“We gonna get any fingerprints?” he asked.
“Nope,” Stone said as she examined the back of the left hand. The top layer of skin had turned a dirty ivory color and was sloughing off. The underlayer was red. Knuckle bones gleamed white where the skin had seared away entirely.
“Not good ones anyway,” she said. “My guess is he positioned the body with the hands crossed over the chest or stomach. The fire instantly melted the blouse and the resulting goo melted into the fingertips before the tendons in the arms began to constrict and pull the hands away from the body.”
“Is there any chance of separating the fabric residue from the fingertips?” Quinn asked. “The fabric itself might bear an impression of the friction ridges.”
“We don't have the capability here,” she said. “Your people back in Washington might be game to try. We can detach the hands, bag them, and send them in.”
“I'll have Walsh call ahead.”
Coughing like he had tuberculosis, Walsh had begged off from the autopsy. There was no need for the whole task force to attend. They would all be briefed in the morning and would all have access to the reports and photographs.
Stone moved methodically down the length of the body. The victim's legs were bare, the skin seared and blistered in an irregular pattern where the accelerant had burned away in a flash.
“Ligature marks at the right and left ankles,” she said, her small, gloved hands moving tenderly, almost lovingly, over the tops of the victim's feet—as much emotion as she would show during the process.
Kovac took in the appearance of the wounds the bindings had made around the victim's ankles, trying hard not to picture this woman tied to a bed in some maniac's chamber of horrors, struggling so frantically to get free that the ligatures had cut grooves into her flesh.
“The fibers have already gone to the BCA lab,” Stone said. “They seemed consistent with the others—a white polypropylene twine,” she specified for the benefit of Quinn and Hamill. “Tough as hell. You can buy it in any office supply store. The county buys enough every month to wrap around the moon. It's impossible to trace.
“Deep lacerations in a double-X pattern to the bottoms of both feet.” She went on with the exam. She measured and catalogued each cut, then described what appeared to be cigarette burns to the pad of each toe.
“Torture or disfigurement to conceal her identity?” Hamill wondered aloud.
“Or both,” Liska said.
“Looks like all of this was done while she was alive,” Stone said.
“Sick bastard,” Kovac muttered.
“If she got free, she couldn't have run,” Quinn said. “There was a case in Canada a few years ago where the victim's Achilles tendons were severed for the same reason. Did the other victims have similar wounds?”
“They had each been tortured in a variety of ways,” Stone answered. “Neither exactly the same. I can get you copies of the reports.”
“That's already being taken care of, thank you.”
There was no hope of removing the victim's clothing without taking skin with it. Stone and her assistant snipped and peeled, coaxing the melted fibers gently away with forceps, Stone swearing under her breath every few minutes.
Anticipation tightened in Kovac's gut as the destroyed blouse and a layer of flesh were worked away from the left side of the chest.
Stone looked across the body at him. “Here it is.”
“What?” Quinn asked, moving to the head of the table.
Kovac stepped in close and surveyed the killer's handiwork. “The detail we've managed to keep away from the stinking reporters. This pattern of stab wounds—see?”
A tight cluster of eight marks, half an inch to an inch in length, perforated the dead woman's chest roughly in the vicinity of the heart.
“The first two had this,” Kovac said, glancing at Quinn. “They were each strangled and the stabbing was done after the fact.”
“In that exact pattern?”
“Yep. Like a star. See?” Holding his hand three inches above the corpse, he traced the pattern in the air with his index finger. “The longer marks form one X. The shorter marks form another. Smokey Joe strikes again.”
“Other similarities too,” Stone said. “See here: amputation of the nipples and areola.”
“Postmortem?” Quinn asked.
“No.”
Stone looked to her assistant. “Lars, let's turn her over. See what we find on the other side.”
The body had been positioned on its back before being set ablaze. Consequently, the fire damage was contained to the front side. Stone removed the undamaged pieces of clothing and bagged them for the lab. A piece of red spandex skirt. A scrap of chartreuse blouse. No underwear.
“Uh-huh,” Stone murmured to herself, then glanced up at Kovac. “A section of flesh missing from the right buttock.”
“He did this with the others too?” Quinn asked.
“Yes. With the first victim he took a chunk from the right breast. With the second, it was also the right buttock.”
“Eliminating a bite mark?” Hamill speculated aloud.
“Could be,” Quinn said. “Biting certainly isn't unusual with this kind of killer. Any indication of bruising in the tissue? When these guys sink their teeth in, it isn't any love nip.”
Stone took up her little ruler to measure the wounds precisely. “If there was any bruising, he's cut it out. There's considerable muscle gone.”
“Jesus,” Kovac muttered with disgust as he stared at the shiny dark red square on the victim's body, the flesh cut out precisely with a small sharp knife. “Who does this guy think he is? Hannibal Fucking Lecter?”
Quinn gave him a look from the headless end of the body. “Everybody's got a hero.”
CASE NUMBER 11–7820, Jane Doe, Caucasian female, had no organic reason to die. She had been healthy in all respects. Well fed, carrying the extra ten or fifteen pounds most people did. Although what her last meal had been, Dr. Stone had not been able to determine. If this was Jillian, she had digested the dinner she'd eaten with her father before her death. Her body was free of disease and natural defect. Stone had judged her to be between the ages of twenty and twenty-five. A young woman with most of her life ahead of her—until she crossed the path of the wrong man.
This type of killer rarely chose a victim who was ready to die.
Quinn reviewed this fact as he stood on the wet tarmac of the morgue's delivery bay. The damp cold of the night seeped into his clothes, into his muscles. Fog hung like a fine white shroud over the city.
There were too damn many victims who were young women: pretty young women, ordinary young women, women with everything going for them, and women with nothing in their lives but a sliver of hope for something better. All of them broken and wasted like dolls, abused and thrown away as if their lives had meant nothing at all.
“Hope you're not attached to that suit,” Kovac said as he walked up, fishing a cigarette out of a pack of Salem Menthols.
Quinn looked down at himself, knowing the stench of violent death had permeated every fiber of his clothing. “Professional hazard. I didn't have time to change.”
“Me neither. Used to drive my wives crazy.”
“Wives—plural?”
“Consecutive, not concurrent. Two. You know how it is—the job and all. . . . Anyway, my second wife used to call them corpse clothes—whatever I had to wear to a really putrid death scene or an autopsy or something. She made me undress in the garage, and then you'd think she'd maybe burn the clothes or stick 'em in the trash or something, 'cause she sure as hell wouldn't let me wear them again. But no. She'd box the stuff up and take it to the Goodwill—on account of it still had wear in it, she'd say.” He shook his head in amazement. “Underprivi-leged people all over Minneapolis were walking around smelling like dead bodies, thanks to her. You married?”