Once settled in their seats on the commercial flight, Inspector Sharpe wasted no time, asking her even before she had the opportunity to order a drink, “Shall I fill you in further on the three crime scenes that we have thus far?”
She loved his mastery of language, the little touches that made his culture bubble forth with each word, not to mention his melodic voice and lovely accent.
“Yes, I would like to see all that you have on each case, actually. Another look at the crime-scene photos and any forensic reports coming out of each case.”
“Good, then be my guest.” Sharpe snapped open his thin, black briefcase and produced several files. Each was marked with a victim's name scrawled in large, red marker across its labeclass="underline" O'Donahue, Katherine; Coibby, Lawrence; Burton, Theodore. No strange-sounding, exotic names with origins from faraway places, nothing to die for, she thought, simply homespun, middle-of-the-road, run-of-the-mill names that appeared as scattered as the victims themselves. Jessica read of a schoolteacher in retirement; a British used-car salesman with a mortgage, alimony, and child support to pay; and finally a stockbroker turned radio personality who'd strayed from his Jewish roots to embrace Catholicism, all in that order.
The victims appeared to share nothing in common save that they were all British subjects, the Irish schoolmarm having adopted Britain as her home in her youth, someplace called Bury St. Edmunds.
One of the crime-scene photos in O'Donahue's file gave Jessica a start. She hadn't seen it before. She helplessly stared at the tire marks, which were quite visible, like large tattoos across her back and shoulders where the skin had absorbed the impact of the automobile going over her. The tread marks shimmered beneath the lights in a perfect pattern, reminding her of Tattoo Man back in her lab at Quantico. “Did the killer run her over before or after crucifying her?”
“Neither.” Sharpe explained the sad origin of the tread marks.
The plane sped down the runway, lifting like an ancient bird of prey, ponderous at first but suddenly light and airy, free of all restraint.
Settling in, Jessica released her seat belt to relax more comfortably, and said to Sharpe, 'Tell me more about how you found the first victim: when, where, and the condition of the body at the time.”
“That'd be the schoolteacher, O'Donahue. In her early to mid-fifties. Not your typical serial-killer bait, I'd say.”
“No, although it's not unheard of.”
“Well, as I said, we found her run over by the fool that discovered the body, tire marks over her back. She'd been dumped facedown near the Thames on the Victoria Gardens Embankment, along a dirty stretch of levy along the parkway below a bridge.”
Copperwaite, who'd begun to listen in earnest, added, “We can take you to the scene if you like.”
“Yes, I would like to have a look… give it the once-over.”
“We suspect that body and perpetrator were en route to the Thames,” suggested Sharpe. “That the killer fully intended to dump it into the river when he was frightened off.”
“Points to the possibility it may've been his first-ever kill. Since he was so easily frightened off, you might look for a younger person,” she countered.
“Good thought.” Sharpe sat back heavily in his chair to consider this.
Copperwaite, from the other side of Sharpe, added as an afterthought, “We find a great deal floating in the Thames.”
“Her hands and feet had been spiked with three-quarter-inch thick nails. Like bloody railway spikes, but not quite. Still, large enough to make you wince.” Sharpe's matter-of-fact tone did battle with the content of his words. He paused for her benefit, fearing she might become alarmed.
“Go on,” she dictated.
“We didn't know what to make of it at the time, of course, and only later were we made absolutely certain-”
“Certain of what?” she impatiently prodded him.
“-certain that the holes in hands and feet had been part of a crucifixion murder, you see. Accepting the fact at the time, I tell you, we wanted to deny it.”
“I see, of course. Were the others similarly disposed of, the killer using water?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Do you think there's significance in that? Because I do.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Tell me about the other discoveries.”
“Very well, as you like…” Sharpe launched into a typical police description of the scene, the body, the surrounding area-a small lake in a park frequented by families on a daily basis where children saw the body floating like a balloon toy in Coibby's case.
Copperwaite interjected here and there, adding a bit of detail and color, the two detectives complimenting one another in rounding out the description of how Lawrence Coibby's body-victim number two-had been discovered.
“Any defensive marks on hands, forearms? Any blood or tissue, not his own, found under his nails?”
“Like the woman, no sign of any violence done to the body save the slight cut to the side, the spikes driven into palms and feet,” replied Sharpe. “No fight put up whatsoever.”
Copperwaite added, “Nor the third victim. Perfectly untouched save for the crucifixion marks. And don't forget the needle marks, Sharpie-Inspector Sharpe.”
“Then there were drugs found in the system?” she pressed.
'Trace elements of a barbiturate,” replied Sharpe. “M.E.'s report is…” He paused, shuffled papers about the file, and finally pointed to a line on the M.E.'s protocol sheet-a form that appeared up-to-date and quaint at the same time, Jessica thought. She read the logo: Coroner for the Crown.“ 'Brevital,' “ Jessica read aloud“ That mean anything to you?” asked Sharpe, sensing her reaction to the word. She let out a breath of air and shrugged. “Methohexital, used in sedating patients… barbiturate, short-acting.”
“Short-acting?” asked Copperwaite, his youthful eyes alight with eager interest.
“As opposed to long-acting. In other words, your victims, injected with Brevital, would have dozed just long enough for the killer-”
“Or killers,” corrected Sharpe.
“-to hoist the prone victims' bodies onto whatever makeshift cross he-or they-concocted for the sacrificial lambs.”
“Just enough to put them under, then?”
“Exactly. And each victim must've awakened when the killer drove home the stakes at the palms and feet, most likely having already been secured by some other means. Rope, hemp, rawhide perhaps? Yes, the body would need lashing to the cross in addition to the stakes.”
Copperwaite ground his teeth at the image.
Jessica added, “That would be my guesstimate, but don't quote me.” She paused, all of them allowing the image to sink in. “Rope bums at both wrists and about the feet, right? To take the weight,” pursued Jessica.
“Precisely,” Sharpe said at once.
“The body weight on the victims,” Jessica began. “Can you give me a ballpark figure?”
“Ballpark figure?” asked Copperwaite, confused by her language.
“She means an estimated guess, Stuart. How about a precise number, Doctor?”
“That'll do.”
“You see, I've had the same thoughts,” returned Sharpe. “The men each weighed over 190 stones, while the woman weighed 155 of your American pounds.”
Jessica smiled at the use of the word “stones.”
“So, the ropes were enough to hold the body in place, so the stakes could be driven in. Certainly sounds like the work of more than one man, possibly a deadly pair, given the deadweight of the drugged victims.”
“Once again, our thought also,” replied Sharpe with a narrowed gaze. “Given how long we've had to study the cases, your deductions are positively… preternatural. Are you sure you're not a psychic to boot?”
While Jessica answered with a thoughtful smile, Copperwaite added, “Unless this bugger is bigger than Arnold Schwarzenegger, he'd have to be two men.”