“First generation,” Curtis said, following my eyeline. “Unfortunately, it’s been dead for years.”
Inside the house, Natalie Kastner’s body was splayed out on the white couch Frank and I had passed on the way to her sunroom, her body turned nearly all the way onto her back, her eyes facing the ceiling. She was dressed in a tan blouse and an ocean-blue skirt, but the latter was covered in dots of arterial spray that reminded me of a scattergram chart, plotting the age range of victims over time.
The fatal cut began below her left ear and ran downward and medially, before straightening out across the midline of her neck, producing the largest pool of blood I’d ever seen in person.
“It appears Natalie welcomed the perp into her home,” Curtis said. “At some point, he got behind her. Cut fast and hard. She fell away from him, her body hitting the edge of the couch and turning.”
The victim’s hair was still damp from a shower.
First Richie.
Now Natalie Kastner.
El Médico’s state of mind was deteriorating.
Eight yellow crime-scene markers were spread about the living area. I swallowed and moved around to the far side of the couch, then bent over it to study the victim. Natalie’s cheeks and nose had been sliced up with the same blade that cut into her neck, but that attack had taken place after she was down on the ground. Footprints bloodied the white carpet and headed toward the front door.
“Brian says you’re on the hunt for someone,” Curtis said, referring to Detective Johnson. “That you have some picture?”
I recalled Natalie’s prolonged stare at our sketch. Its familiarity to her, hidden somewhere in her brain.
“We have a composite,” I said, finding a copy on my phone and holding it out.
Our serial killer had followed Frank and me here. If not literally, he’d used Richie’s case notes to find Natalie.
Why? And why had neither Frank nor I seen the threat coming?
“Ms. Kastner mentioned a brother earlier,” I said. “Named Andrew. You should consider sending a squad car over. Her mother also lives in town.”
“Copy that,” Detective Curtis said, taking a note on her phone. “Any idea where this killer is now?”
“No.”
I needed to call Frank. He, in turn, needed to call Craig Poulton. Our killer, who had been operating in the shadows, had changed his M.O. First attacking a federal agent. Now killing a potential witness. And Amber Isiah was still missing.
“The man you’re hunting,” Curtis said, motioning at my phone. “Do you have a name for him?”
“Donnie Dom,” I said. “But police looked it up. It’s bogus.”
I summarized Frank’s and my conversation with the victim. Then, putting aside any apprehensions about confidentiality or jurisdiction, I told Curtis everything. The debit card case. The bodies in Shilo. Richie.
I needed to make a call, so I stepped out into the street. It was past 10 p.m. I rang up Frank.
“He’s responding,” he said before I could speak. “They administered the medicine, and his body is coming around.”
“Thank God,” I said. “Listen—”
“His vitals are stabilizing,” Frank interrupted. “The doc’s about to give him something to wake him up. See how he’s doing.”
I exhaled, a weight lifting.
Then I explained to Frank about Natalie Kastner, and he repeated the information to someone he was with.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“I’m grabbing a jet to Jacksonville with Director Poulton. He came down to see Banning and Richie.”
“Why Jacksonville?”
