[In Death 17] - Imitation in Death Page 3

  “She wanted her old life back,” Tressa said. “And it killed her.”

  Chapter 2

  She stopped by the morgue. It was another chance, Eve thought, for the victim to tell her something. Without any real friends, known enemies, associates, family, Jacie Wooton was presenting a picture of a solitary woman in a physical contact occupation. One who considered her body her greatest asset and had chosen to use it to attain the good life.

  Eve needed to find out what that body would tell her about the killer.

  Halfway down the corridor of the dead house, Eve paused. “Find a seat,” she told Peabody. “I want you to contact and harass the lab guys. Plead, whine, threaten, whatever works, but push them on tracking the stationery.”

  “I can handle it. Going in. I’m not going to lose it again.”

  She was already pale, Eve noted. Already seeing it once more—the alley, the blood, the gore. She’d stand up, Eve was sure of it, but at a price. The price didn’t have to be paid, not here and now.

  “I’m not saying you can’t handle it; I’m saying I need the source of the stationery. The killer leaves something behind, we follow up on it. Find a seat, do the job.”

  Without giving Peabody a chance to debate, Eve strode down the hall and through the double doors where the body was waiting.

  She’d expected Morris, the chief medical examiner, to take this one, and wasn’t disappointed. He worked alone, as he often did, suited up in clear protective gear over a blue tunic and skin-pants.

  His long hair was corded back in a shiny ponytail and covered with a cap to prevent contamination of the body. There was a medallion, something in silver with a deep red stone around his neck. His hands were bloody, and his handsome, somewhat exotic face set in stone.

  He often played music while he worked, but today the room was silent but for the quiet hum of machines and the spooky whirl of his laser scalpel.

  “Every now and then,” he said without looking up, “I see something in here that goes beyond. Beyond the human. And we know, don’t we, Dallas, that the human has an amazing capacity for cruelty to its own species? But every once in a while, I see something that takes even that one hideous step beyond.”

  “The throat wound killed her.”

  “Small mercy.” Understanding, he lifted his head. His eyes behind his goggles didn’t smile, as they usually did, nor did they show any spark of fascination with his work. “She wouldn’t have felt the rest that was done to her, wouldn’t have known. She was comfortably dead before he butchered her.”

  “Was it butchery?”

  “How would you define it?” He tossed the scalpel in a tray, gestured with one bloody hand over the mutilated body. “How the hell would you define this?”

  “I don’t have the words. I don’t think there are any. Vicious isn’t enough. Evil doesn’t cover it, not really. I can’t get philosophical now, Morris. That won’t help her. I need to know, did he know what he was doing, or was it a hack job?”

  He was breathing too fast. To steady himself, Morris yanked off his goggles, his cap, then strode over to wash the sealant and blood from his hands.

  “He knew. The cuts were precise. No hesitation, no wasted motions.” He stepped to a friggie, took out two bottles of water. After tossing one to Eve, he drank deeply. “Our killer knows how to color inside the lines.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Your deprived childhood continues to fascinate me. I need to sit a minute.” He did so, scrubbed the heel of one hand between his eyebrows, up to his hairline. “This one got to me. You can’t predict when or how it might happen. With all that comes through here, day after day, this forty-one-year-old woman with her home-job pedicure and the bunion on her left foot got to me.”

  She wasn’t sure how to handle him in this mood. Going with instinct, Eve dragged over a chair, sat beside him, sipped water. He hadn’t turned the recorder off, she thought. It would be up to him whether he edited it or not.

  “You need a vacation, Morris.”

  “I hear that.” He laughed a little. “I was due to leave tomorrow. Two weeks in Aruba. Sun, sea, naked women—the sort who’re still breathing—and a great deal of alcohol consumed out of coconut shells.”

  “Go.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve postponed. I want to see this one through.” He looked over at her now. “There are some you have to see through. I knew as soon as I saw her, what had been done to her, I wouldn’t be sitting on a beach tomorrow.”

  “I could tell you you’ve got good people working for you here. People who’d take good care of her, and whoever else comes in over the next couple of weeks.”

  She sipped the water as she studied the husk of Jacie Wooton, laid bare on a slab in a cold room. “I could tell you that I’m going to find the son of a bitch who did this to her, and build a case that ensures he’ll pay for it. I could tell you all that, and all of it would be true. But I wouldn’t go either.” She rested her head back against the wall. “I wouldn’t go.”

  He mirrored her position, head resting on the wall, legs kicked out. With Jacie Wooton’s butchered body on the table a few feet in front of them.

  And their silence, after a moment, became companionable.

  “What the hell’s wrong with us, Dallas?”

  “Beats me.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, knowing he was settling down again. “We love the dead.” When she snorted, he grinned, eyes still closed. “And not in a sick, boink the corpse sort of way, gutterbrain. Despite whoever they were when they were alive, we love them because they were cheated and misused. The ultimate underdogs.”

  “I guess we’re getting philosophical anyway.”

  “Guess we are.” He did something he rarely did. He touched her. Just a pat of his hand over the back of hers. But it was, Eve realized, a kind of intimacy. An affectionate contact between comrades, and more personal than any act the victim had ever exchanged with a client.

  “They come to us,” Morris continued, “from babies to the doddering old, and everything between. No matter who loved them in life, we’re their most intimate companions in death. And sometimes, that intimacy reaches down inside us and braids our guts like cornrows. Ah, well.”

  “She didn’t seem to have anybody, not really, in life. From the look I got at her place, the lack of—I guess you could say sentiment—she didn’t want anybody in life. So . . . it’s you and me now.”

  “Okay.” He took another drink, rose. “Okay.” Setting the bottle aside, he sealed his hands again, replaced his goggles. “I put a rush on the tox, for what it’s worth. Liver shows some wear, alcohol abuse. But even with that, I’ve found no major damage or disease. Last meal of pasta about six hours premortem. She’s had breast augmentation and an eye tuck, butt lift and some jaw sculpting. All good work.”

  “Recent?”

  “No. Couple of years, at least on the ass job, and I’d judge that as the last maintenance.”

  “Fits. Her luck took a turn, and she wouldn’t’ve had the price of good body work in the last little while.”

  “Moving to the job most recently done on her: The killer used a thin, smooth-bladed knife, probably a scalpel for the throat cut, going left to right, downward stroke. From the angle, her chin was up, head back. He came in from behind, likely pulled her head back by her hair with his left hand, sliced with his right.” Morris demonstrated, using both hands on an invisible form. “One stroke, severing the jugular.”

  “A lot of blood.” Eve continued to study the body, but imagined Jacie Wooton alive and on her feet, face against the dingy wall of the alley. Then the jerk of the head, the quick shock of the pull, the bright pain and confusion. “Lots of gush and splash.”

  “A great deal. He got messy, even coming from behind. For the rest, it’s one long incision.” This Morris drew with a finger in the air. “Quickly, even economically done, I’d say. You can’t call it neat, or surgical, but this wasn’t his first time. He’s cut into flesh befo
re. More than sims, in my opinion. He had to have dealt with flesh and blood before this poor woman.”

  “Not surgical. Not a doctor then?”

  “I wouldn’t rule it out. He’d have been in a hurry, the light was poor, his own excitement, fear, arousal.” Morris’s exotic face mirrored his inner disgust. “Whatever drives this sort of . . . well, words fail me for once. Whatever drove him might very well have hampered his skill. He removed the female organs with, we’ll say, dispatch. It’s not possible to say if there was sexual contact before the removal. But from the time of death, the mutilation, there wouldn’t have been time for games as they were done minutes apart.”

  “Would you peg him as a medical? MT, vet, nurse?” She paused, deliberately, cocked her head. “Pathologist?”

  He gave Eve a small grin. “Possible, certainly. It took some considerable skill given the circumstances. But then again, he didn’t have to concern himself about the patient’s chances of survival. He needed some knowledge of anatomy, some knowledge of the tools he used on her. I would say he certainly studied, certainly practiced, but it may not have been with a medical license, and again may not have been with the goal of keeping the patient alive. I hear there was a note.”

  “Yeah. Addressed to me, which ensured I’d come on as primary.”

  “So he’s made it personal.”

  “You could even say intimate.”

  “I’ll have the test results and report to you as soon as I can. I want to run a few more, see if I can get a closer handle on the knives.”

  “Good. Take it easy, Morris.”

  “Oh, I just take it,” he said as she started for the door. “Dallas? Thank you.”

  She glanced back. “Sure.”

  She gestured to Peabody as she headed down the corridor. “Tell me what I want to know.”

  “The lab, after considerable brownnosing by yours truly, was able to discern that the material used in the note and envelope is of a particular grade of bond. It’s not even recycled, which not only shocks my Free-Ager heart, but means it had to be sold and manufactured outside of the United States and its territories. We have laws here.”

  Eve lifted her eyebrows as she walked back out into the heat. “I thought Free-Agers didn’t believe in man-made laws of government interference in society.”

  “We do when it suits our purposes.” Peabody slid into the car. “It’s English. The paper was manufactured in Britain, and is available in only a handful of outlets around Europe.”

  “Not available in New York.”

  “No, sir. In fact, it’s difficult to buy it through the Internet or mail order as we have unrecycled paper products on our banned list in this country.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Eve’s brain clicked several steps ahead, but as Peabody was studying for her detective’s exam, she thought it was a good pop-quiz question. “So how did it get from Europe to an alley in Chinatown?”

  “Well, people smuggle all sorts of banned products into the States. Or use the black market. Or if you’re traveling on another passport, touring or visiting the U.S., you’re allowed a certain number of personal possessions that aren’t strictly kosher. You could even be a diplomat or something. But whatever, you’d have to pay the price, and it’s high. That particular paper goes for twenty Euro dollars a pop. One sheet. The envelope’s twelve.”

  “Lab boys tell you that?”

  “No, sir. Since I was sitting out there, I checked it out myself.”

  “Good work. You got the outlets?”

  “All the knowns. Though the paper’s manufactured exclusively in Britain, there are sixteen known retailers and two known wholesalers who carry this particular style and weight. Two are in London.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I thought, since he’s copying Jack the Ripper, the London angle was the best.”

  “Start there. We’ll pursue all the outlets, but London will be priority. See if you can get a list for purchases of that paper.”

  “Yes, sir. Lieutenant, about this morning. I know I didn’t do the job—”

  “Peabody,” Eve interrupted. “Did I say you didn’t do the job?”

  “No, but—”

  “Has there been any time since you came under my command that I’ve hesitated to tell you when I felt you didn’t do the job to my requirements, or that I was dissatisfied with your performance, or that you’d screwed up in any way, shape, or form?”

  “Ah, well, no, sir.” Peabody puffed out her cheeks, expelled air audibly. “Now that you mention it.”

  “Then put it away, and get me those client lists.”

  At Central, she was waylaid in the detectives’ bull pen with questions, rumors, speculation about the Wooton homicide. If cops were buzzing about a case, she knew the public would be screaming.

  She escaped to her office, hit the AutoChef for coffee first, then called for her messages and missed transmissions.

  She stopped counting the hits from reporters when she reached twenty. But six of those were from Nadine Furst at Channel 75.

  With coffee in hand, Eve sat at her desk. Drummed her fingers on it. She’d have to deal with the media sooner or later.

  Later would be better. In fact, sometime in the next millennium would suit her just fine. But she’d have to make a statement. Keep it short and official, she decided. Refuse and avoid any sound bytes and one-on-ones.

  That’s what he wanted. He wanted her going out, talking about him, getting airtime and print, giving him some glory.

  Many of them did, she reflected. Most of them did. But this one wanted to be sensational. He wanted the media shouting:

  MODERN DAY RIPPER

  SLASHES THROUGH NEW YORK

  Yeah, that was his style. Big, bold, splashy.

  Jack the Ripper, she thought, and turned to her computer to make notes.

  Grandfather of the modern serial killer.

  Never caught, never positively identified.

  Central figure in multiple studies, stories, speculations for nearly two centuries.

  Subject of fascination and revulsion. And fear.

  Media hype fueled panic and interest during his spree.

  Copycat expects to escape detection. Wishes to instill fear and fascination, and pit himself against police. Would have studied the prototype. Would have studied medicine, formally or informally in order to commit initial crime. Classy stationery, possible symbol of wealth or taste.

  Some of the main suspects in the Ripper case had been upper-class, Eve mused. Even royalty. Above the law. Considering themselves above the law.

  Other speculation had run to the Ripper being an American in London. She’d always thought that bogus, but . . . was it possible her killer was a Brit in America?

  Or maybe a—what did you call it—an Anglophile? Somebody who admired things British. Had he traveled there, walked the streets of Whitechapel? Relived it? Imagined himself as the Ripper?

  She started to type up a report, stopped, then put in a call to Dr. Mira’s office and wrangled an appointment.

  Dr. Charlotte Mira wore one of her elegant suits, an icy blue she’d matched with a trio of long, thin gold chains. Her soft brown hair had a few sunny highlights around her pretty face. They were new, Eve noted, and wondered if that was the sort of thing she was supposed to comment on or pretend she didn’t notice.

  She was never fully at ease in girl territory.

  “I appreciate you making time,” Eve began.

  “I wondered if you’d contact me today.” Mira gestured to one of her scoop chairs. “Everyone’s talking about your case, your particularly gruesome case.”

  “The more gruesome, the more talk.”

  “Yes, you’re right.” Because she imagined Eve had subsisted on coffee all day, Mira programmed her AutoChef for tea. “I don’t know how much of what I’ve heard is accurate.”

  “I’m in the middle of writing my report. I know it’s early to ask you for a profile, but I don’t want to wait on this one. If I’m r
ight, he’s just getting started. Jacie Wooton wasn’t his target, not specifically. I don’t think he knew her, or she him.”

  “You believe it was random.”

  “Not exactly. He wanted a particular type of woman, an LC. A whore. A street prostitute in a poor area of the city. He had very specific requirements; Wooton’s dead because she met them. Nothing more or less than that. I’ll give you everything I’ve got orally, then once I’ve worked it up, I’ll send you everything in a file. But I want, I need,” she corrected, “some sense that I’m going down the right road.”

  “Tell me what you know.” Mira handed her a delicate china cup, then sat and balanced her own on her knee.

  She began with the victim, giving Mira a sketch of Jacie Wooton, as she had been, as she’d been found. She described the note, her fieldwork thus far, and Morris’s preliminary findings.

  “Jack,” Mira murmured. “Jack the Ripper.”

  Eve leaned forward. “You know about him?”

  “Any criminal profiler worth her salt has studied Saucy Jack. You think we’re dealing with a copycat?”

  “Do you?”

  Settling back, Mira sipped her tea. “He’s certainly laid the groundwork for that conclusion. He’d be educated, egocentric. He abhors women. The fact that he chose that particular style of killing is telling. His prototype for this crime assaulted and mutilated women in different ways. He’s elected to mimic the one that attacks and removes that which makes the victim female.”

  She saw by Eve’s slow nod that the lieutenant had already reached that same conclusion.

  “He has, essentially, desexed her. Sex is equated for him with lust, violence, control, humiliation. His relationships with women are neither healthy nor traditional. He sees himself as elite, canny, even brilliant. So only you would do, Eve.”