Mindhunters 4 - Deadly Intent (30 page)

Travis still hadn’t answered. Kell shrugged. “But if you don’t want to go, I guess you could always explain it to him when he gets back tonight. Although I think he and Whitman will be holed up most of the evening, comparing notes.”

The agent was silent long enough to make Kell nervous. “How would Raiker get a tip from a sheriff ’s department here?”

“He has contacts everywhere. The man’s a legend. Even people who don’t know him are anxious to cooperate when they get a chance. You heard about his last case for the bureau, right?” He hadn’t met a law enforcement officer yet who failed to be impressed by the story.

“I looked him up when I heard he’d been called in on the investigation,” Travis admitted. “Caught by the child serial killer he was trailing, right? Freed the victim but was tortured for days before escaping and killing the guy?”

“That’s the short version.”

There was another silence. Then the agent put on his blinker and headed for the exit to the interstate. “Don’t see what it can hurt. Like you say, it’s not that far out of our way.”

Jefferson County Assistant Coroner Deanna Evans was plump, blond, and businesslike. Peering closely at Agent Travis’s ID, she said, “My supervisor has the day off. But he didn’t tell me to expect CBI.”

“News of your John Doe just reached me today.” Kell was filled with appreciation for the way Agent Travis could think on his feet. “I have reason to believe it might be connected to a case I’m working.”

She nodded. “Well, come on back. The body still hasn’t been identified and we haven’t autopsied it yet. I’ve spent the last couple hours piecing it back together.”

Kell pulled off his gloves and shoved them in his pocket, content for the moment to allow Travis to take the lead, since it’d taken the man’s authority to get them in there. He studied the painted brick walls and institutional tile in the hallway they walked through. Morgues throughout the nation must use the same decorating scheme.

After they’d donned the sterile garb Deanna handed them, she opened a heavy metal door, and the familiar scent drifted out to greet him. He’d never been at a coroner’s station yet that didn’t carry that same odor. Swallowing hard, he stepped through the door, his gaze immediately going toward the corpse on the stainless steel gurney.

The man—and it was difficult to tell that it had been a man—was literally in pieces. It looked as though some of them were still missing. The abdominal cavity had been torn away, and to his inexperienced eye, it appeared much of the internal organs were gone. The skeleton was exposed in several places. After one look at the mostly missing face, Kell focused on the limbs.

“Too early for cause of death?”

“Too early for much of anything,” Deanna said cheerfully. She rounded the table to stand on the side opposite the men. “But I’m told that they found the bulk of the body under a foot of snow, so chances are he was there at least since the blizzard.”

“And I’m told he was found nude.” Kell felt the agent’s gaze boring into him, so he made sure not to catch his eye.

“I didn’t have to cut any clothes off him.” The woman pulled on some latex gloves. “They found large pieces of plastic sheeting near the body. My orders are only to assist with identification at this point. I’ve taken scrapings from under his fingernails. Tomorrow when one of the deputies gets here we’ll probably fingerprint him if they still haven’t identified him.”

Kell crouched down to stare at the partially complete arm lying loosely next to the body. The last two fingers were still attached to the hand. “How many fingers left over there?”

“Listen, Burke . . .” Travis started uneasily.

“Everything but the thumb.” Obligingly, Deanna held up the intact arm to show him.

The CBI agent peered closer, his objection forgotten for the moment. “Interesting. Maybe the animals got scared off before they did more damage on that one, huh?”

“Oh, animals didn’t do that.” Deanna brought the hand up close enough to the agent’s face to have him taking a hasty step back. “See how smooth the bone is where it was separated? That was done with a sharp blade. Amputation, maybe?” she mused, reaching for a pair of surgical loupes and studying it more carefully. “Fairly recently, too, as the tissue hasn’t healed.”

“Why would someone have a thumb amputated?” Travis was peering over her shoulder while maintaining a safe distance.

“Infection. Frostbite.” But she was already shaking her head. “No, this wasn’t an amputation. The doctor would have sewn the blood vessels shut and probably sewn muscle over the bone for padding.” She straightened, setting the loupes down. “And that, gentlemen, is why we don’t rush to decisions about what we find on our table. I’m afraid I won’t have anything to share with you for several days.”

“We might be able to help with the identification,” Kell murmured. He rose to look at her. “But we need to fingerprint him now.”

Her eyes went worried. “Maybe I should call the sheriff’s department. Or at least my supervisor.”

“Okay.” Kell’s gaze had returned to the corpse’s hand again. With the severed thumb. “But although we all try to play nice together, we both know CBI trumps local law enforcement.” He flashed her a smile. “Do you need to see Agent Travis’s ID again?”

“And what kind of verification process do you have in place, Ms. Reid?”

The attorney for the prosecution had been grilling her for fifteen minutes to no avail. Regardless of what she’d told Kell yesterday, Macy was unflappable on the stand. “The database has a ninety-five percent validity rate,” she repeated patiently.

“But what about the work you explained earlier? You have to detect the patterns in the writing samples, you said. You . . . diagram the samples.”

“It’s much like diagramming sentences, yes. When I finish, it’s those results that are matched to the samples in the database.”

“But that part is subjective, right? I mean, what sort of reliability measures are in place to make sure you did that part of the job correctly?”

“It’s not really subjective, no. Gerunds are gerunds. Participles are participles. Parts of speech don’t change depending on who’s looking at them.”

The prosecutor, a buoyant stocky man barely topping five feet, was something of a showman. He made a flourish toward the jury. “I don’t know about that. Seems my high school English teacher’s opinion of my homework differed from mine.” A few members in the jury box tittered.

Macy smiled pleasantly. “Exactly. Opinions differ but not the patterns or parts of speech themselves.”

But still the man persisted. “So we’re to believe you get it right the first time, all the time. There’s no one validating the patterns you claim to find, no quality control of any sort. It’s just your opinion.” His gaze encompassed the jury box meaningfully. “Just one person’s opinion. No more questions.”

As he headed back to his table, the defense attorney, Rob Chapell, rose. “I’d like to redirect, Your Honor.” Approaching Macy, he spread his hands. “What’s the difference between what you do and what our esteemed prosecutor’s English teacher did to his high school essay?”

Laughter sounded in the courtroom, Macy’s with it. “The major difference is I’m not passing any sort of subjective judgment on content or structure. While I’m going to give his teacher the benefit of the doubt, and assume she graded according to a rubric of some sort, she might be looking for sentence structure, original thought, adherence to proper rules of attributed quotes, and so on. But there is a window of subjectivity when she grades on the author’s voice and style. She could show it to every English teacher in the department and get slight variations in the grade given. That’s not true with my work. Five trained forensic linguists could analyze the content of that note, and all five would determine the exact same pattern. No matter how many pairs of eyes look at a verb phrase, it’s still a verb phrase. The database does the rest.”

When he returned to his seat, the judge looked up. “If we’re done with this witness, let’s take a fifteen-minute recess.”

“Ms. Reid.” Chapell fell into step with her as she passed his table. “I’ll walk you out.” They made their way through the throng of people in the courtroom and out to the less-populated hallway. She headed for the coatrack. “I want to thank you again for your testimony.”

“Your client didn’t write that bomb threat,” she said simply. Setting her purse down for a moment, she reached for her coat and pulled it from the hanger. He took it from her and helped her into it.

“I agree. I was worried that the jury wouldn’t be sophisticated enough to understand your testimony, but I’m glad I took the chance.” He smiled a little. “Can’t let a little fear get in the way if there’s the slightest possibility of making a difference.”

His words struck a chord with her that was vaguely disturbing. But there was no reason it should remind her of Castillo. There was a difference between taking a chance and letting a monster manipulate you, wasn’t there?

“Listen to me,” Chapell was saying, looking vaguely embarrassed. “I sound like Perry Mason.”

“You sound like an attorney who works hard on the behalf of his clients,” she corrected firmly, offering her hand. “Good luck with your case.”

As he walked away, she retrieved her purse and pulled out her cell and called for a cab to take her back to the airport. Without traffic delays, there was no reason she couldn’t be back in Colorado in a matter of hours.

It would take approximately sixty minutes to detour to Terre Haute from Chicago.

As if to outrun the thought, she hurried across the hallway to the wide stairway. Her heels seemed to tap a familiar rhythm.

One, two, three, he’s coming for me.

Four, five, six, he’ll be here next.

She reached the stairs, quickened her pace. And tried to believe that she wasn’t hurrying from that childish inner voice that had never been completely silenced.

“Adam Raiker.”

After returning FBI Agent Tom Shepherd’s handshake, Adam cast a jaundiced eye around the cramped office, with its metal government-issued furniture, circa 1950, and said bluntly, “This is a shithole. You’re wasted here.”

“Well.” The man looked none the worse for wear despite his two years in virtual career exile. “I’d say welcome to my castle, but you don’t appear impressed.”

He closed the door of his office and motioned Adam to a chair. The quarters were so close that when Tom pulled up his own chair and sat, they were nearly touching.

Adam leveled a look at him. “How long are they going to keep you here?”

The agent rubbed his jaw and gave a wry smile. “I’d forgotten how direct you are. The master plan hasn’t been shared with me. I’m just doing my job and hoping my stint in purgatory passes quickly. How’d you hear about this?”

“Landry. He has his finger on the pulse of everything that happens in the bureau, even after all the years since he left it.”

“Joe.” The other man nodded. “He was gone before I started, but lots of people mention him. So.” Pleasantries over, the FBI agent spread his hands. “Haven’t seen you since the trial. What are you working on?”

Adam studied the other man for a moment. On the surface, he hadn’t changed. Still had the golden pretty-boy looks and aw-shucks charm that opened doors with witnesses and women alike. But he was a solid agent, and it was typical bureau petty politics to punish him for not having a lead role in solving the high-profile kidnapping case of Ellie Mulder two years ago.