there.”
“Slicing off her tits took a bit of know-how and skill.”
“Medical skill?”
“No. More like practice-makes-almost-perfect skill. They were done antemortem. It’s a wonder she didn’t die of shock early in the process. The killer was expert at keeping her alive as long as possible. He was the one who chose almost the precise instant of death. I would imagine that was important to him.”
“Try not to imagine,” Quinn said. But he knew Nift was right. It simply irritated him that the smarmy little M.E. enjoyed playing detective.
Nift gave a low chuckle that reminded Quinn of Charmain Graham’s description of the killer’s laugh. “Macy’s evening wasn’t all bad,” Nift said. “Stomach contents were steak, salad, red wine, consumed approximately five hours before her death. She was wined and dined and then—”
“Raped?”
“Maybe. Could have been consensual. But damage to the vaginal tract suggests otherwise. And there was residue of the kind of substance used on pre-lubricated condoms.”
“You sure about that?”
“Positive. I see it over and over,” Nift said, in an oddly cheerful voice.
“Our killer practicing safe sex,” Quinn said.
“Whatever entered her might not have been a penis.”
“A dildo?”
“Maybe. Or some make-do inanimate object that required lubrication.”
“Or some object ceremonial to the killer.”
“It could be we’re making too much of it,” Nift said. “We can’t rule out simple, consensual sex. She might have been wined, dined, and reclined—and enjoyed that part of it, even though it had to have been rough. There’s some frictional damage to the vaginal wall. But you know women.”
“I wish.”
“There isn’t any sign of her resisting until after she was gagged and taped.”
“The wine, maybe.”
“Could be. If she wasn’t used to it. And there are traces of an over-the-counter sedative in her stomach. Bruising on her arms is consistent with the killer straddling her and pinning her down. Maybe keeping her hands away from her face after slapping that tape over her mouth. He had to have taken some of the fight out of her before taping her arms to her sides.”
“That would take a strong person.”
“Average-strength man, stronger-than-average woman. He was probably seated on her boobs, then slid down toward her pubic area while applying the tape. My guess is he waited until she was stunned and exhausted from torture before he lopped off her jugs. There are small cut marks, or stab marks that barely penetrated the flesh, in sensitive areas all over her body.”
“Made while she was still alive?”
“Definitely. He wanted her to see as well as feel what he was doing. Wanted them to experience it together.”
“He wanted to take the trip with her,” Quinn said, “but not all the way.”
“Company loves misery.”
“ Company being Daniel Wentworth, aka Daniel Danielle, aka Danielle Daniel?”
“That would be my guess.”
“Only a guess?” Quinn asked, holding in his anger at the killer, feeling slightly sick. The heat.
“At this time, yes. But I remember the original Daniel Danielle murders. Between us, this is the same guy.”
“He’s dead,” Quinn said. “Nobody on foot where he was could have survived that hurricane.”
“Zombie love. But if that’s not a good enough explanation for you, we got some human flesh out from under one of Miss Macy’s painted but broken nails. We’ll have a DNA comparison shortly. You wanna bet some money on this?”
“No,” Quinn said. “And what I heard was the Florida cops either didn’t take or lost Daniel Wentworth’s swab, and the DNA sample from under the nail of an original victim was too small and too old to be of much help. Most of it was used up during the trial.”
“Same guy, though,” Nift repeated. “It’s very distinctive, his work with the knife. It had to take some thought, some practice.” Nift paused. Quinn could hear him breathing. It was
“Slicing off her tits took a bit of know-how and skill.”
“Medical skill?”
“No. More like practice-makes-almost-perfect skill. They were done antemortem. It’s a wonder she didn’t die of shock early in the process. The killer was expert at keeping her alive as long as possible. He was the one who chose almost the precise instant of death. I would imagine that was important to him.”
“Try not to imagine,” Quinn said. But he knew Nift was right. It simply irritated him that the smarmy little M.E. enjoyed playing detective.
Nift gave a low chuckle that reminded Quinn of Charmain Graham’s description of the killer’s laugh. “Macy’s evening wasn’t all bad,” Nift said. “Stomach contents were steak, salad, red wine, consumed approximately five hours before her death. She was wined and dined and then—”
“Raped?”
“Maybe. Could have been consensual. But damage to the vaginal tract suggests otherwise. And there was residue of the kind of substance used on pre-lubricated condoms.”
“You sure about that?”
“Positive. I see it over and over,” Nift said, in an oddly cheerful voice.
“Our killer practicing safe sex,” Quinn said.
“Whatever entered her might not have been a penis.”
“A dildo?”
“Maybe. Or some make-do inanimate object that required lubrication.”
“Or some object ceremonial to the killer.”
“It could be we’re making too much of it,” Nift said. “We can’t rule out simple, consensual sex. She might have been wined, dined, and reclined—and enjoyed that part of it, even though it had to have been rough. There’s some frictional damage to the vaginal wall. But you know women.”
“I wish.”
“There isn’t any sign of her resisting until after she was gagged and taped.”
“The wine, maybe.”
“Could be. If she wasn’t used to it. And there are traces of an over-the-counter sedative in her stomach. Bruising on her arms is consistent with the killer straddling her and pinning her down. Maybe keeping her hands away from her face after slapping that tape over her mouth. He had to have taken some of the fight out of her before taping her arms to her sides.”
“That would take a strong person.”
“Average-strength man, stronger-than-average woman. He was probably seated on her boobs, then slid down toward her pubic area while applying the tape. My guess is he waited until she was stunned and exhausted from torture before he lopped off her jugs. There are small cut marks, or stab marks that barely penetrated the flesh, in sensitive areas all over her body.”
“Made while she was still alive?”
“Definitely. He wanted her to see as well as feel what he was doing. Wanted them to experience it together.”
“He wanted to take the trip with her,” Quinn said, “but not all the way.”
“Company loves misery.”
“ Company being Daniel Wentworth, aka Daniel Danielle, aka Danielle Daniel?”
“That would be my guess.”
“Only a guess?” Quinn asked, holding in his anger at the killer, feeling slightly sick. The heat.
“At this time, yes. But I remember the original Daniel Danielle murders. Between us, this is the same guy.”
“He’s dead,” Quinn said. “Nobody on foot where he was could have survived that hurricane.”
“Zombie love. But if that’s not a good enough explanation for you, we got some human flesh out from under one of Miss Macy’s painted but broken nails. We’ll have a DNA comparison shortly. You wanna bet some money on this?”
“No,” Quinn said. “And what I heard was the Florida cops either didn’t take or lost Daniel Wentworth’s swab, and the DNA sample from under the nail of an original victim was too small and too old to be of much help. Most of it was used up during the trial.”
“Same guy, though,” Nift repeated. “It’s very distinctive, his work with the knife. It had to take some thought, some practice.” Nift paused. Quinn could hear him breathing. It was
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