Dead Don't Lie. Lynell Nicolello
head, or what was left of it, and her stomach heaved. Should’ve grabbed a scone before chugging that coffee. She swallowed hard. Just like the last male victim, his head had been blown off. And just like the last scene, the wife lay at her husband’s feet.
Jake knelt, and they followed suit. With the tip of his pen, he pointed to a crimson stain seeping through the woman’s green silk pajama top. “See here. She was shot in the heart, then stabbed repeatedly. Twenty-seven times.”
“Holy shit,” Ryan said. “You sure?”
“See the lack of blood spray?” Jake pivoted on his toes and pointed to the wall. “If her heart was still beating while the unsub inflicted these wounds, there’d be more blood splatter.”
Ryan turned away from the woman’s mutilated body. “That’s truly disgusting.”
Evelyn whistled. “That’s a whole lot of rage.”
“He’s escalating his pace.” Marcus looked up, concern in his face.
She rose. “And we’ve still got nothing.”
Evelyn scanned the room. Something was missing. Rather, not something, but someone.
“Where are the children?”
Jake shook his head, eyes downcast. “They’re upstairs. Both smothered in their beds.”
Evelyn glanced at Ryan, who’d lifted his eyes to meet hers. Their guy was accelerating his pace and switching modes of killing with each new crime scene. That didn’t fit the typical serial, unless he was taunting them with the switch-up. Was something pushing him? Was he ramping up to something? Or was he just enjoying the power and needed more to get off? If so, he was more sadistic than she’d originally thought—and that was saying a lot.
* * *
EVELYN HAD PUT a rush on the autopsy, but hadn’t expected the results so soon. It wasn’t the best scenario in the world to be called to after lunch, but death didn’t care about convenience. The doc had called. So here they were, headed to the icebox. She hoped Marcus could keep his lunch down. The man hadn’t left their side since this morning.
The autopsy room’s two glass doors vanished into the recesses of the wall. The cool air slammed into Evelyn as the morgue’s distinct smell rode on its chilly gust. Despite years of visiting this place, it still made her insides crawl. Every time she stepped over the threshold, her own loss pounded against the back of her throat. She couldn’t prevent her mind from rushing back to the first time she’d been in a morgue. The smell of the chemicals. The bone-chilling cold. The sound of the slab being pulled open, and her father’s lifeless body being displayed for her to identify. She shuddered. The sooner they could get this over with, the better.
With his back to them, Dr. Chapman placed a heart onto the scale and stepped away. Green numbers jumped around until landing on a final weight. He scribbled something onto a legal pad sitting on the metal table.
“Hey, Doc,” Ryan said.
Chapman turned and smiled grimly at them. He used the back of his hand to push his goggles up his wide nose. Wisps of unruly white hair stuck out from beneath his cap. He reminded Evelyn of Santa Claus—only creepy.
Marcus stepped forward and extended his hand toward Chapman. “Special Agent Marcus Moretti.”
Chapman looked at him and scowled, raising hands encased in bloodied gloves. Marcus dropped his hand and quickly stepped back.
“Yes, I’m well aware of who you are, Agent.”
Evelyn resisted the urge to laugh. There wasn’t enough money in the world to convince her to shake hands with Chapman when he was elbow-deep in an autopsy. Ryan pressed his lips together, no doubt swallowing his own laughter.
“Anything useful?” Evelyn walked along the line of covered bodies, scanned the toe tags and stopped in front of a foot marked “Jason Howard.”
Chapman sighed. “I wish I could help you bag this guy, Detective Davis. Truly, I do, but he was very thorough.”
“I don’t think thorough is quite how I’d put it. Psychotic, yes—thorough, no.”
“Easy, tiger,” Ryan whispered into her ear.
Marcus chuckled, a deep dimple appearing in his cheek. Evelyn flushed.
Apparently she’d pulled the feisty card this morning, yet Ryan was as calm as a Seattle summer day.
Chapman let out a long breath. “I agree with your assessment, Detective. The guy is a psychopath. Anyone who would do such atrocious things to innocent children is a monster in my book. But that doesn’t change my findings. He was meticulous. This guy left nothing—no traces, no hair follicles, no blood, no fingerprints—at the scenes, or on any of the victims, for that matter. My guess is this isn’t his first rodeo. But, as you always say, Detective Davis, the dead don’t lie.”
She nodded. Marcus tilted his head, a question flashing across his face. She ignored it and focused on the doctor’s report.
Chapman turned his attention back to the organ on the scale. “I’m confident you’ll find this guy—just let them tell you their story.”
THE NEXT MORNING Ryan blew into the bull pen like a volcano ready to explode. His jacket flapped around his shoulder harness as he stormed toward her. Evelyn’s eyebrows shot up. She could count on one hand how many times she’d seen him this spun up. Whatever had set him off must’ve been good...or really bad. From her seat, she held up the cup of coffee she’d poured for him and waited.
He grabbed the mug and shoved the Seattle Times under her nose. “Have you seen this horseshit?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
He marched around her desk and dropped into his chair. Thumping down his mug, caramel liquid splashing over the sides, he ripped open the paper and started reading.
“‘Dear Editor—you’d be wise to advise the ever-glorious Seattle police force that I will kill one of your precious Seattle families every week until she figures it out. Think fast, sweetheart.’” Ryan slammed down the paper. His eyes grew dark. “Why would they print this shit? And who the hell is she?”
“Evelyn is.” Marcus walked up, coffee and doughnut in hand, and sat on the corner of her desk. What was with him sitting on people’s desks? Didn’t his mother teach him manners? But she couldn’t ignore how exceptionally sexy he looked in his tailored tan pants, crisp white shirt, leather shoulder harness and red tie. And those curls. Good god, those curls. She shook her head at the rogue thought.
Get it together.
“What?” Evelyn pushed back her chair, creating distance between her and the handsome man invading her personal space. She hadn’t meant to be sharp, but the lack of sleep and the heavy weight of this case chipped away at her normally poised, self-controlled demeanor. Its eerie similarity—however vague it might be—to her own family’s murder unsettled her. Add the fact that the fifteenth anniversary of her family’s death was just a few weeks away, and it was no wonder that she was a bit impatient with Marcus.
But now she was noticing how sexy he looked? Good grief.
She glanced up at him. He smiled and her heart took off.
“You can’t possibly know that he’s referring to me.”
His shoulders raised in a slight shrug. “True. I don’t. But I’d bet my pension on it.”
“Okay, I’ll bite,” Ryan said. “Talk, Mr. Special Agent Man.”
She shifted in her chair, lips curled in a tiny smile. She enjoyed the play between the two men, and Ryan was in rare form today.