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As Ryan and Evelyn approached, the CSI officer rose from his place in front of one of the chairs. He barely looked old enough to drive, and still had the acne to prove it, but he was one hell of an investigator. If Evelyn had her choice, she’d handpick him to be her CSI lead every time.
“Hey, guys,” Jake said.
“Agent,” Evelyn said and nodded in Marcus’s direction. How was it possible for him to look so good even just after 4:00 a.m.?
“Evelyn.” Marcus smiled, pulling heat from every cell within her.
“What have we got?” she asked, turning her attention to Jake.
Jake shook his head. “Whoever did this is certifiably nuts.”
“You won’t get any argument there,” Ryan agreed.
Jake motioned for them to circle the chair. Evelyn looked at the man’s 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.”
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