The Watcher (6 page)

“There is no evidence of semen in either the vaginal or anal tracts.”

“He used a condom?” Bauer asked.

“Perhaps. But there is no trauma or clear indication of rape. The stab wounds to the genital area might have obscured any signs of rape. It’s impossible to tell, and although there is considerable external damage, the internal damage is negligible.”

“What are you saying, Patch?” Slater asked.

“I believe the girl was physically assaulted over a period of days with excessive force, but may not have been raped. Multiple cuts are present in the chest and groin area, most of which were inflicted postmortem, and her throat was slit postmortem. However, the cut to the throat was not the cause of death. Interestingly enough, her face was left undamaged.”

“The killer wanted to punish the girl,” Myers interjected, “but he either didn’t or couldn’t rape her?”

Bauer had grown increasingly pallid and now placed a hand over his mouth. Since he seemed likely to pass out or throw up again, Slater gave his partner an easy out.

“Matt, I forgot to lock my truck,” he said, tossing his keys in Bauer’s direction. “Would you do it?”

Flashing a grateful look, Bauer quickly left the room.

Patch continued, “The blood patterns on the few items of clothing you see in the evidence bag indicate they were placed on the body
after
the postmortem cuts.”

“He didn’t dress her,” Myers said. “He simply positioned the clothes on top of her body.”

“The responding officer found the rest of her clothes stashed in the trees by the lake,” Slater said. “A university sweatshirt, socks, and shoes. No panties.”

Turning to Myers, he asked, “Do you think he intended to re-dress her, but was interrupted? And why take the time to dress her at all?”

She didn’t answer, but looked shaken. Maybe he should send her outside with Bauer, Slater thought.

Patch cleared his throat. “It is impossible to tell which blow was the fatal one. Both lungs were punctured as well as the aorta, any one of which could have killed her. Before her death, however, she suffered minor cuts which, while painful, were not deep enough to cause death. The fractured right femur and the cut to the carotid artery occurred after death.”

Wilson paused and looked first at Slater and then Myers. “Any questions?”

“What about trace?” Slater asked.

“I’ve sent blood and hair samples to the state lab, but I’m certain nothing foreign will come back. All of it belongs to the girl.”

“How can you be so sure?”

For the first time, the coroner showed blatant emotion. Slater thought the doctor looked as shaken as he’d ever seen him. “Before and after the mayhem, he cleansed the body thoroughly in a solution of hydrogen peroxide, rubbing alcohol, and bleach. Any evidence of blood or semen was washed away.”

“This was done in isolation,” Myers said. “There’s no way he could’ve completed these acts in the car or at the lake.”

“The techs are checking the Pontiac tire tracks against those found at the lake,” Slater said.

“Neither is the primary,” Myers said. “There’s another crime scene.”

Slater agreed. A triple dilemma. The lake, the car, and the place where the girl was tortured and killed.

Patch looked at the body, and in an overt gesture, pushed a stray strand of hair from the girl’s forehead. “The only area of her body that sustained no damage at all was her face.”

“Any ideas about why he spared her face?” Slater asked.

Myers whispered, “He wanted to punish her, to bend her to his will, but he didn’t want marks or blood marring her face. Ruining his perfect image of her.”

Slater glanced at her quizzically.
A strange observation.

Wilson concluded by pointing to the Johnston girl’s lower body. “One final matter,” he said as he separated the legs, lifting the right one so that Slater and Myers could see clearly. “I’m sure you didn’t miss this.”

Now that the body was clean, they bent to get a clearer look. “The carved figure,” Slater observed. “Any idea what it means?”

“No,” Patch replied, “but it was inflicted postmortem with a very sharp instrument.”

“Like a razor blade?”

“Certainly as sharp as a razor, but with more precision, like a scalpel. You see, it’s crudely, but neatly, drawn.”

“Bauer called it an eight lying on its side. What do you think?”

“That sounds correct.”

“It looks like the infinity sign,” Myers said.

“Infinity,” Slater mused. “Like in math?”

Myers’ violet eyes were huge as she looked up from the carving, and Slater saw understanding cross her features. Something just clicked for her, he thought.

“He wants the suffering to go on forever,” she explained.

“What about replacing the clothes on the body?”

“That could indicate his need to control the situation.
He
gets to say when she can have her clothes back.”

Slater turned back to Patch Wilson. “How many hours did it take for her to die after the first knife wound?”

“If the lungs or heart was punctured first, she died quickly. However, he appears to have deliberately avoided the vital organs, concentrating on those that would cause a great deal of suffering without actual death. He seems to have some rudimentary knowledge of anatomy. The postmortem wounds, though grotesque, did not cause her pain because – ”

“Because she didn’t feel them,” Myers interrupted. “Those wounds suggest his rage for her dying on him.”

Dr. Wilson nodded agreement, snapped off his thin surgical gloves, and turned away from the table. “I’ll start on the written report.” The coroner gave one last glance over his shoulder. “It’s a goddamn shame.”

Slater followed Myers from the autopsy room, stopping beside her at the drinking fountain. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, just a little shaken.”

“But you’ve probably seen worse than this in L.A.”

Myers simply shrugged and remained silent.

“When we get to the office in the morning,” Slater said, “we’ll take another look at the crime scene photos and see if you can add anything to the profile. Wilson’s written report should be finished by then, along with the tech report from the Pontiac. Maybe we’ll get a hit on that partial fingerprint.”

“Sure,” she replied without looking at him.

Slater watched her move like a zombie toward the elevators leading up to the first floor of the hospital. He caught the doors as they glided shut and stepped in. Before Myers turned her face away from him, he noticed the pale lines etched around her mouth and the tremor in her hand as she brushed strands of dark gold hair off her forehead.

Bauer was waiting beside the truck. The color had returned to his face. The three of them rode back to the precinct in silence, Myers staring fixedly out the wind-shield, Bauer leaning his head against the side window.

After what they’d seen and heard, Slater guessed it was foolish to remind them to buckle their seat belts.

Chapter Six

The man watching from his car slunk lower behind the wheel as the girl exited through the double doors of the school. He slipped shades onto his thin nose, his eyes following her as she bounced down the cement steps, a girlfriend on either side.

Her blond hair flew around her shoulders, a golden halo glinting sunlight off the strands that wrapped around her mouth. Dressed in dark jeans that rode low on her hips, a long-sleeved white shirt, and backless shoes, she gripped one thin schoolbook under her arm. A small useless wisp of a purse slung over one shoulder.

She was beautiful in a fresh, clean way that reminded him of the time with the purple-eyed farm girl. He shuddered.
That very first one, the other bitch didn’t count.

This girl’s features were perfect, her skin as smooth and unblemished as a Madonna. He wondered if she was a virgin. Nowadays you couldn’t tell about girls. Even young teenagers were no longer innocent and untouched. Most high school kids today were experienced.

He felt wistful and aroused at the same time.

The girl looked like a carbon copy of all the other girls who spilled out of the school, but the watcher knew she was different from the rest. Not because she herself was so extraordinary. Even with those eyes and that hair, there were other girls who looked as pretty as her. What made her really special was that
he
had chosen her, had picked her out of all the others, had ordained her to be the One.

He saw her giggle with her mouth wide and her cheeks flushed. He imagined she was thinking of some hidden pleasure or secret delight. Where did she get such careless confidence? Did she know that guys stared at her, salivating over what she promised?

The watcher wanted to crawl inside her head, move around in her skin, and learn what she was thinking, what made her tick. He’d like to take her apart and find the mystery of her.

His groin tightened with anticipation.

She walked away from her friends, wiggling her fingers in farewell as she strode off, confidence settling on her like the mantle of a queen. She walked alone in the opposite direction, heading for the downtown district and the antique stores.

He’d been watching her several days now, and he knew exactly what she’d do next. When she walked home alone, she dawdled at the string of antique stores along Vernon Street, entering each one, trailing among the dusty rows of other people’s discarded items. Junk passed off as treasure. Afterward, she always stopped at the mom and pop candy store at the end of the quarter-mile long street.

Most days she hitched a ride with one of her friends, but once a week, she indulged in her treats: antiquing and long twisted pieces of red licorice. Her preference for that candy made her seem younger to him, and a perfect choice, because he had a sweet tooth too.

After he’d first seen her purchase the licorice and sit outside the store on a wooden bench, he’d bought some for himself. He imagined her licking the cherry flavor with her tiny pink tongue, the stain coloring the inside of her mouth a rich scarlet.

The stores were located in the older part of Placer Hills, a place frequented by street denizens. It wasn’t safe for a young, pretty girl alone, but he could tell her arrogance won out over warnings from parents. The watcher saw her weekly excursions as defiance against authority and a show of confidence in her ability to ward off danger. He admired that. She’d be a golden triumph, a challenge worthy of his attention.

The man slowly inched his car along, tailing the girl at a respectable distance. Confident of their immortality, girls like her always failed to recognize real danger until it was too late. They’d reached a juncture in their lives where they were aware of having an indefinable control over men, a power that exuded from their pores, drifted from their smiles, and seeped from the secret places between their legs.

He could fairly smell it now.

A rush of heat warmed his face, and he glanced into the rear-view mirror. A thin-faced, sharp-nosed man stared back at him, beads of sweat popping out on his forehead. He dabbed at them with his gloved hand. His mouth felt dry and his throat sore. He should’ve brought water. Why was it so friggin’ hot?

The girl paused before a store whose windows were cluttered with dolls, pottery, glass, and useless brick-a-brack. She stuck a finger in her mouth and chewed absently at the nail. She was so perfect, more perfect than any of the others had been.

He’d loved them all ferociously, loved them until he learned the truth about them. Even if she was the One, the end might come. He might be disappointed as he had been so often.

At the pinnacle of enjoyment, he’d grown to despise the others for the control they had over him, for making him notice them, dream about them, wake up in the night to the uncomfortable wetness of the sheets. He hated their dull stupidity and the failure they brought. And, when it was over, he loathed their innocence and recognized their perfection for what it was.

Specious claims. Pseudo-perfection. False hope.

Blood surged fiercely through his veins, his eagerness reaching a feverish peak after days of stalking the girl. His brain warned him that it was too soon to be looking for another girl. Danger lay in her perfect face and brilliant hair. But during the long nights he felt as though his skin was on fire, and he burned for something to quench the flame.

An itch started low in his stomach, then spread downward to his thighs and upward across his chest. He rubbed hard at his skin. He cruised his car slowly down Vernon Street, waiting for the chosen girl to come into view, eager for the hunting to end.

And for the experience to begin.

His experiment to find the perfect girl.

The watcher drummed his fingers in a rapid, staccato beat as he watched the pretty teenager emerge from the store’s darkness into his own darkness.

Chapter Seven

Slater pulled his truck beside Kate’s Volkswagen in the courthouse parking lot. Without a word, Bauer jumped out and hurried over to his Volvo, giving a half-hearted wave before he drove off.