Acquired Motives (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 2) (6 page)

     
Matt hadn't told her that he expected one of his supervisors to show up within the next thirty minutes—the attack had occurred at the residence of a state police investigator.

     
While he waited, he almost fell asleep. But his muscles began to cramp, and he had sharp pains in his shoulders and neck. He knew aspirin and a cold beer would help. He eased Sylvia's body from his, stood cautiously, and walked into the kitchen.

     
He put a hand out to open the refrigerator, then stopped. Amid grocery lists, postcards, and a stick-on calendar, a photograph was trapped beneath a magnet. He was about to lift it from the door when he felt breath on his neck. He turned and found himself staring into Sylvia's dilated pupils and deep brown eyes. Without a word, she reached around him and took the photograph. The magnet fell to the floor with a soft sound.

     
It was a Polaroid of a man. There was no way to know if he was dead or alive. His nude body was trussed, his face was visible. He had been castrated.

     
Anthony Randall.

     
Horrified, Sylvia dropped the photo. When Matt reached to retrieve it from the floor, he saw the message scrawled on the back: "Take a good look at the only True Justice. One for the Killers' Doctor."

"H
E WAS TORCHED
." Hansi Gausser, head of serology at the Department of Public Safety crime lab, cleared his throat and used his sleeve to wipe grit from his eyes. The outdoor crime scene west of San Antonio Creek was a bear to process: rough terrain, ceaseless wind, and the devastation of the Dark Canyon fire. Gausser sighed; just his luck to be on call the week after July Fourth. Holidays brought out humanity's nasty streak. He smiled vacantly at Sylvia and Matt, then brought himself back to the business at hand: Anthony Randall's corpse.

     
Gausser's fingers hovered over burn patterns on the dead man's body. "The forest fire missed him altogether. But he was doused with accelerant. Fortunately, there's enough of his face left to identify him—it looks like your guy."

     
"It's Randall." Matt nodded at the serologist. Hansi Gausser was Swiss-born and -educated and a perfectionist. Pronounce the "au" in Gausser like the "ou" in "house" and you were on his good side immediately. Pronounce it like the "a" in "gas"—as almost everyone did—and the Swiss mercenary soldier emerged. In spite of, or perhaps because of, his peculiarities, Gausser was a first-rate criminalist.

     
And he was known for his olfactory tolerance.

     
Matt tried his best not to breathe. Sylvia kept a bandanna over her mouth and nose. It was too early in the day for anyone but Gausser to brave the stink of burned, decomposing flesh. When the wind gusted from the south, the stench was unbearable.

     
Sylvia stood clear of Gausser. It wasn't the smell that kept her outside the perimeter, or fear of contaminating the scene—the techs had already completed a grid search and most of their evidence collection. Her need for distance wasn't physical. She had wished death on Anthony Randall. However irrational the thought, she couldn't shake the nagging sense of complicity in his murder.

     
"
One for the Killers' Doctor
."

     
Gausser pointed to a fire trench to the west of a stand of piñon. "Look at the layout: the edge of the burn was thirty feet from here and stretched all the way to Dark Canyon." He turned back to the body. "This tree trunk, and the duff around it, weren't even touched. The fire didn't jump the trench."

     
Sylvia forced herself to ask the question: "Was his body burned postmortem?"

     
"That's an interesting question," Gausser said evenly. "The autopsy results will tell us the answer."

     
She swallowed, but the lump stayed lodged in the back of her throat. "If he was burned alive, how long did it take him to die?"

     
Gausser was suddenly more animated. "That depends. A person who is immolated, who inhales corrosive fumes and superheated air—or even a fireball—will lose the tissues that line his airway. That could kill him, but most likely not instantly. Poisoning or air exclusion—a common problem in house fires—could be fast- or slow-acting. Loss of homeostasis—for instance, if you were to fry off all your skin—that's a burn unit issue." Gausser paused, then continued. "In cases of true immolation, like those Vietnamese monks who barbecued themselves to protest the war—it's usually not an immediate death. Seconds, minutes. . . very
long
minutes." Gausser chewed on his lower lip thoughtfully. "However, I think Anthony Randall got lucky."

     
"What?"

     
Gausser pointed to an area just behind what remained of Randall's left ear. "Gunshot to the head. Entry wound, exit wound. Notice the angle. The shot was probably too shallow to kill him outright, but it would have stunned him."

     
Sylvia leaned forward to get a better view of the darkened area. She said, "A mercy shot?"

     
"Whatever it was, lousy aim." Gausser tweezed a charred fragment and placed it carefully in a brand-new paint container. He shrugged. "Matt, I don't think your friend from the F.B.I. believed it was a mercy shot."

     
Sylvia caught Matt's look of surprise.

     
Gausser continued. "Special Agent Chaney left right before you all arrived."

     
Matt took in the information without comment, but he was curious as to why a federal agent based in Las Cruces would show up at this particular crime scene.

     
A gust of wind brought with it the stench of burned flesh; Matt groaned.

     
Without looking up Gausser said, "Help yourself to my private stock of Charlie. In my back pocket."

     
Although Matt had already applied a liberal coat of Vicks VapoRub around his nostrils, he accepted the offer and pulled out a worn plastic bottle. When he unscrewed the top he was overwhelmed by the sweet stink of Charlie cologne. Gausser swore it was the best way to mask the stench of the dead. The criminalist's theory was that somehow the cologne's fragrance chemically bonded with one of the world's most loathsome odors; the result was at least tolerable for inhalation.

     
Matt offered the bottle to Sylvia. She shook her head and kept one arm crossed beneath her breasts. Matt wasn't sure she should be here, but she hadn't asked for his opinion. The call had come in somewhere after four-thirty
A.M
.: a body discovered by a firefighter in the Jemez Mountains. It didn't take a genius to figure out the dead man might be Anthony Randall.

     
Inside the scene perimeter, Matt took a breath, stepped close to Gausser, and pointed a gloved hand toward what remained of Randall's right arm.

     
"Bindings," Gausser said.

     
To Matt's surprise, Sylvia slipped under the perimeter tape and squatted next to Gausser. She lowered the bandanna from her nose. Her eyes were invisible behind dark glasses. She was thinking of the image on the Polaroid. She said, "I'm guessing the castration was premortem."

     
Gausser said, "Again, I won't be able to tell you until we get the autopsy report."

     
"No. But it looks like this killer—or killers—wanted to inflict pain."

     
"Payback for rape." Matt stared down at the swollen torso, the burned thighs.

     
"Flora Escudero's family?" Gausser wiped his upper arm across his forehead and gazed down at Randall's corpse. "If he'd raped my daughter, I'd think about doing something like this."

     
Silently, Matt agreed. When you made a career of law enforcement, you faced the fact early on that the bad guys got away with murder . . . and rape. If someone you loved was a victim, it could be easy to take the next step, make your own justice.

     
Criminal Agent Terry Osuna was the D.P.S. investigating officer on this one—she'd been out at the scene earlier, working with the special agent from the U.S. Forest Service. When Osuna questioned Flora Escudero's family later today, Matt would make it a point to be there.

     
Gausser said, "How are your tomatoes doing, Matt?"

     
"My first Cherokee Purple is about ready to pick."

     
"You promised me a basketful."

     
"They'll produce until October first. You'll get your fill of tomatoes."

     
"You ought to get Sylvia to put them up for you." Gausser winked.

     
"Right." Matt looked down at Sylvia, who wasn't taking her eyes from Randall's body. He tried to picture her in an apron slaving over 180-degree water and a canning kettle.

     
Matt let his gaze slide slowly over the damaged corpse. His detachment and curiosity never managed to block out quite enough. People who died of unnatural causes often wore the same disappointed expression, as if they had known their last moment was imminent, felt the injustice, but were too weary to protest. But Randall's corpse had the face of a macabre jester: his lips had burned back to reveal a grotesque smile, his skin was pulp, his eye sockets blackened and empty.

     
Matt turned away from the body and listened to the distant throb of helicopter rotors above the noise of the wind. The fire crew was dumping water and retardants on the last of the burn just a mile west of the scene.

     
Sylvia stood and closed her eyes. Matt reached out a protective arm. She stiffened, then moved out of reach. It took him a moment to realize that he'd grazed the wound on her rib cage. He felt clumsy and inept.

     
His frustration transformed into desire for action. He wanted to nail her attacker, tear him apart, make him hurt. At this instant, Matt didn't pretend to be broken up by Randall's death—he could almost believe that somebody had done law enforcement a favor—but he hated the idea that Sylvia was involved in this mess, that she'd been hurt. And, ultimately, it sickened him that another killer was loose.

     
On the other side of the piñon grove, between Gausser's state vehicle and Matt's Caprice, a van from the Office of the Medical Investigator pulled up. The deputy M.I. picked his way through the trees. It was his job to make the official pronouncement of death—as if without it Anthony Randall might surprise them all and suddenly walk away—and then to transport the remains to the O.M.I. in Albuquerque. The deputy M.I. walked up to the crime scene perimeter and ducked under the yellow tape.

     
He said, "Got lost and couldn't find you guys. They gave me directions up at the staging area." He peered closely at the corpse. "That is one sorry crispy critter."

     
Sylvia stared through the stubby, potbellied man; her thoughts were far away. She envisioned the fire raging up the canyon, and then she tried to imagine Anthony Randall's last few hours of life. Why drive him all the way into the Jemez to kill him? It wasn't likely the killer—or killers—had expected the body to be destroyed in the forest fire. Clearly, they wanted to make a public statement. And they wanted to make sure the "Killers' Doctor" was included in that statement. So much so that they risked a trip to Matt's trailer after the murder.

     
Sylvia turned to Matt. "I'd like to talk to the firefighter who found the body."

     
Matt closed his eyes, stretched, then nodded. "I'm going to be a while. If I don't catch up with you, I'll call you at noon. You know your way to the staging area?"

     
"I'll find it." Sylvia moved with more energy now. She cocked a finger at Gausser. "About those canned tomatoes, Hansi. . . dream on."

D
AYS EARLIER, WHEN
Santa Fe National Forest officials set up a staging area outside the village of La Cueva, the Dark Canyon fire had been an unknown force. During the last ten hours, the fire had peaked. Now, officials gambled it would burn itself out.

     
When Sylvia turned off the access road, she saw buses, trailers, and emergency vehicles parked in a meadow that was smaller than a football field. This was where dispatchers communicated with the world, journalists prowled for scoops, and the all-important firefighters slept, ate, and got themselves patched up. At the moment, a dozen people, some in yellow-and-green firefighter uniforms, waited while a helicopter touched down.

     
Sylvia parked her Volvo next to a school bus. Directly ahead was a trailer with a sign:
U.S.F.S.
COMMUNICATIONS.
She knocked, then entered. Communication equipment lined one wall and maps and aerial charts covered most of another. A man wearing headphones bared one ear.

     
She said, "I'm looking for the firefighter who found—"

     
"In first aid." He replaced his headphone. "That big RV next door. You better hurry. They're gonna ship him back to Santa Fe."

     
Sylvia stepped through the trailer door and collided with a petite, copper-haired woman dressed in a tailored tan shirt and a trim black skirt, silver belt buckle polished to a sheen: Rosie Sanchez, lead investigator at the Penitentiary of New Mexico.

     
"Hey!" Sylvia's eyes opened in surprise. The helicopter had taken off again and the noise overhead was deafening.

     
Rosie held her arms wide, and the two friends hugged.

     
Sylvia mouthed, "What are you doing here?"

     
As the helicopter moved out of range, Rosie shouted, "I've got inmates on furlough, fighting the fire. What are
you
doing here?"