“Do you expect skin under the nails? I mean, obviously his own.” Johnson gestured to the lacerations on the man’s neck. “But, like, from the unsub. They fought. You can tell. Maybe he scratched them.”
“We’ll know when the results come back.”
Using tweezers and a high-powered magnifying glass, I observed as Johnson extracted three fibers from folds around the victim’s neck. They, too, would be sent to the lab, although I already knew they would match the ones pulled from Jesse, Ford, and Navid.
Kobe’s prizewinning swatch of fabric with the tangle of hair that he’d recovered from the victim’s zipper would tie them all together. Both fabric and hair had been collected by CSIs on scene and were already sent off to be analyzed. I’d examined the hair myself before letting it go. No root, but it didn’t mean that useful information couldn’t be extracted. A single strand of hair contained a world of information. How useful it would be was yet to be determined. Without a suspect to set a basis forcomparison, the information would mean nothing. Data in its raw form was but data.
Regardless, the case was growing legs and taking on form. It was only a matter of time before the bodies told their secret.
Saliva from a tooth hole, hair, and possible skin under the nails. By this point, Kobe had solid means of accessing his unsub’s DNA. When he found someone he deemed a potential suspect, all it would take was a cheek swab to confirm guilt.
As Johnson labeled the sample containing the fibers, the negative thoughts I couldn’t escape returned. The sucking mud of doubt kept latching onto my boots and pulling me down into its clutches.
Would Kobe follow the evidence? Would he make an arrest? Was he the kind of person who would let a killer go free?
Considering the double set of reins looped around his neck, held tightly by both Rue and his boss, I wasn’t sure he could ignore facts, even if he wanted to.
“Sir?” Johnson said, breaking me from my musing.
I blinked back to the present and motioned to the next order of business. The victim’s penis.
Finnegan Johnson made the same pained expression Kobe made when it came to examining the impaled organ. I’d successfully detached, so none of it bothered me.
I dictated, “The instrument used was a standard plastic flower spike.” I listed the spikes’ dimensions as I retrieved a measuring tape from a stainless steel tray. “It perforated the penis six millimeters to the right of the dorsal vein and nineteen millimeters below the corona.”
I measured the circumference of the puncture and checked for an exit wound, finding none. This alone was a sloppy variation. The other two men had been speared clean through. The spikes had been embedded in the wooden benches. The precision on this victim was missing. Not enough force had been used to leavethe spike and flower in place, which was likely why they had been discovered on the ground.
After documenting the visible external injuries and taking samples where required, we proceeded with the internal examination. It took longer than usual since I yielded most control to the student.
Johnson’s steady stream of questions interrupted the quiet flow of the process. He narrated each step as though I wasn’t hovering over his shoulder. I hated the suffocating presence of students and missed the silent company of Akilina. The technician never got in the way and rarely offered commentary. She knew her place and did her job efficiently.
Johnson was a torrent of whys and hows and what ifs—like a toddler.
In the end, the findings were consistent with the other three kills, with the exception of several defensive wounds. Malik Quinn had died from ligature strangulation. His cause of death was suffocation. The lacerations around his neck had happened antemortem. The puncture to his penis was postmortem.
I let Johnson close the body and clean up, while I retreated to my office to consider my findings. It was nearing nine p.m. Too late to begin a report. I needed to get home to Cosette and let my babysitter leave. She was costing me a fortune since I’d promised to double her pay for coming on a holiday and on short notice.
As I collected my belongings, I discovered a missed call and voicemail from Kobe on my cell. It had come in hours ago while I was conducting the autopsy.
I sat and listened. “Hey. It’s me.” A subdued tone. “I hope this means you’re busy with my latest vic. I’m heading to Fatemeh Kordestani’s residence. Rue’s orders. She wants me to bring her in for a proper interview. We’re leaning heavily on a female suspect. She fits. Sort of. I don’t know. I did a background onMalik Quinn, our dead guy. He was acquitted of sexual assault of a minor a little over a year ago.”
Kobe stopped talking, and the faint sound of traffic came through the line.
He sighed. The sound contained a hint of aggravation or surrender. I couldn’t be sure which. “I’m more and more convinced we’re looking for a woman who was gang-raped by at least three of our…victims.” He spat the word and huffed a humorless laugh. “I hardly want to call them that, but you know what I mean. God, I’m filtering for shit right now. Please don’t judge me. We still don’t know exactly how Navid fits, but considering he’s the only one who wasn’t speared through the dick, we don’t think he’s a perpetrator. An accomplice? A facilitator? Who knows?”
Another long pause. A distant horn.
Quieter, “This case is fucking me up, Dom. If I’m right… If these guys…” He silently cursed, then cleared his throat. “I’m not convinced Fatemeh was assaulted, but Navid was part of this, somehow, and if she found out, I do see her as volatile enough to take matters into her own hands. I don’t know what to think. I should go before I say something I shouldn’t. I just… needed to vent. Call me.”
The message ended, and I clicked to listen to it again. And again.
After three times, I erased it and sat back.
Fatemeh Kordestani. He would interview her, but then what? Would he pursue suspicions if they arose or purposefully brush them aside and pretend they didn’t exist?
Kobe was having a moral dilemma. He hadn’t come out and said what he was thinking, but I could read between the lines.
I thought of the dead man in my theater and the ones who had come before. I heard the agony and hatred in Kobe’s voice as hespoke the wordsgang rape. I tasted his bitter disgust when he referred to the deceased asvictims.
