you’ve got something,” Vickie said before starting back across the crowded office, and Kay wondered if the ASA was even aware of the stares that tracked her exit.
Kay wheeled her chair behind her desk. Draping her jacket over its back, she fished out her untouched breakfast from one pocket and tossed it in the trash. Nausea coiled in her stomach. It was the heat. And it was the memory of Valley’s autopsy. Seeing the girl being cut, hearing the whine of the Stryker saw as it touched against the bared skull, seeing her organs removed one at a time …
“Hey, Delaney. Line four. ME’s office.”
Kay pushed aside several reports to uncover the phone. “Hi, Jonesy. What’ve you got?”
“Maybe nothing. Found a couple marks on your vic.” Eddie Jones watched too many cop shows and read too many novels. She hated when he resorted to fiction cop-talk. “Can’t be hundred percent certain. I’m waiting for Becky to look at ’em for me,” he said, referring to the other assistant ME on staff. “She’s dealt with these before.”
“What are they?”
“Couple small, circular contusions. Back of the neck. Two and a quarter inches apart. To me they look like the kinda marks left by the prods of a stun gun. If I’m wrong, I’ll give you a call back.”
“Thanks, Jonesy.” Kay hung up. Next to the phone, on the top of her stacked paper trays, the plain manila envelope had already arrived from upstairs. One complete set of crime-scene photos.
Kay opened the envelope and slid out the stack of photos. They were in the order they’d been taken. Long shots of the warehouse, the side alley, the charred openings of the windows. She could picture the scene before the destruction of the fire. And she could picture the back parking lot of Notre Dame.
He’d waited in the dark, after busting the light. Then nailed her with a stun gun.
Kay saw Valley on the autopsy table. Saw the rope.
You tied her because you weren’t sure how long she’d be out. Was she in the backseat? Or did you prop her in the front next to you, your hand on her knee the whole time?
Once you had her in the warehouse, you held her throat in your hands. Did she struggle? Did it make you feel powerful?
Kay exhaled, trying to let go of the anger that flexed along her jaw. She flipped through more photos: the red gasoline can, soot and debris, a mannequin’s arm.
You burned her because you’d left evidence of yourself. What? Hair? Fiber?
Jonesy said there was no evidence of sexual assault.
But killing her turned you on, didn’t it? It had to have given you a rush. Did you masturbate on her, you son of a bitch? You’d left your DNA all over her, so you had to burn her. Did you watch while she burned? Did you enjoy the flames? The crackle of heat as the fire hissed against human flesh?
But what about the knife? What about the goddamned knife?
Kay flipped through the last of the photos, stopping when she found one of Finn. It wasn’t uncommon for a detective to request his picture be taken on a crime scene. Usually for posterity. But Kay didn’t imagine Finn had asked for this photo. He’d obviously gotten into the camera’s frame, or maybe the lab tech had a crush on him.
In the picture Finn towered over Valley’s body, the edges of his jacket brushed aside, his hands on his hips. The flare of the camera’s flash was harsh, and Finn was obviously tired. Still, he looked good. He’d never stopped looking good to her, she realized.
For the first time, Kay wondered if he was seeing anyone.
12
“EARLIER THIS MORNING Baltimore Fire personnel responded to a two-alarm blaze here in Canton, at this vacant warehouse north of Boston Street, last operated as Dutton Mannequin. Fire officials are not revealing what sparked the fire, but at this time arson has not been ruled out.”
The news camera panned the front of the warehouse and the sea of emergency vehicles lighting up the night. It was beautiful. Like
Kay wheeled her chair behind her desk. Draping her jacket over its back, she fished out her untouched breakfast from one pocket and tossed it in the trash. Nausea coiled in her stomach. It was the heat. And it was the memory of Valley’s autopsy. Seeing the girl being cut, hearing the whine of the Stryker saw as it touched against the bared skull, seeing her organs removed one at a time …
“Hey, Delaney. Line four. ME’s office.”
Kay pushed aside several reports to uncover the phone. “Hi, Jonesy. What’ve you got?”
“Maybe nothing. Found a couple marks on your vic.” Eddie Jones watched too many cop shows and read too many novels. She hated when he resorted to fiction cop-talk. “Can’t be hundred percent certain. I’m waiting for Becky to look at ’em for me,” he said, referring to the other assistant ME on staff. “She’s dealt with these before.”
“What are they?”
“Couple small, circular contusions. Back of the neck. Two and a quarter inches apart. To me they look like the kinda marks left by the prods of a stun gun. If I’m wrong, I’ll give you a call back.”
“Thanks, Jonesy.” Kay hung up. Next to the phone, on the top of her stacked paper trays, the plain manila envelope had already arrived from upstairs. One complete set of crime-scene photos.
Kay opened the envelope and slid out the stack of photos. They were in the order they’d been taken. Long shots of the warehouse, the side alley, the charred openings of the windows. She could picture the scene before the destruction of the fire. And she could picture the back parking lot of Notre Dame.
He’d waited in the dark, after busting the light. Then nailed her with a stun gun.
Kay saw Valley on the autopsy table. Saw the rope.
You tied her because you weren’t sure how long she’d be out. Was she in the backseat? Or did you prop her in the front next to you, your hand on her knee the whole time?
Once you had her in the warehouse, you held her throat in your hands. Did she struggle? Did it make you feel powerful?
Kay exhaled, trying to let go of the anger that flexed along her jaw. She flipped through more photos: the red gasoline can, soot and debris, a mannequin’s arm.
You burned her because you’d left evidence of yourself. What? Hair? Fiber?
Jonesy said there was no evidence of sexual assault.
But killing her turned you on, didn’t it? It had to have given you a rush. Did you masturbate on her, you son of a bitch? You’d left your DNA all over her, so you had to burn her. Did you watch while she burned? Did you enjoy the flames? The crackle of heat as the fire hissed against human flesh?
But what about the knife? What about the goddamned knife?
Kay flipped through the last of the photos, stopping when she found one of Finn. It wasn’t uncommon for a detective to request his picture be taken on a crime scene. Usually for posterity. But Kay didn’t imagine Finn had asked for this photo. He’d obviously gotten into the camera’s frame, or maybe the lab tech had a crush on him.
In the picture Finn towered over Valley’s body, the edges of his jacket brushed aside, his hands on his hips. The flare of the camera’s flash was harsh, and Finn was obviously tired. Still, he looked good. He’d never stopped looking good to her, she realized.
For the first time, Kay wondered if he was seeing anyone.
12
“EARLIER THIS MORNING Baltimore Fire personnel responded to a two-alarm blaze here in Canton, at this vacant warehouse north of Boston Street, last operated as Dutton Mannequin. Fire officials are not revealing what sparked the fire, but at this time arson has not been ruled out.”
The news camera panned the front of the warehouse and the sea of emergency vehicles lighting up the night. It was beautiful. Like
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