Victim Six (22 page)

January 15, 3:25 p.m.
Port Orchard

Kendall Stark and Josh Anderson stood in the morgue, looking at the reassembled head and body as Birdy Waterman rolled back a sheet. They’d come directly from Willock Road, Kendall’s shoes still muddy from an unfortunate slip in a ditch.

“I know you’ve seen a lot of things come across your autopsy table, but really, Birdy, this has to be one for the ages,” she said. “It makes me sick.”

“Yeah, remind me not to eat dinner,” Josh said.

Kendall looked at Josh. “I’ll remind you that this is someone’s daughter.”

Dr. Waterman couldn’t let the moment pass without her own retort. “And
I’ll
remind you that the victims’ support group is doing another round of sensitivity training, Detective. You might want to get in on it.”

“I’m just saying what comes to me.”

“That’s the problem,” the pathologist said.

The forensic pathologist led the detectives toward the body on the table.

She pulled on a pair of gloves. “I’m disgusted and intrigued at the same time. Usually I’m merely heartbroken and disgusted. No one who comes to see me comes for a social visit,” she said.

Kendall nodded. Point made. She braced herself as the sheet was pulled back to reveal the sum of what had been Marissa Cassava. The open eyes were so unnerving that Kendall immediately understood why people take the time to shut them when someone dies.

“Do you know if she was alive when she was—”

“If you’re asking me if she was alive during decapitation, I can tell you she wasn’t.”

Kendall nodded. “Thank you. I know I should be desensitized to some things but, really, this was the most brutal thing I could imagine.”

“You don’t want to be desensitized, Detective. Your emotions are a gift. Your feelings are all about compassion. That’s why you’re so good with victims.”

“The living ones, you mean.”

“Yes, of course.”

Josh looked at the face. “What more can you tell us about her?”

The pathologist allowed her eyes to wander over the detectives as she started to talk. “A couple of things. The head was kept below freezing. I did a temp check, and then when I examined the brain, I found ice crystals.”

It took Kendall a second to wrap her mind around that. The obvious seemed incomprehensible, beyond evil.

“So you’re thinking the killer kept the head in the freezer?” Josh asked. “This isn’t like some cannibal move, is it?”

“No, not exactly. I mean, if it was a ‘cannibal move,’ as you call it, then I expect he would have eaten it.”

Kendall didn’t understand. “Then why did he freeze it?”

“Just a guess here, but it’s been written about in the literature. He kept it for one of two reasons. One, he thought of it as a trophy.”

Josh piped up. “Jeffrey Dahmer kept some body parts that he didn’t eat because he wanted to be close to the victim.”

“The other reason, Birdy?” Kendall asked

Birdy took a second to search for the right words.

“This is very troubling, but when I swabbed her mouth for biologicals, semen specifically, I drew a blank. Nothing in the pockets of the mouth that usually hold such things. But when I went in as deep as I could go down her throat, I found the presence of semen. I think that whoever kept the head used it as some kind of grotesque sex toy.”

Kendall’s mind lurched at the hideous possibility that the killer had used the open mouth of his dead victim for sex.
Did he hold the head? Did someone else hold it? Did he thrust his hips to create enough friction to ejaculate, or did he lift the head up and down?

It turned her stomach.

“This makes me sick,” she finally said.

“You’re not alone.”

“Thank you,” Kendall said, appreciating that Birdy Waterman didn’t disrespect her for her feelings but instead thought they made her a better investigator. She knew that later when she discussed Birdy’s findings with Josh, she’d have to describe everything in a detached, cool manner. If Josh made some disgusting joke, she’d have to slough it off.

“Are you going to release the body for burial?” Kendall asked.

Birdy nodded slightly as she scanned the report she’d compiled. “I have a few more tests, but I expect to be done tonight.”

“DNA?”

“Off to the state crime lab.”

“What can I tell her mother?”

“Tell her what you feel is best. She doesn’t need to know about the sex-toy aspect right now. If—
when
—we catch the perp, she’ll need to know then.”

“Agreed.”

Kendall looked at Josh. Her eyes were cool, and there was no trace of emotion on her face.

“Josh, can you keep your mouth shut on this? I mean, can you keep it out of the paper?”

Josh jabbed a finger at Kendall. “I’m getting tired of you putting the blame on me! There’s no way that I’ve leaked anything. My private life is just that, my
private
life.”

Only once did Serenity truly cross the line, and she knew that by telling Josh the truth, she’d risk everything. By then it was more than her credibility as a news reporter. She could live with that. But she’d also fallen a little for Josh. He had an oversized ego and a kind of obnoxious charm when he was “on,” but when it was just the two of them, he seemed genuine. A decent guy. Certainly a bit of a father figure, but not so much that it felt creepy to be attracted to him.

“Look,” Josh said, “people are talking about us, and I’m not sure where we stand.”

“‘Where we stand’?” she asked. “I don’t get your meaning. At least, I’m hoping that I’m reading too much into the remark.”

Josh shook his head. “No. No, I didn’t mean that. We’re casual, right?”

“As casual as I can be without being easy,” she said.

“Right. I think,” he said, letting a smile come to his face. “The problem isn’t us but what Kendall and the others are saying.”

“What? That I’m sleeping with you to get a break on the Cutter?”

“Basically.”

“That’s funny. That’s really funny, Josh. You know that’s not what this is about.”

He stared at her. “I know. I just had to say it. I just can’t have you put anything in the paper about the case that comes from me. Okay?”

“Nothing will come from you,” Serenity said. “Promise.”

After they’d made love and he drifted off to sleep, Serenity slipped out of bed, put on one of Josh’s robes, and quietly made her way to his home office down the hallway. A rope light tucked behind the crown molding guided her steps with a wash of faint blue light. Josh had insisted that the lighting feature was some wonderful upgrade, but Serenity thought it was cheesy, like something in a sandwich shop or around a movie theater food concession. He’d mentioned earlier in the evening that he’d brought home some case files, including Dr. Waterman’s autopsy report.

Her eyes immediately went to the toxicology report. Four flecks of red lead-based paint had been found in the dead woman’s vagina.

Serenity felt a flush of fear from the realization that the most evil of men actually had whispered in her ear. The caller had known what he was talking about. He’d told Serenity that he’d used “Grandma’s rolling pin” as a sex toy. The idea of it disgusted her, but the gleeful manner in which the caller recounted the story made her hang on every word. Words alone, she knew, didn’t always convey the message.

…and she loved it. I called her my sweet pie-hole. She was a hot one…too bad she didn’t last as long as she could have. I thought she had a lot more fun in her…

“Serenity,” Josh called from the bedroom. His voice was sleepy and sexy, but it shook her nevertheless. “Don’t make me come and get you,” he said.

Serenity shut the file folder and shoved it back into Josh’s black leather briefcase.

Two days later, the
Lighthouse
published its latest scoop, this time in the form of a Tad Stevens op-ed piece:

The Unthinkable: Vic Raped
by Foreign Object

The editorial was over the top in the righteous indignation that newspapers sometimes employ, when in reality they are courting eyeballs on their inky pages; if they didn’t want to inflict further injury to the victims’ families, they wouldn’t publish the salacious details. Stevens attributed the detail about rape with a foreign object to insiders handling the investigation, a vague reference that left Sheriff Jim McCray and his investigative team scurrying once more to plug the leak.

Stevens ended the piece with a clarion call for justice: “Someone out there is doing unspeakable evil and he must be stopped. If you have any leads, call this paper or the Sheriff’s Office.”

The Sheriff’s Office seemed like an afterthought.

The afternoon that the editorial ran in the paper, Serenity Hutchins took another phone call. Serenity was standing in line at a sandwich shop on Bay Street when she answered
PRIVATE CALLER
.

“Your publisher really laid it on the line,” the caller said. “Big, tough, pointy-nosed nerd calling for justice.”

It was the same strange voice.

“Turn yourself in,” she said, for the first time conceding—at least to him—that someone’s life was worth more than a shot at the big time.

“I enjoy what I’m doing,” he said. “Why would I stop now?”

“Because what you’re doing is…” her words trailed off. Serenity wanted to say
evil
or
deplorable
or something that really drove the point home, but those adjectives felt insufficient.

“You’re at a loss for words,” he said.

“No, I’m not.”

“I can’t think of a single reason to stop killing,” he said. “Canoe?”

The phone went dead.

“Salami grinder?” the man behind the sandwich prep counter said.

She nodded. Her bones felt chilled. She wondered if she had heard the voice of the killer correctly.

Did he say “Can you?” or “Canoe?”

February 2, 12:40 p.m.
Port Orchard

If there is a neighborhood of distinction in South Kitsap, most would consider it to be McCormick Woods, on the eastern edge of Port Orchard. It was an enormous development of rambling acreage surrounding a golf course and dotted with an eclectic mix of custom homes that showcased dreams, sometimes at the expense of good taste. Look here: a Mediterranean villa. Over there: a Craftsman-style monstrosity. Next door: a block-stretching rambler built for older people who disdain stairs.

The Godding place was an Italian-styled affair with stucco and archways that were meant to inspire oohs and aahs from the architecturally challenged folks who drove by, wishing they’d be able to get a peek at the interior.

Unfortunately, the grandeur of the house’s exterior was a cover-up for the heartbreak that resided there.

In fact, Carol Godding’s birthday present from her husband the previous year was her abandonment. Dan Godding, a former Kitsap County Commissioner, left Carol, the house, the dog, and everything they owned when he drained the couple’s liquid assets and moved to central Florida with his high school sweetheart. A plucky woman, Carol sucked it up (as her ex likely knew she would), kept current on the mortgage, and started to sell off everything that reminded her of Dan. She’d worked her way through most of the items in the garage: tools, a decrepit Porsche that Dan was going to restore, and a golf cart. Next on her hit list were the sporting goods—hers
and
his. That week she listed on Craigslist a canoe that had been a favorite of hers. Dan had refused to take the classes at the South Kitsap High School pool. He just didn’t see the purpose of paddling when he could use a powerboat.

Later, when hurt turned to anger, Carol saw that as a watershed moment. How could she love a man who thought the loud noise of a powerboat was preferable to quietly gliding through the water in a canoe?

She downloaded a photo showing her canoeing on the protected waters of Sinclair Inlet, not far from McCormick Woods. In the photograph she looked younger than her years in a chartreuse polar fleece vest and hat, smiling from ear to ear as she held up her paddle as if to say “I did it!”

Sam Castile was among the first of a half dozen callers.

“Saw your ad,” he said. “Is the canoe still available?”

“I think so. I had some lookers earlier today. Said they’d be back.”

“My son and I are in the area. Would it be convenient if we came by?”

“Now?’

“I can be there in ten minutes.”

Carol looked at the time. She’d been planning on making a Sunday Costco run before the day got away from her. But she wanted to get rid of that canoe. As much as she loved it, she was determined to downsize everything from her old life, sell the house, and get out of the neighborhood, where she had never wanted to live in the first place.

She gave him the address.

“I’ll be waiting. What’s your name?”

“Rick Davis,” he said. “See you in a few.”

The human body is a cocoon of skin. No matter the color, the condition, the age, the membrane that stretches over the bony frame of a person’s skeleton and musculature is the key to understanding the demise of so many. A knife. A box cutter. The shattered neck of a beer bottle. All had been deployed by those who seek to do harm. Kendall had seen the evil that men—and even an occasional woman—do with the sharp edge of a tool meant to slice the cocoon that holds a person together. Skin was so fragile, like a tissue paper cover on a drum; it could be punctured by the prick of a sharp tool.

She twirled through the autopsy photos on the CD that Dr. Waterman had burned and sent over. In total, there were more than 400 images, all gruesome and tragic as they told the story of what happened. Skye’s skin was chalky white. The gash that severed her carotid artery was more than an inch wide, the tissue pushing out like the screaming lips of a clown, red, full. On her back in the vicinity of her shoulder blades were two large puncture wounds, narrow at the top like a pair of inverted keyholes. The young woman had been hung like a deer carcass and left to bleed out. The county’s forensic pathologist indicated that the killer had done a thorough job. She’d had lost around two pints of blood in her body—one fifth of the volume of a woman of her weight.

Kendall looked at the photograph that Dr. Waterman had referenced with that last point. The angle change was not visible in the photo. An idea rolled around in her thoughts. Was there a pair of killers? There was a kind of timidness suggested by one of the perpetrators. There was also the idea that Marissa’s face had been enhanced, likely in death, with makeup.

Was one a woman?

Like all who vanish, Carol Godding had no idea that it was the day of her disappearance. When she laid her clothes on her freshly made bed, she was unsure if the brown slacks really could be worn with the foggy-blue top that the saleswoman at the Tacoma Mall Nordstrom had insisted was “to die for.” It just didn’t look right, and she was unsure if the old trick of trying to tie the outfit together with accessories was really going to work. She put on blue jeans and a sweater instead, facing the mirror over the antique pecan-wood bureau that had belonged to her grandmother. She set a couple of necklaces out and held them to her throat one at a time. The first, a chunky gold link that was supposed to be Italian in design, had been purchased by her mother from QVC.

Not working for me,
she said to herself, setting the chain down. She held up a strand of blue and brown beads that had a far more inspiring origin. She’d purchased them herself the summer before when she traveled to Peru with her best friend, Connie.

Former best friend,
she thought, fastening the lobster-claw clasp and refusing to revisit the incident that had shredded their bond. Over a man, no less. She gave herself one more look in the mirror and shook her head.

This is as good as I’m going to get with this ensemble.

“I see you beat me to it,” Gary Wyatt said, watching the man and his young son try to hoist the yellow canoe into the back of his long-bed pickup.

Sam Castile spun around and slapped on a quick smile.

“Yeah, your loss,” he said. “Early bird, all that stuff.”

Gary, a sandy-haired grandfather of six, shrugged as he lumbered over to the rear of the truck.

“Can I give you a hand?” he said, his eyes lingering on the prize that he’d missed out on.

Max Castile stepped back so the older man could help.

“Sure. Bought a bunch of other stuff too.”

The inside of the canoe was covered with a brown plastic tarp. Gary bent at his knees and started to lift.

“Jesus, did you buy some bricks or what?”

Sam laughed. “Something like that. Some old cinder blocks she had out back.”

“Oh. She said she was selling as much of her ex-husband’s stuff as she could. Wonder what else she has left.”

The canoe was now in the back of the truck, and Sam ran a nylon rope from hooks on either side of the tailgate through a steel loop on the end of the boat.

“She’s gone,” he said. “Took off for church or something. Took the money and ran.”

“Just my luck,” Gary said.

Sam turned to his son. “Ready to go, buddy?”

Max, who hadn’t said a word, nodded like a bobblehead.

“Thanks for the help. Nice to know there are still good people in Port Orchard.”

“No worries. Have fun with the canoe.”

Sam waved as he pulled away slowly, watching Gary as he went back to his car.

It was Carol Godding’s sixty-two-year-old
Kitsap Sun
paperboy who noticed that something was wrong. Three days worth of
Sun
s crammed the bright blue plastic paper tube affixed below Carol’s mailbox. He remembered how she’d mentioned she was heading to Southern California for a few weeks and figured he’d got the dates wrong. He pulled out the newspapers and put them in the backseat of his car. Next he called her number and left a message.

“Ms. Godding, call me when you get back to town. I’ll start up the paper lickety-split.”

Several days passed, and no one else noticed she was gone. The Goddings had not fostered ideal relations with their neighbors. Dan had waged war with the people on both sides over a wall of prolific Leyland cypresses that he’d planted to create some privacy but ultimately blocked others’ views of the golf course.

Carol had apologized for the less-than-neighborly attitude of her husband and tried to make amends. But by then battle lines had been drawn, and she was considered to be a bitch married to an asshole. It was a stigma that, despite her kind and outgoing nature, she couldn’t shake. When she volunteered at the community garage sale to raise money for the Port Orchard food bank, she got the cold shoulder from the women in charge. As a result, no one cared enough about Carol to notice if something was amiss.

There were no second chances in McCormick Woods.

Kirsten Potts was called “The Enforcer” or “The Landscaping Nazi” behind her back. Kirsten didn’t care. In fact, when she first heard of the moniker she only feigned indignation. To her, backbiting and fear brought results. She lived in McCormick Woods because she liked the orderliness of a neighborhood with strict covenants. She wasn’t really supposed to patrol the streets of the development, looking for bushes that needed to be trimmed or lawns that needed to be mowed. She’d been told several times by the homeowners association president that they were “not to seek out infractions like a police force but to wait for neighbors to bring things to our attention.”

Kristen didn’t care. She routinely drove around McCormick Woods with a camera, a ruler, and a wary eye. She’d been watching the Godding place for the past week. The Goddings had been on her radar for years after the Leyland cypress brouhaha, but they’d kept the place in tiptop condition. Lawn edged. Pines trimmed poodle perfect. The fountain in front never foamy. She’d heard gossip about the Goddings from the committee after Carol started writing the homeowners’ dues from a new account. Dan’s car was gone too.

The yard was looking shaggier and shaggier, and Kirsten Potts decided action was the order of the day. She rang the bell; no answer. She knocked as loudly as her tight little fist could pound.

She leaned close to the sidelight next to the door, but the house was quiet. She went around to the garage, noticing the sorry state of the lawn.

Jeesh! Talk about letting a place go to seed!
she thought.

Kirsten Potts didn’t consider herself a snoop. Snoops almost never do. She felt an urge to try the side door to the garage. She turned the knob and pushed it open. When she stepped inside, she immediately knew something terrible had happened there.

She opened her phone and called 911.