Alex Cross 02 - Kiss the Girls by James Patterson
Authors: James Patterson
Tags: FIC031000
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entomologist has already
collected his samples. He’ll be able to give us the exact time of death.”
“This could be Bette Anne Ryerson,” one of the gray-haired FBI agents within earshot said. “There was a missing-person report
on her. Blond-haired gal, five six, about a hundred and ten pounds. Wearing a gold Seiko when she disappeared. Drop-dead gorgeous,
at least she used to be.”
“Mother of two kids,” said one of the female agents. “Graduate English student at North Carolina State. I interviewed her
husband, who’s a professor. Met her two children. Beautiful little kids. One and three years old. Goddamn this bastard.” The
agent started to choke up.
I could see the wristwatch, and the ribbon that tied back her hair had come undone and rested on her shoulder. She was no
longer beautiful. What was left of her was bloated and suffused. The odor of decomposition was pungent even out in the open
air.
The empty sockets seemed to be staring up into a crescent-shaped opening at the tops of the pine trees, and I wondered what
her eyes had looked at last.
I tried to imagine “Casanova” cavorting around in these deep dark woods before we had arrived. I took a guess that he was
in his twenties or thirties, and physically strong. I was afraid for Scootchie, much more than I had been, in fact.
Casanova. The world’s greatest lover… God save us.
Chapter 15
I T WAS well past ten o’clock, and we were still at the grisly, highly disturbing murder scene. The dazzling amber headlights
of official cars and emergency vehicles were used to illuminate a footworn path into the shadowy woods. It was getting colder
outside. The chill night wind was a gritty slap in the face.
The corpse still hadn’t been moved.
I watched the Bureau’s technicians dutifully strip search the woods, collecting forensic clues and taking measurements. The
immediate area had been cordoned off, but I made a sketch in the dim light, and took my own preliminary notes. I was trying
to remember what I could about the original Casanova. Eighteenth-century adventurer, writer, libertine. I had read parts of
his memoirs somewhere along the line.
Beyond the obvious, why had the killer chosen the name? Did he believe that he truly loved women? Was this his way of showing
it?
We could hear a bird somewhere let out an unearthly scream, and also the sounds of small animals all around us. Nobody thought
of Bambi in these woods. Not under the circumstances of the gruesome murder.
Between ten-thirty and eleven, we heard a loud roar like thunder in the eerie woods. Nervous eyes looked up into the blue-black
sky.
“There’s a familiar old tune,” Sampson said as he saw the fluttering lights of an incoming helicopter approaching from the
northeast.
“Probably mediflight finally coming for the body,” I said.
A dark blue helicopter with gold stripes finally swirled down onto the blacktop highway. Whoever was piloting the copter in
was a real pro.
“Not mediflight,” Sampson said; “more likely be Mick Jagger. Big stars travel in copters like that one.”
Joyce Kinney and the regional Bureau director were already headed back to the highway. Sampson and I followed along like uninvited
pests.
We received another rude shock right away. Both of us recognized the tall, balding, distinguished-looking man who stepped
from the helicopter.
“Now what the hell is
he
doing down here?” Sampson said. I had the same question, the same uneasy reaction. It was the deputy director of the FBI.
The number two man, Ronald Burns. Burns was a real hummer inside the Bureau, a bigtime cage rattler.
We both knew Burns from our last “multijurisdictional” case. He was supposed to be political, a bad guy inside the Bureau,
but he had never been that way with me. After he had looked at the body, he asked to speak to me. It was getting stranger
and stranger down in Carolina.
Burns wanted to hold our little talk
collected his samples. He’ll be able to give us the exact time of death.”
“This could be Bette Anne Ryerson,” one of the gray-haired FBI agents within earshot said. “There was a missing-person report
on her. Blond-haired gal, five six, about a hundred and ten pounds. Wearing a gold Seiko when she disappeared. Drop-dead gorgeous,
at least she used to be.”
“Mother of two kids,” said one of the female agents. “Graduate English student at North Carolina State. I interviewed her
husband, who’s a professor. Met her two children. Beautiful little kids. One and three years old. Goddamn this bastard.” The
agent started to choke up.
I could see the wristwatch, and the ribbon that tied back her hair had come undone and rested on her shoulder. She was no
longer beautiful. What was left of her was bloated and suffused. The odor of decomposition was pungent even out in the open
air.
The empty sockets seemed to be staring up into a crescent-shaped opening at the tops of the pine trees, and I wondered what
her eyes had looked at last.
I tried to imagine “Casanova” cavorting around in these deep dark woods before we had arrived. I took a guess that he was
in his twenties or thirties, and physically strong. I was afraid for Scootchie, much more than I had been, in fact.
Casanova. The world’s greatest lover… God save us.
Chapter 15
I T WAS well past ten o’clock, and we were still at the grisly, highly disturbing murder scene. The dazzling amber headlights
of official cars and emergency vehicles were used to illuminate a footworn path into the shadowy woods. It was getting colder
outside. The chill night wind was a gritty slap in the face.
The corpse still hadn’t been moved.
I watched the Bureau’s technicians dutifully strip search the woods, collecting forensic clues and taking measurements. The
immediate area had been cordoned off, but I made a sketch in the dim light, and took my own preliminary notes. I was trying
to remember what I could about the original Casanova. Eighteenth-century adventurer, writer, libertine. I had read parts of
his memoirs somewhere along the line.
Beyond the obvious, why had the killer chosen the name? Did he believe that he truly loved women? Was this his way of showing
it?
We could hear a bird somewhere let out an unearthly scream, and also the sounds of small animals all around us. Nobody thought
of Bambi in these woods. Not under the circumstances of the gruesome murder.
Between ten-thirty and eleven, we heard a loud roar like thunder in the eerie woods. Nervous eyes looked up into the blue-black
sky.
“There’s a familiar old tune,” Sampson said as he saw the fluttering lights of an incoming helicopter approaching from the
northeast.
“Probably mediflight finally coming for the body,” I said.
A dark blue helicopter with gold stripes finally swirled down onto the blacktop highway. Whoever was piloting the copter in
was a real pro.
“Not mediflight,” Sampson said; “more likely be Mick Jagger. Big stars travel in copters like that one.”
Joyce Kinney and the regional Bureau director were already headed back to the highway. Sampson and I followed along like uninvited
pests.
We received another rude shock right away. Both of us recognized the tall, balding, distinguished-looking man who stepped
from the helicopter.
“Now what the hell is
he
doing down here?” Sampson said. I had the same question, the same uneasy reaction. It was the deputy director of the FBI.
The number two man, Ronald Burns. Burns was a real hummer inside the Bureau, a bigtime cage rattler.
We both knew Burns from our last “multijurisdictional” case. He was supposed to be political, a bad guy inside the Bureau,
but he had never been that way with me. After he had looked at the body, he asked to speak to me. It was getting stranger
and stranger down in Carolina.
Burns wanted to hold our little talk
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