that?”
The entire back of the man’s body was covered in tiny welts, large patches of what looked like a rash on his calves, buttocks, and shoulders. What attracted O’Dell’s focus was the tattoo that spread over the entire left shoulder blade. It looked like the Grim Reaper, only there was something very different about it, despite being marred by the skin welts. It was distinctly female, clad in an elaborate robe and holding a scythe along with other items that were lost in the eruptions.
The others dismissed the tattoo. Stan poked and pressed the patches with a gloved index finger. One of the CSU techs began taking photos. O’Dell stood up and pulled out her cell phone. She zoomed her camera in on the tattoo and took several shots.
Taking a step back, she noticed that the worst areas—the most densely rashed—were those that would be in contact—unavoidable contact—with the ground or a surface, if the man had been restrained on his back. Maybe tied down. She pulled her eyes away to glance at the wrists and ankles. This close, she could see that ligatures—which were gone now—had cut deep into the skin.
“Was it something in the water?” another of the CSU techs asked.
But Stan was already shaking his head.
“I can’t say for sure until I take some samples, but I think this happened pre-mortem.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I have,” Stan said as he pressed his latex-covered index finger against a particularly nasty area on the victim’s shoulder. “One other time. Not this bad. Nothing like this.”
“They’re insect bites,” O’Dell guessed.
On closer inspection, the tiny welts looked like pus-filled blisters. And Stan was right—the skin wouldn’t continue to produce pus and blister like this after the heart had stopped.
“They’re not just any insect bite.” He looked over at O’Dell and waited for her eyes. “They’re fire ants. And nobody just falls onto a gigantic mound of fire ants and lies there.”
“Not unless they’re tied down.” She pointed to the wrists and ankles, which were bloated over the telltale markings.
“If I’m correct about these being fire ants, then this didn’t happen to him anywhere near this river,” Stan told her.
“How can you be certain about that?”
“Fire ants can’t survive in areas that freeze during the winter.” He said it without a doubt.
“So the killer tortured him somewhere else.”
“Not just somewhere else. It’d have to be at least five or six hundred miles south of here.”
“Oh great. So the original crime scene could be anywhere.” She pointed to the victim’s shoulder. “Any of you recognize the tattoo?” she asked.
The tech with the camera hunched over it and clicked off a couple of close-ups. Then he shrugged and said, “Not sure.”
O’Dell crossed her arms over her chest and stared out at the water of the Potomac. So delivering the “package” here must also serve some twisted purpose in the killer’s MO. You didn’t have to go far along this river to see monuments and historical landmarks from the water’s edge. And once again, she couldn’t help wondering if her boss had sent her out on yet another political goose chase.
12
F ALCO STARED AT HIS BOOTS . It was better than watching the spiders. He hated spiders. So he kept his eyes on his boots. Mud globbed into the seams where the leather met the sole. The toes were smeared, the heels caked, leaving no signs of the high-polished condition he obsessed over. He had other boots but these were his favorites. These made him walk like a cowboy, and he liked that. They had cost him more than his poor mother made in a month.
Falco had grown up watching American Westerns, old black-and-white movies that made the actors look tough, the landscape unforgiving, and the women more vulnerable. He liked to wear white button-down shirts with short sleeves and black jeans. Black and white had become his signature. Sometimes Falco even
The entire back of the man’s body was covered in tiny welts, large patches of what looked like a rash on his calves, buttocks, and shoulders. What attracted O’Dell’s focus was the tattoo that spread over the entire left shoulder blade. It looked like the Grim Reaper, only there was something very different about it, despite being marred by the skin welts. It was distinctly female, clad in an elaborate robe and holding a scythe along with other items that were lost in the eruptions.
The others dismissed the tattoo. Stan poked and pressed the patches with a gloved index finger. One of the CSU techs began taking photos. O’Dell stood up and pulled out her cell phone. She zoomed her camera in on the tattoo and took several shots.
Taking a step back, she noticed that the worst areas—the most densely rashed—were those that would be in contact—unavoidable contact—with the ground or a surface, if the man had been restrained on his back. Maybe tied down. She pulled her eyes away to glance at the wrists and ankles. This close, she could see that ligatures—which were gone now—had cut deep into the skin.
“Was it something in the water?” another of the CSU techs asked.
But Stan was already shaking his head.
“I can’t say for sure until I take some samples, but I think this happened pre-mortem.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I have,” Stan said as he pressed his latex-covered index finger against a particularly nasty area on the victim’s shoulder. “One other time. Not this bad. Nothing like this.”
“They’re insect bites,” O’Dell guessed.
On closer inspection, the tiny welts looked like pus-filled blisters. And Stan was right—the skin wouldn’t continue to produce pus and blister like this after the heart had stopped.
“They’re not just any insect bite.” He looked over at O’Dell and waited for her eyes. “They’re fire ants. And nobody just falls onto a gigantic mound of fire ants and lies there.”
“Not unless they’re tied down.” She pointed to the wrists and ankles, which were bloated over the telltale markings.
“If I’m correct about these being fire ants, then this didn’t happen to him anywhere near this river,” Stan told her.
“How can you be certain about that?”
“Fire ants can’t survive in areas that freeze during the winter.” He said it without a doubt.
“So the killer tortured him somewhere else.”
“Not just somewhere else. It’d have to be at least five or six hundred miles south of here.”
“Oh great. So the original crime scene could be anywhere.” She pointed to the victim’s shoulder. “Any of you recognize the tattoo?” she asked.
The tech with the camera hunched over it and clicked off a couple of close-ups. Then he shrugged and said, “Not sure.”
O’Dell crossed her arms over her chest and stared out at the water of the Potomac. So delivering the “package” here must also serve some twisted purpose in the killer’s MO. You didn’t have to go far along this river to see monuments and historical landmarks from the water’s edge. And once again, she couldn’t help wondering if her boss had sent her out on yet another political goose chase.
12
F ALCO STARED AT HIS BOOTS . It was better than watching the spiders. He hated spiders. So he kept his eyes on his boots. Mud globbed into the seams where the leather met the sole. The toes were smeared, the heels caked, leaving no signs of the high-polished condition he obsessed over. He had other boots but these were his favorites. These made him walk like a cowboy, and he liked that. They had cost him more than his poor mother made in a month.
Falco had grown up watching American Westerns, old black-and-white movies that made the actors look tough, the landscape unforgiving, and the women more vulnerable. He liked to wear white button-down shirts with short sleeves and black jeans. Black and white had become his signature. Sometimes Falco even
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