The Soul Catcher (21 page)

M
aggie felt an immediate sense of relief. How awful was that? She preferred examining a dead body to having breakfast with her mother. Surely, that had to be a mortal sin for which she’d burn in hell. Or perhaps she’d be struck by lightning—maybe by one of the thickening gray thunderheads gathering now.

She flashed her badge to the first uniformed officer blocking the sidewalk next to the information center. He nodded, and she ducked under the crime scene tape. It was her first visit to the monument, though it had been finished and dedicated in 1997. She guessed she wasn’t much different from other District suburbanites. Who had time to tour monuments except on vacation? And even if she took vacations, she certainly wouldn’t choose to stay in the District.

Unlike the other presidential monuments, the FDR Memorial included trees, waterfalls, grassy berms, alcoves and gardens, all spread out over a long, expansive area rather than grouped in one imposing structure. As Maggie walked through the galleries or rooms, she paid little attention to the sculptures and bronzes. Instead her attention went to the granite walls, the ledges above and behind. She noticed plenty of trees and bushes. From down here, the area looked like a private haven for murder. Had the designers not given that a thought or had she simply become cynical after years of trying to think like a killer?

Maggie stopped at the bigger-than-life bronze of the seated Roosevelt with a little bronze dog next to him. She checked the position of the spotlights around it and wondered how far up they would shine. If the sky continued to darken, perhaps she’d soon get her answer. However, the granite walls had to be ten to fifteen feet tall. She doubted the lights illuminated any of the trees and bushes above and behind. From where she stood, craning her neck, she wondered if it was possible to even notice someone in those woods? She could faintly hear the commotion of detectives over the rushing sound of the waterfall. The voices came from above and farther in the bushes, but she couldn’t see them. Not a single motion.

“The little dog’s name is Fala.”

She startled and turned to find a man with a camera hanging from his neck.

“Excuse me?”

“Most people don’t know that. The dog. It was Roosevelt’s favorite.”

“The monument’s closed this morning,” she told him, and immediately saw his expression change to anger.

“I’m not some fucking tourist. I’m here taking crime scene shots. Just ask Racine.”

“Okay, my mistake.” But his quick temper drew her attention, and she found herself assessing his bristled jaw and tousled dark hair, the worn knees of his blue jeans and the toe-tips of shiny, expensive cowboy boots. He could easily pass for a tourist or an aging college student.

“See, I could make a snap judgment, too, and wonder what a babe like you was doing here. I thought Racine liked being the only babe on the scene.” He returned her assessment by letting his eyes slowly run the length of her.

“New police procedure. We like to have at least one backup.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m the backup babe.”

He smiled, more of a smirk than a smile, and his eyes traveled the same path.

“Sorta like cameramen,” she continued. “Every police station needs a backup. You know, a second stringer, some lackey they call when they’re in a pinch and the real cameraman can’t make it.”

His eyes shot up to hers, and she could see the flash of anger return. This guy was as much a crime scene photographer as she was a police babe. What the hell was Racine thinking? Or perhaps that was the problem. Racine hadn’t been thinking, as usual.

“I’m tired of this fucking treatment,” he said, with his hands swiping the air as if to show her what he had endured. “I do you assholes a favor and what do I get? I don’t fucking need this shit. I’m outta here.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he turned on the heels of his polished boots and left with enough of a strut that Maggie knew he had gotten something for his early morning trouble. Just what, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps some promise from Racine, some token quid pro quo. The woman had it down to an art form. Maggie remembered the last time she and Racine had worked a case, not that long ago. It was still too fresh in her memory bank to shrug off the distasteful experience. She had almost found herself on the other end of one of Racine’s quid pro quos.

“O’Dell.” This time the voice came from above. Agent Tully leaned over the ledge. “I want you to take a look at this before they bag the body.”

“What’s the best route up?”

“Around the fourth gallery. There’s a set of rest rooms. Come all the way around them and to the back.” He pointed to a place she couldn’t see—too many granite walls. She found her way past another waterfall and more granite, then climbed a path that looked freshly made.

They were waiting for her, keeping their distance from the body, though Stan Wenhoff looked anxious to get on with his job. The forensics team was packing up what they had gathered so far in larger plastic bags. Maggie understood their urgency even before a low rumble of thunder came from overhead.

The girl sat against a tree with her back to the ledge of the monument. Her head lolled on her neck, exposing one side of deep raw tracks. Her eyes stared out despite the mass of whitish yellow in the corner of one. Without closer examination, Maggie knew the mass to be maggots. Her legs were extended straight out in front of her and spread apart. Black, shiny-backed blowflies were already taking their posts in her pubic area and up her nostrils.

The girl wore only a black bra, still clasped but pushed up to expose her small white breasts. A piece of gray duct tape covered her mouth. Her short dark hair was tangled with bits and pieces of dried leaves and pine needles. Despite the horror of the scene, the girl’s hands were folded together, lying neatly and calmly across her lap, resting just below the nest of blowflies. The hands reminded Maggie of someone praying. Was it supposed to mean something?

“We don’t have much time, Agent O’Dell.” Stan was the first to get impatient.

Poor Stan. Another early morning call-in for him in less than a week.

Tully was alongside her now, pointing to the ground in front of her.

“There’s these weird marks, circular indentations.”

At first she couldn’t see them. It looked as if something may have been set down, though the object had not been very heavy. The marks Tully referred to were not deep, barely leaving impressions on the surface.

“Mean anything to you?” he asked.

“No. Should it?”

“I think so, but I can’t figure out what.”

“Tully’s all gloom and doom today.” Julia Racine approached on Maggie’s other side. She smiled down at her, hands on her hips. “He’s already looking for a serial killer.”

Maggie took one last look at the indentations, stood up and glanced at the girl’s body again, then she faced the detective. “I think Agent Tully’s right. And judging by this scene, I’d say this guy’s just getting started.”

“I
f you ask me, it looks like a rape that got carried away.”

Tully winced at Detective Racine’s assessment, but he didn’t need to argue with her. All he had to do was wait for O’Dell to do it.

“If that’s what you think, then why did Agent Tully and I get called in to check it out?”

“Beats me.” Racine shrugged, lifting the collar of her jacket as another rumble of thunder echoed through the air. “It’s federal property.”

“Then someone at the field office would have been called. Still doesn’t explain why BSU would be consulted.”

Tully stared up at the rolling gray thunderheads. O’Dell was right. The two of them specialized in criminal analysis, coming up with profiles, especially of repeat offenders or serial killers. Someone other than Detective Racine must have thought it important to call Cunningham. Whoever it was hadn’t bothered to let Racine in on it. Didn’t make much sense.

“The scuffle happened over here.” Racine, anxious to prove her theory, pointed to a spot where leaves were smashed and crumbled. The mobile crime lab people had spent a good deal of time sifting and collecting from that area.

“Doesn’t look like much of a scuffle.” O’Dell squatted at the edge of the perimeter and examined the area without touching anything. “Someone definitely lay down here. Maybe even rolled around. The leaves and grass are packed down. But I don’t see any torn grass, any scuffs in the dirt or heel marks for the type of violent scuffle you’re talking about.”

Detective Racine snorted under her breath, and Tully couldn’t help thinking how unladylike it sounded. These two were strutting around each other like a couple of cockfighters. Sort of the equivalent of two men having a pissing contest.

“Look, O’Dell, I know a thing or two about rape scenes.” Racine sounded as though her patience was wearing thin. “Posing the body like that is just one more way for him to degrade his victim.”

“Oh, really?”

Tully turned away. Oh, Jesus! Here it comes. He recognized that tone of sarcasm. Had even had it launched at him a time or two.

“Did you ever think the unsub may have posed the body to alter the crime scene?” O’Dell asked the detective.

“Alter? You mean like on purpose, to throw us off?”

With his back to the two women, Tully rolled his eyes and hoped that O’Dell didn’t say “Oh, duh.” Detective Racine was in charge. Just once, couldn’t O’Dell remember that?

“Maybe he posed the body,” O’Dell was saying slowly as if speaking to a small child, “to redirect the investigation away from himself.”

Another snort from Racine. “You know what your problem is, O’Dell? You give criminals too much credit. Most of them are stupid bastards. That’s the premise I work from.”

Tully walked away. He couldn’t take any more. It had been entertaining at first. Now he no longer cared who won the pissing contest, although he’d place his money on O’Dell. He wandered over to Wenhoff, who was finishing his examination of the young woman’s body.

“Any guess on time of death?”

“My best guesstimate right now judging from the stage of rigor, the rectal temp and the invasion of only the early feeders—” he batted away a few of the persistent blowflies “—is less than twenty-four hours. Maybe about twelve hours. I’ll need to do some other tests. I also want to check with the weather service and see how cold it got last night.”

“Twelve hours?” Tully knew enough about dead bodies to have estimated on his own that the murder had been recent; however, he hadn’t expected it to have been that recent. Suddenly, he felt a knot twist in his stomach. “That would make it last night, maybe somewhere between what—eight and midnight?”

“That’s a good guess.” Wenhoff pushed himself up with great effort and waved over a couple of uniformed officers. “She’s ready to bag, boys, but she’s stiff as a board. Be careful you don’t break something.”

Tully moved out of the way, not wanting to watch how they’d get her from a sitting position into the black nylon bag. He looked out over a clearing in the woods. In the distance he could see tourists wandering along the Vietnam Wall. Buses were winding around the police blockade to bypass the FDR Memorial and snake around to the Lincoln Memorial. Last night Emma and her friends had been here, walking those same sidewalks. Had the killer watched them while choosing his target? Hell, this girl didn’t look much older than Emma.

“Tully.” O’Dell came up beside him, startling him. “I’m heading over to the morgue. Stan’s going to do the autopsy today. You want to meet me there, or should I just fill you in tomorrow?”

He only heard about half of what she had said.

“Tully? Are you okay?”

“Sure. I’m fine.” He rubbed his hand over his face to cover up the sense of panic he was feeling. “I’ll meet you over there.” When she didn’t move and continued to stare at him, he decided he needed to convince her. No better way to do that than to change the subject. “What’s with you and Racine? I get the feeling there’s some history there?”

She looked away, and immediately Tully knew he was right. But instead she said, “I just don’t like her.”

“How come?”

“Do I need a reason?”

“I know I probably don’t know you very well, but yeah, I’d say you’re the type of person who needs a reason to not like someone.”

“You’re right,” she said, then added, “You don’t know me very well.” She started to leave but said over her shoulder, “I’ll see you at the morgue, okay?” She didn’t look back, only waved a hand at him, a gesture that said it was a done deal and that any conversation about her and Racine was over. Yes, there was definitely something there.

Now, as he watched everyone pack up, including the officers with the body bag, he could allow the nausea to take over his stomach. He walked to the ledge and looked out over Potomac Park. This time a rumble of thunder cracked open the sky—as if it had been waiting out of respect—and the rain came pouring down.

Tully stood still, watching the tourists below, scattering for shelter or popping open umbrellas. The rain felt good, and he lifted his face to it, letting it cool the sweaty, clammy feeling that had taken over his body. Yet, all he could think about was—Jesus—how close had his daughter come to being this guy’s victim?