Not until tonight.
“Did you love her?”
“What was not to love?”
“But… but you…”
“Hunted her? Killed her?” Excitement animated his face and laced his voice. “Gutted her?”
Nikki looked away.
“Does that scare you, Nikki?”
Of course, it scared her. Her throat was so dry she could barely speak. But for some reason, she didn’t want to admit it. She’d do just about anything to avoid admitting it. “I… I just want to understand.”
“Didn’t you read your sister’s theories?”
Nikki shook her head.
“Look at me.”
Nikki forced herself to focus on his eyes.
“You didn’t read Risa’s article? The one you told me about?”
“No. I swear.”
“Good. Your sister is full of shit.”
Risa had warned Nikki. Over and over. But Nikki hadn’t wanted to believe her. She still didn’t feel totally sure, even though she knew she should be. All Nikki had ever wanted was to be loved, to be special. Eddie had given her that. He’d given her so much. “None of this makes sense.”
“It makes perfect sense.”
“You said it was your wife…”
“It was. That was about survival. Self-defense. After all she did to me, I had to fight back, didn’t I?”
Nikki tried to swallow. Her tongue felt swollen and dry. Her lip throbbed.
“Didn’t I?”
“Yes… of course… but…”
“But what?”
“I… You said you changed. That I changed you.”
“Women like that, don’t they? They say they’re in love, that they want to marry a man for who he is, and then all they ever want is for him to change. That is what doesn’t make sense.”
“I don’t want you to change.”
“You just said you did.”
“No, I didn’t mean that, I…”
“You don’t even lie well.”
“No, Eddie, please. I love you. I just want to understand.”
“You want to know why I killed her.”
Nikki did… and she didn’t. Unable to look into his eyes one second longer, she lowered her gaze, focused on his shirt. Fine drops of blood sprayed the navy cotton, like a universe of dark stars.
It took her three tries to get the words out. “Why did you?”
He took a gulp from the bottle then broke into a smile. “So I didn’t have to kill you.”
Trent
Most people wouldn’t think of human mortality as having an odor, but Trent knew better. It hung in the autopsy room, raw as peeled flesh and thick as blood. It colored the air like a red cloud and soaked so deeply into clothing fibers, hair, and skin that even scrubbing with harsh detergents wouldn’t remove all the residue.
The coroner looked up from his ice cream sandwich, a trickle of melted cream snaking into his scruffy, salt-and-pepper beard. “Hiya.”
“Trent Burnell. I’m with the FBI.”
“Coulda guessed that from the suit.” The man held out the open box of ice cream novelties. “Sandwich?”
“Uh, no thanks.”
He popped the last bite into his mouth and licked his fingers. “Suit yourself. So you from Milwaukee?”
“Quantico.”
“Ahh, you must be the Silence of the Lambs man.”
“Silence of the Lambs?”
“The movie. Anthony Hopkins as Hannibal Lector.”
“I know the one. It was also a book.”
“I only saw the movie. But you wouldn’t be Hopkins, would you? You’d be who, Scott Glenn?”
Trent had the feeling this county coroner would be more than happy chatting about movies all day, and Trent didn’t have the time. “And you must be Harlan Runk.”
“I must be. Welcome to my morgue, Scott.”
“Scott?” Subera bulled his way through the door. “Who’s Scott?”
“Another one, huh?” Harlan wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Guess that makes him Jodie Foster.”
Subera shot Harlan a pained look. “This isn’t another Silence of the Lambs thing, is it?”
Trent gave him a sympathetic tilt of the lips. Since the movie had come out in 1991, five years ago now, FBI agents had been subjected to endless streams of comments related to the film and jokes about fava beans.
It was getting a little old. “Why don’t we get to the autopsy?”
“Right-o. Time’s a wastin’.” The coroner bounced off his stool and directed them to the boxes of protective clothing to pull over their suits, hair, and shoes. “You want to start with Mr. Bevin or Ms. Hamilton?”
“Hamilton,” Trent said. As tragic as the death of Bevin was, the body found in Nikki’s car by a jogger, Trent was fairly certain Dryden’s core motive for killing him was simple. He and Nikki needed a car that law enforcement everywhere wasn’t searching for. Farrentina Hamilton, on the other hand, might provide them with some answers. And the sooner they got answers, the better.
When the coroner left, Subera turned to Trent. “We have to talk.”
Trent braced himself for what was coming.
“I want to set that trap for Dryden,” Subera said slipping off his suit jacket. “Do you think Professor Madden is still game?”
Thunder rose in Trent’s ears. He wanted to say she’d changed her mind, but one word with Risa and Subera would know it was a lie. “You’ll have to talk to her.”
“I think it could work. And frankly, I don’t see us having a lot of alternatives. Hash it out after the autopsy?”
“Yeah. Sure.” A conversation Trent was not looking forward to.
Once they were fully covered in seafoam green garb, Trent and Subera ventured back into the autopsy theater.
The cooler door stood open, a waft of colder and even fouler air drifting into the room. Harlan Runk emerged with a gurney and positioned it, and the body it bore, in front of the long, stainless steel sink. Bright lights reflected off his round, cherry-red cheeks and nose, making him look like a middle-aged Santa Claus during his off months. “Isn’t Dan Cassidy supposed to be here? Or is it just going to be you Federal folks today?”
Trent hadn’t had a chance to confront the detective, a conversation he was looking forward to much more than the one with Subera.
Trent checked his watch. “We really can’t afford to wait.”
Next to him, Subera nodded. “We’ll start without Cassidy.”
“Will do.” With the flourish of a well-rehearsed tradition, Doc punched the Play button on the boom box in the corner and unveiled Farrentina Hamilton’s body. Soft strains of Duke Ellington spiraled through the room, the energetic jazz a strange backdrop to the gruesome scene spread before them.
Like Dryden’s other victims, a deep knife slit ran from her breastbone to her pubic bone. But instead of focusing on the horror of the wound or the memories of Dryden’s other victims, Trent pulled out his notebook and started jotting down dry facts. Details. Evidence.
Later the sight of Farrentina’s body would haunt him, torment him, just like all the others. The cruelty she’d endured. The degradation and pain and terror she’d felt in her last moments. The evil that had stolen her life. But now, the only way to stop Dryden was to pay attention.
As unkempt and eccentric as Harlan appeared at first, the man seemed to be conscientious when it came to his job. He prodded and measured and weighed and photographed, dictating into his voice recorder as he worked. He started with the external exam, documenting each scrape, bruise, and cut. Ligature marks circled her wrists and neck. Fish hooks punctured various parts of her body, the more sensitive, the better, it seemed. Her hands, knees and the bottoms of her feet were scuffed and gashed, debris clinging to the wounds. Her nails were chipped and something that appeared to be soil was lodged underneath.