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“Any evidence of intimate partner abuse?” Gretchen asked.

“No. There’s one healed wrist fracture which her husband reported to you, though that doesn’t always mean anything. She could have sustained soft tissue injuries for years from abuse. Those wouldn’t show up on X-rays or scans. It’s possible he finally just snapped.”

“Dean’s got an alibi,” Josie told her. “Conlen confirmed with church personnel that he was there fixing a toilet when Kirstie was killed. The GPS on his phone backs that up.”

“Well, I suppose that’s good.” Anya gazed down at Kirstie’s mangled face with an expression of profound sorrow. “There’s really not much I can tell you that you don’t already know or haven’t already figured out. I can tell you this, though. I’ve been doing this a long time and I’ve never seen the kind of facial fractures Kirstie West sustained. You think it’s bad from looking at her but when you see the CT, it’s so much worse. The killer didn’t just beat her face in. He pulverized it.”

“Overkill,” Josie said.

“What’s most telling is that it was to her face and not anywhere else on her body,” Gretchen said. “This guy is rapidly losing control, and he still limited his rage to her face.”

Josie thought about the different reasons killers inflicted excessive injuries on a victim’s face. More than any part of someone’s body, it represented their individuality, their personality, their identity. Annihilating it was annihilating them. Sometimes overkill meant the killer had a deep personal connection to the victim and they were taking out their rage or jealousy on them. Other times, killers unconsciously sought to dehumanize their victims so they didn’t have to entertain any feelings of guilt for what they were doing.

“We talked about the victims being stand-ins for the woman who rejected him,” Josie said.

“Or women,” said Gretchen.

“Right,” said Josie. “Our theory was that the lipstick symbolizes what he sees as the bait and switch. She makes herself up to go out with him. He sees it as a guarantee that she’ll continue the date, invite him in, sleep with him, maybe even carry on a romantic relationship afterward. Then he gets to the threshold and she turns him away. He left his victims looking prim and proper except for the smeared lipstick up until now. Maybe the damage to the face is to do with the overall idea of makeup.”

“Two faces.” Gretchen nodded. “The one she shows him when he first sees her, when he asks her out, when he picks her up for the date, and the one she shows him afterward, when they’re alone and the date is concluding.”

“The second one is ugly,” said Josie. “That’s why he’s always messed up their lipstick but now he’s escalating fast. This is his way of exposing what he sees as the ugliness she’s hiding under her perfect makeup.”

“Then why did he go to the trouble of wiping the blood from Kirstie’s mouth and applying the lipstick?” Anya asked.

“Now that he’s exposed her ugly side, she can never go back to the pretty one—the one he sees as a trick,” said Gretchen.

Josie took another wipe from the pack and scoured her forearm. “No amount of makeup or lipstick can put it back in place.”

“Well, that’s chilling.” Anya rubbed her arms.

“Or he had an encounter with Kirstie and she pissed him off,” Josie said.

“You’re thinking of Fisher?” asked Gretchen.

Josie nodded. “The day of the funeral planning meeting, she shut him down in a very aggressive tone. Hers was the final word, and Fisher isn’t the type to take that well. On the surface, yes, but the things we found on his phone suggest a very different man underneath.”

A petulant, angry, jealous prick.

Then there was Dr. Holmes.

Josie couldn’t get the image of him touching that patient’s mouth out of her mind. He didn’t exactly fit the psychological profile they were discussing but psychological profiles didn’t solve crimes. Evidence did, and of that, they were in short supply.

As if sensing Josie’s thoughts, Gretchen said, “I’m going back to the stationhouse to see what stones I can kick over on Fisher and Holmes.”

They had about three hours before Turner was due to come in for the overnight shift. She’d have to change into Anya’s scrubs and make herself presentable enough to stop at home to shower and change but that would take an hour, tops. Josie took off her duty belt along with her pistol and handed it to Gretchen. There was no way she could wear it with scrubs.

“Take this with you,” she said. “I’ll meet you back there.”

Forty

Josie rolled her shoulders, hoping to stretch the fabric of Anya’s scrub top, but there was no give. As predicted, it was tight around her upper body, smooshing her breasts. Still, the scrubs were a welcome improvement over the bloody clothes at her feet. The private bathroom in the morgue suite was small but it served its purpose. She was cleaned up enough that she wouldn’t terrorize people in public—or at home. Her face, neck, arms and hands were finally blood-free. She’d gotten as much of the blood out of her hair as possible using wet paper towels. Then she’d twisted her damp locks up into a messy bun.

There was a knock on the door and then Anya’s assistant, Ramon, said, “I’ve got a patient belongings bag for your dirty clothes.”

Josie swung open the door and gave him the brightest smile she could muster despite her exhaustion. She took the bag and stuffed her blood-soaked clothes inside. “Thank you.”

“Anya had to go,” Ramon said. “But take your time. It’s quiet down here this time of night. No one will bother you.”