Spencer looked at Tony, who grinned.
She glowered at them. “What?”
“Kinda bossy for a person on leave-”
“-a person who’s too stressed-”
“-dare we say overwhelmed-”
“-to perform her duties.”
“Can it, clowns. Captain Patti O’Shay is officially back in the saddle.”
54
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
2:00 p.m.
Spencer stood in the doorway to Patti’s office, watching her. With a series of phone calls, she had spoken to the chief and was officially back in charge of ISD, had arranged round-the-clock protection for Yvette, gotten Stacy “officially” installed as Yvette’s roommate and ordered an investigative team, which included Tony, to Messinger’s condo.
She was, quite simply, amazing.
“Glad to be back under your command,” he said. “Even if I’m pissed at you.”
“Sorry, but I had to play it the way I did.”
“You didn’t trust me.”
“I’d trust you with my life. But I won’t jeopardize your career.”
“That’s not for you to decide.”
She smiled slightly. “And that, Detective, is bullshit. I’m your immediate ranking officer and your aunt. I would never take advantage of my position that way.”
“I’m still pissed.”
“I can live with that.”
His cell phone went off, keeping him from retorting. “Detective Malone.”
“It’s Elizabeth Walker. I’m thirty minutes out.”
“Great, I’ll meet you at the morgue.”
The morgue had not been built with comfort in mind. No warm, fuzzies here. Just stainless-steel tables and work stations, cold tile floors and refrigerated cadaver drawers.
The job brought Spencer here way more than he liked. Frankly, even after all these years on the force, the place still gave him the creeps.
He and Elizabeth arrived at the same time. “Thanks for dropping everything and coming in,” Spencer said, falling into step with her. “We’ve waited a long time for another crack at this guy.”
“Fill me in.”
“Woman. Dead four or five days. Shot. Right hand MIA.”
They entered the building and crossed to the attendant. Though the woman recognized them, she asked for ID.
“Here to examine the Jane Doe brought in today,” he said.
“Which one?”
“Lower Ninth ward.”
She nodded. “Sign in. I’ll tell Chris you’re on your way.”
In his twenties, Chris was tall, thin and pale. His communication skills ranked up there with those of a rock, and Spencer decided he spent way too much time with dead people.
“She’s right here.”
The process was extremely efficient. Chris rolled the examining table into the refrigerated room where the bodies were stored on stainless-steel, racked trays. The trays rested on rollers and the shelving was totally adjustable, which allowed the bodies to be stacked, basically, one on top of another.
As they watched, Chris raised the table until it was the same height as the fourth shelf, then rolled the tray out onto it.
On the tray lay Jane Doe’s remains, zipped nice and neat into a black body bag.
“Where do you want her?”
“Under the lights, please,” Elizabeth answered.
She snapped on gloves, crossed to the table and adjusted the surgical lamp. “Before I left, I took a minute to review my findings on the City Park Jane Doe and the original samples. I brought my notes and photos. Let’s see what we’ve got.”
She unzipped the bag. Her expression didn’t change; her attention went immediately to the amputation site.
He left her to work and wandered over to where Chris sat inputting data in a computer. “Kind of quiet down here.”
“Deadly dull,” he shot back, snickering at his own joke.
Autopsy room humor.
“Detective?” Elizabeth motioned him over. “You’re not going to like me very much. But there’s a good chance this is the work of a different killer.”
He had called her for confirmation, thought they would get it and move forward with the investigation. Instead, he was left feeling as if the rug had been yanked from under his feet-again.
“Talk to me,” he said, hearing the frustration in his own voice.
“First, this killer used a much less effective tool. Maybe a small garden saw or even some sort of kitchen utensil.”
“He was in a situation where he had to use what was available.” Even as he offered the explanation, he discounted it. The Handyman had planned his acts carefully, not leaving things like tools to chance. That much had been obvious.
Elizabeth went on, expression sympathetic. “This cutter was obviously uncertain of himself. Look here.” Adjusting the light and magnifier, she used clamp tweezers to draw what was left of the tissue away from the bone. “See those marks on the bone? They’re false starts.”
“In your opinion.”
She lifted her gaze. “My expert opinion. Yes.”
“What else?”
“The amputation shows no skill, the cutter just sawed and hacked away. The City Park Jane Doe’s was slick, very professional.”
Spencer frowned. “A couple of the original samples displayed the same unskilled cuts. Could be he’s gotten rusty in the past couple of years? That along with not having his usual quality equipment, could account for the clumsiness, couldn’t it?”
“It might,” she conceded. “But here’s the kicker. I think this killer’s left-handed, not right.”
This just got worse and worse.
“Sorry, Detective, just calling it as I see it.”
“Show me.”
She retrieved seven photos from her briefcase and spread them out on the nearest work station. “Here are photos from all the previous victims. These first three represent the ones we assumed were the Handyman’s earliest attempts. Notice the false starts.”
“Just like this victim.”
“Yes, but with one difference. Do you see it?”
He studied the images, frowning. “You’re the expert, you tell me.”
“Here, the cutter pulls the saw from left to right. That’s evidenced by the depth of the cut, where it starts and how it finishes. Let’s look at today’s victim again.”
Spencer saw what she meant right away. “Dammit!”
“Sorry. Really, I am.”
He searched for an explanation. “Could this be bogus?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Could he have used his left hand even though he was right-handed?”
“That would certainly explain some of the clumsiness. But why?”
“To throw us off. To make us question whether he was the Real McCoy or not.”
“Anything’s possible, Detective. Although I think it’s a stretch. On many levels.”
“Such as?”
“Keeping in mind that my specialty is bones, not behavior, the human animal is one who falls back on the automatic or innate.
“Being right-handed or left-handed is innate. The killer would need an incredible amount of control to consciously use his ‘wrong’ hand, especially during a time of elevated adrenaline or excitement.”
She was right. In addition, serial killers were creatures of ritual. The Handyman took his victim’s right hand. He would do it exactly the same way each time, refining the ritual as he went. The act, the way he played it out, was meaningful to him-emotionally and intellectually. Often sexually gratifying as well.
So what now? It didn’t mean Tonya hadn’t been a victim of the Handyman, but it certainly wasn’t the slam dunk they had expected.
“When can you have an official finding?”
“I’ll coordinate with Ray. Certainly within the next couple of days.”
He nodded. “Until then, can we keep this between us?”
“Absolutely.” She frowned slightly. “What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure. But this is an especially sensitive case, and I want to make certain all my ducks are in a row before I present anything to the brass.”