Rick sighed through his nose. “Let’s get back to the Spire. Maybe Gloria has found us something.”
High above their heads, the clouds huddled low and black, brimming with menace.
(2:15 p.m.)
The morgue lurked in the bowels of Calgrave Central like a secret the building wanted to forget, all tile and stainless steel, surfacesgleaming under harsh surgical lamps. Rows of refrigerated drawers lined one wall, each a cold coffin waiting to be opened. At the center, a draped body lay on an examination table, the sheet pulled back to reveal what remained of the victim’s face—or rather, the absence of it.
Gloria Desmond stood beside it, a vision of theatrical competence in a white lab coat worn over a black dress that would’ve been more at home at an opera than an autopsy. Her copper-colored hair was molded into impeccable Marcel waves, every curve lacquered into place, and her makeup—bold red lips, perfectly lined eyes—suggested she’d never met a mirror she didn’t perform for. Late fifties, still striking in that commanding way that made you straighten your posture without thinking. She held a clipboard in one manicured hand, reading glasses perched on her nose, and didn’t look up when they entered.
“Well, well,” she said, her voice rich and honeyed with just enough bite beneath. “Starsky and Hutchappear at last. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten where they keep the bodies.”
“As if we could ever forget you,” Frank quipped, approaching the table.
Smooth, Rick thought. “What’ve you got for us?” he asked, going straight to business. He wasn’t in the mood to play. Not with the faceless corpse in the room, the exposed skull grinning up at him like a fucking Ghost Rider.
Gloria adjusted her glasses and gestured at the body with clinical detachment. “What I have is a mess. A very precise, very deliberate mess.” Extending her hand without looking, she called, “Gordon, darling, hand me the calipers.”
A thin figure hurried from the back room to comply—dark hair slicked back, wire-rimmed glasses catching the light—and placed the instrument in her palm with the precision of someone who’d done it a thousand times.
She traced a gloved finger along the edge of the skull where flesh should have been. “Once again, your killer removed the face while the victim was still alive. And before you ask—yes, that means he felt every second of it.”
Rick’s jaw tightened. “Cause of death the same as the others?”
“Exsanguination and trauma, yes. He bled out, probably went into shock somewhere around the halfway point, but the heart kept pumping until the job was done.” Gloria lowered the clipboard, her ostentatious affect dimming slightly, replaced by something harder. “Whoever did this knew what they were doing. The cuts are clean, methodical. Surgical, almost. Started at the hairline, worked down to the jaw, peeled it away like wallpaper.”
“Jesus,” Frank muttered.
“Jesus had nothing to do with this, I assure you.” Gloria moved to a tray of instruments, selecting a metal pointer. “Same pattern across all five. Faces removed pre-mortem, bodies arranged post-mortem. Your Sculptor—charming nickname, by the way—has a signature. And he’s remarkably consistent.”
Rick studied the ruined face, teeth bared in a final, involuntary grimace. “Time of death?”
“Around midnight, give or take thirty minutes. Rigor mortis and liver temp put him in that window.” Gloria set the pointer aside. “Gordon, make a note—send tissue samples to toxicology. I want a full screen.”
“Yes, Dr. Desmond.” The assistant’s pen scratched quietly in the background.
“Anything else?” Rick asked.
Gloria moved around the table, lowered the sheet, then motioned for Gordon to help her roll the body to the side. “Small contusion here, roughly two inches above the left kidney. Circular burn pattern, consistent with a stun gun. Same as onthe other victims, though the locations differ. It seems that your killer subdues them first—smart, efficient, no struggle—then transports them somewhere private for the main event.”
“So he could be snatching them off the street,” Frank said. “Or getting them alone first.”
“Precisely. Either way, these boys never saw it coming.” Gloria replaced the sheet with a flourish that somehow managed to be both respectful and pompous.
Rick exhaled slowly. Five victims. Same MO. No witnesses. No physical evidence beyond the bodies themselves and that damned symbol painted in their blood. And if the killer charmed these boys to go with him willingly, it suggested he was someone assertive. Trustworthy. The kind of face that doesn’t scream ‘I’m about to peel yours off.’ “Weapon the same, too?”
“Yes. Scalpel, maybe, or a filleting knife. Something designed for precision work.” Gloria removed her gloves with a snap. “Gordon, prep the John Doe for storage. We’re done here.”
“Right away, Dr. Desmond,” came the reply.
“Thanks, G.,” Rick said and turned toward the door, mind already churning through the information.Alive. The bastard did it while they were alive.
“Oh, and Slade?” Gloria called after him, her voice lilting with dark amusement. “Do try to catch this one before I run out of drawer space. The real estate down here is getting rather crowded.”
Rick glanced back. “Working on it.”
“I’m sure you are, darling. I’m sure you are.” She was already turning away, attention shifting to her next task, the dead requiring no further explanation than what she’d already given.
Rick and Frank strode down the corridor in silence, the overhead bulbs casting a sickly glow over the peeling green walls. From the floors above came the usual chorus: phonesringing, voices echoing, the machinery of justice grinding on—the station’s endless soundtrack.
