy Irish setter, would probably fall asleep in the middle of a break-in, whereas Watson would only be in danger of trying to
lick
an intruder to death. Crick’s boisterous counterpart was still desperately wagging his tail with great fervor as Woodson rubbed beneath Watson’s chin.

“Hi there, Crick.” I limped over and rubbed the older dog gently, the way he liked to be rubbed under his chin. With Crick receiving all the attention from me, Watson couldn’t stand it. He abandoned Woodson and leaped toward me, jumping around and nipping at both Crick and me, growls of excitement emanating from the younger dog’s throat. “Settle down, Watson,” I said, giving him a final scratch on the head.

I finally looked up at Woodson, who stood silently in the foyer staring at us. I brushed the fur off my clothes and nodded toward the staircase. “Sorry, Woodson. We’re not used to having visitors. Where are my manners? Let me show you the guest rooms.”

Woodson stepped backwards, eyeing me suspiciously. “One last time—are you sure this isn’t too much of an imposition? I could still drive back to Jackson.”