Authors: Robert W. Walker
"Our scanner is down, sir. But from the odor and the sheer weight, I'd say it isn't donuts or office supplies."
Chang slowed things, saying, "We have a sonar scanner upstairs that will do the trick, and we need to go for necessary tools and a cooler as well as a sheet to lay everything out on."
"I'll get what we need," Lynn Nielsen assured Chang.
"Dr. Patterson will help you out, Dr. Nielsen."
Nielsen darted a barbed but brief glance in Chang's direction, began to object, but decided to do as told instead. Patterson, in exaggerated politeness, stood holding the door for Nielsen.
Everyone else was told to take ten minutes but to not disappear. Most ran for rest rooms or the coffee and snack machines at a nearby lounge filled with plastic chairs, tables, and bulletin boards. When everyone had returned, remembering Anna Tewes losing it the last time they'd assembled, no one had food or coffee in hand.
After fifteen minutes had passed, Nielsen and Patterson returned, Lynn pushing a sleek steel cart, heavy with all the items Chang had called for, Patterson holding the door again. Nielsen wheeled the cart to where Chang motioned he wanted it. Atop it sat a compact sonar scanner attached to a computer accompanied by a monitor. From a shelf below the cart, Nielsen produced an ice-filled cooler, the sheet, and an array of metal instruments from a box cutter to a scalpel, and a large needle for drawing fluids. As Lynn Nielsen worked, Frank Patterson retreated back into his comer seat. He'd taken his cue from Chang to sit down and leave things to Dr. Nielsen. Frank's stiff body language spoke of a mix of hurt pride and anger. He'd have liked to take a more proactive role here in the presentation—as he had at the funeral parlor as lead CSI investigator. Instead, Chang had chosen to rely on Lynn Nielsen.
With the room darkened, using the sonar scan, Dr. Chang pointed to the computer monitor atop the cart and the image coming through. It was at first difficult to make out—the image flat, without depth or contrast, dreary gray, grainy, until some resolution was created by Nielsen, who handled the wand over the FedEx box. After a moment, Chang, using a light pointer, highlighted a flattened female areola, the nipple like an eye at the center. Around this there appeared a crush of flesh. "It appears to be the breast of a woman, but skewed, flattened as against a windowpane, and to the left, a half-hidden open flesh wound." The light pointer danced about the ugly image as he spoke. "Upper torso...here is clavicle area, you see, here in upper left-hand comer of this coffin is a shoulder ridge. Other shoulder blurred by what appears a tumor or bloody mass. My guess, the contents are a woman's upper torso and severed breasts."
To most in the room, the scanner image was one gray mass of unreadable flesh. Both Chang and Nielsen looked hard at the monitor image in a kind of professional fascination.
Leonard switched off his light pointer and asked for the lights to come up. Once they did, the image diffused into gray nothingness. Chang lifted the box cutter, carefully leaned in over the box itself, and began opening the bulging parcel—measured during the break as thirty-two inches in width by forty inches in height.
Everyone watched in silence as the tape split noisily under the blade, and Leonard's gloved hands trembled slightly as he pulled back the flaps and everyone held a collective breath. Leonard stared down into the box. Lucas had never seen Chang go white before, but he did now.
"Doctor, are you all right?" Lynn Nielsen asked him, placing a hand on his shoulder.
Chang shook it off. "As I said, it's her upper torso, jammed in tightly. The breasts have been severed and stuffed in as well. It will not all possibly fit into one cooler, Dr. Nielsen." Chang wiped his sweating brow with a handkerchief. "If any of you care to see it up close, it will be in my lab upstairs. I see no purpose in displaying it here as—"
"Thank God," moaned Anna Tewes.
"Yes, indeed," added Dr. Purvis.
Chang continued. "—as any further display here will not add to our knowledge of the killer or whereabouts of same." Chang lifted the box and hefted its contents onto the cart behind the monitor. The cart was balanced precariously, and the wheels, skidding as a result, almost caused the vile parcel to tilt over and spill out its contents. With lightning reflexes, Lucas shot out a foot and steadied the wheel, allowing Leonard to hold onto the box, right it, and steady it. Once all was safe again, Leonard, with Nielsen's help, exited with the cart and its strange cargo. Nielsen helped guide the cart to the elevators. They had left behind the forensic tools, the sheet, and the cooler. Using the sheet, Frank Patterson began to bundle these up.
Everyone else soon followed one another through the door, walking like pallbearers after having seen the latest pieces of Mira Lourdes come through the door. Hoskins quietly muttered to Perelli, "Lincoln's going to hit high-G when he hears about this."
Lucas and Meredyth remained behind, the sound of Frank's rattling instruments, as he rolled them up, like a sad litany accompanying the procession of the others. "All the coroner's horses, and all the coroner's men, could not put Mira Lourdes back together again," Frank said.
Lucas and Meredyth turned to stare at the man, who next said, "At the now-accelerated rate, we shall one day have all of Ms. Lourdes back...her back, front as well, side-to-side, up-and-down pieces, the over, under, above, and below of her."
"What is it you want, Frank?" asked Lucas.
"Just talk. Leonard at first held some notion he might miraculously stitch all the parts into one, but I suspect a judicious cremation of the parts is in order for the grieving family now. Otherwise, she's going to look like Frankenstein's bride in the casket."
Lucas pursed his hps and nodded at Chang's second in command in the M.E.'s office. "Sounds like a better plan indeed, Frank."
Lucas led Meredyth toward the door.
"Look here, you two, has it occurred to either of you that we need the full resources of the FBI on this case? And I mean right away, like yesterday?"
"We're told that Captain Lincoln is keeping them informed," said Meredyth.
"They're clamoring to come aboard, and he's keeping them informed?' asked Patterson, a slight man with pinched features. "We all know that the killer's use of the mail makes this a federal crime—screwing with the U.S. Postal Service. We also know that we can only keep control of the case if we invite their help and resources now, at our invitation," he repeated. "Otherwise, at any moment, they'll come swooping in and simply take charge entirely, waving us all good-bye."
'Technically speaking, Frank, the Ripper hasn't actually posted anything through the U.S. mails. Fact is, prior to the FedEx box, everything had been hand-delivered, save for the UPS delivery at the station house."
"What's your interest. Dr. Patterson?" asked Meredyth. "Do you think a high-profile case can raise your profile?"
"I have a well-established reputation in my field. Dr. Sanger, and I resent the implications of your question. As for my interest? It is the same as any citizen, any law- enforcement officer, the same as yours, Dr. Sanger."
"And that is?" pressed Meredyth.
"I want to see an end to this horror! To see the perpetrators apprehended and punished to the fullest extent of the law. Short of that"—he stepped up to the table and balanced his slight frame against it—"I'd like to see someone of Lucas's ilk here kill the perpetrators before they can take another inch off their victim. Think of it—treating her body like a frozen Popsicle, taking it from a freezer, slicing off this piece and that, returning it to deep freeze for another go at shocking you, Dr. Sanger."
"And you think the FBI can sooner end this thing than we can?" asked Lucas.
"Well, Lucas, you must admit, from all appearances, Dr. Sanger, and you by extension, have been led by the nose by a juvenile who, whether you care to admit it or not, has gotten you both where she wants you—on an emotional roller coaster. You've played right into the bitch's hands. You say she's manipulating her accomplice! What has she done to you, Dr. Sanger?"
"We're out ahead of her, Dr. Patterson. You can tell your pals in the federal building that," countered Meredyth.
"Out ahead of her? Everyone in this room tonight questions your objectivity, Doctor. As a forensic psychiatrist, knowing of such a personal stake in the outcome of any other criminal case, you would yourself recommend to Captain Lincoln that any officer or detective so closely linked to a suspect be removed from duty and certainly not placed in charge."
"Is that your opinion?" she asked. "Are you finished?"
"Yes, Frank is finished," said Lucas, taking her by the arm, escorting her out.
"Just one man's opinion," Frank shouted after them.
Lucas turned on him. "An opinion you've no doubt shared with the FBI?"
"I know my duty."
"And how much duty have you given the press?"
"I didn't go to the FBI. They came to me. I told them what I knew, what I gleaned from Chang and Nielsen, and today at the funeral parlor. The note left there—'Arm in arm, we'll wrap ourselves in the warmth of childhood carousels, to dream round and round in flesh pound for bloody pound.' This woman is in a competitive battle with you, Meredyth. You are a liability to this case unless handled properly by people who have had experience with such killers as this—the contrary murderer who will match you step for step."
Everyone on the task force had seen the note left in Zoradia Ortiz's coffin at the funeral home, written in the same hand as the previous cryptic communiques. As with the others, they gave profilers and investigators few to no clues. Everyone would be analyzing the meaning of "childhood carousel" now. Meredyth already knew it referred to Lauralie's life in comparison to Meredyth's "dream" childhood. Lauralie was at one end of the spectrum of this carousel, Meredyth at the other.
"So long as we have Captain Lincoln's confidence, Dr. Patterson," Meredyth firmly said, "Lucas and I will pursue this case as lead investigators on the task force that we and Gordon Lincoln assembled."
"I wish you only success and a speedy one at that." Patterson, his bundle of instruments held close to his chest, pushed past them and was gone. But the odor of his cologne, thrown on heavily to mask the odors of the coroner's lab, lingered.
"I think we can expect a raking-over in the printed pages tonight or tomorrow, Mere," said Lucas.
"And a visit from the FBI soon after," she agreed.
"Creep Patterson. He's always chummed up to local FBI. I suspect he's shining their badges because he actually thinks it's his way through the back door. He's bucking for his own lab where he can call the shots—God help us! He knows he'll never be head of the HPD Crime Lab so long as Leonard continues to write up his annual evaluations."
"I felt the tension between them."
"Politics."
"Positioning."
They had started out the door and down the corridor when Stan Kelton met them in the hallway. "We may have a break in the case," he said.
"Whataya got, Stan?"
"Aside from some promising tips, we've located a school where Lauralie Blodgett registered for classes this year."
'Terrific! Where's the school located?"
"Harkness at Balboa, the Dean V. King School of Veterinary Medicine. I dispatched a radio car to the address she left with the registrar. They're watching the place, but won't move in until they hear from us regarding a warrant."
Lucas and Meredyth recognized the address as that of Katherine Croombs's place. "We've already canvased the place. She's not there, Stan."
"My, but she's been a busy girl," he replied.
Meredyth asked, "Stan, did they get a list of her classes and teachers?"
"It's on its way to us now. Let me check the fax."
They followed Stan to find the information waiting for them. Lucas and Meredyth closely studied Lauralie's registration form and signature. She'd signed up for three classes, two of which she was failing miserably. The third, Intro Surg Pro, she somehow had a B average in. The name of the instructor was A. Belkvin.
"What the hell is Intro Surg Pro?" asked Kelton.
"Introduction to Surgical Procedures. I know, makes your skin crawl in light of what we know about her," answered Meredyth. "And look at her signature, Lucas." Studying it, Meredyth added. "It may give us a glimpse into her personality. Notice the fanciful swirls, the looping Ls, the exaggerated crossing of the Ts, the G dipping so low, the capitals and the T's reaching so high."
"Sorry to sound like a broken record, but what does it mean?" asked Kelton.
"Means she's self-indulgent, a thrill-seeking exhibitionist freak, out for all the attention she can gather."
Lucas added, "She ought to've put all this negative energy into the theater. Could've been a hell of an actress, the next Vivian Leigh."
"She has her stage," countered Meredyth, "and her audience. All of us in the real world. The subject of an
APB, a BOLO. Certainly has our attention...subject of a nationwide hunt being played out on the front pages. She's created this lady of satanic divination who frightens us all; the bogeyman has become bogeywoman."
At the bottom of the faxed copy of Lauralie's registration form, in tiny, tight script, a hastily written note ran the length of the page. It'd been written, presumably by someone working in the registrar's office. It read: "Ms. L Blodgett is on verge of being dropped from classes due to failing grades and mounting attendance problems as she has failed to reply to repeated notices to see her counselor, Dr. Arthur Belkvin."
"Belkvin, as in her instructor in Introductory Surgical Procedures? The one class she's passing?" asked Lucas.
"Kind of odd, I agree," said Meredyth.
"What? What's odd, the note scribbled on her registration form?" asked Kelton, trying to keep up.
"That the only class she's getting a passing grade in is taught by her counselor," replied Lucas.
Meredyth added, "And yet, according to the note, she has failed to report into him regarding problems with attendance. Looks and smells like a rat."