Drop Dead Perfect (An Ellen Harper Psycho-Thriller) (16 page)

Art is always in the eye of the beholder
, but getting to what the artist was trying to portray was the real trick. She knew that one.

By running a specially designed computer program, the pictures from the ME’s office and the ones she’d taken could be compared side by side based on any area of the body and an inch at a time, or smaller, if necessary.

The tech who brought the files said they’d found something that needed Ellen’s attention, but Ellen had told her not to explain it to her. She wanted to make her own observations and then they could compare notes, if necessary.

Her dad would be proud of that line of thinking. Pure, uninfluenced observation led to pure, untainted evidence analysis. And the pure joy of discovery.

A few minutes later, she had forty-nine color transparencies spread on the table. She scanned each one in silence while the two men looked on. Steve knew to wait for her analysis before he spoke. To Brice’s credit, he picked up on that idiosyncrasy and said nothing.

Ellen hadn’t gotten past image twelve when her eyes darted to the lower section of the picture. The shot was a side
-by-side of the ME’s photo and hers, showing a small, oblong image on the back of Clara’s left calf. She reached for the remote control, pointed it to that cell of the table, and instantaneously the image grew to ten times normal. Ellen bent closer as did Brice. Steve moved to the other side of the table for a different angle.

“What is it?” asked Brice.

“I don’t know for sure, but it looks like a sliver.”

“So? People get slivers,” he said.

She didn’t reply but stepped to her left and hit the remote again, enlarging image number twenty-nine. Immediately Holly’s left calf displayed the almost identical lesions and residual material.

Another sliver. This one was a little wider, more coarse, but no doubt about the location.

Going back to twelve, then back to twenty-nine two more times, she stood straight up, putting her hands on her hips.

“Okay, boys. I think it highly unlikely that both of these women would have
similar slivers in identical places. Since they were both about the same height, I think it indicates that they might have been in the same spot or in the same situation before they were killed.”

“What does that mean exactly?” asked Brice.

“I’ll know more when we get the slivers under a microscope, but my guess is that it will be the same material. You can make out the tiny grain of the wood sticking out from Holly’s calf.”

She pointed to the picture. Brice leaned in and then nodded.

“That’s not all,” said Ellen. “Look at the angle of entry on both. The material entered both legs from the bottom of the injury. That indicates that they were probably forced down.”

“Like into a chair?” asked
Steve.

“Yeah. That makes sense. Plus, I’ve seen this before. So that would be my guess.”

“So, these ladies were probably forced to sit in the same chair, so that means the same location, so that means the same killer,” said Brice, the frown on his face growing deeper.

“Well, we suspected
as much, so now we’re sure. The evidence doesn’t lie,” said Ellen, her eyes scanning the rest of the transparencies.

“So when we get the analyses of the splinters completed, it’ll show us the wood type, and based on that, we might be able to find the manufacturer and just where those type of chairs, or maybe benches, were made, right?” asked Brice.

Ellen heard Steve answer
yes
, but her mind had gone another step. She was staring at the wrists of both ladies and then the purple bruises around the middle of both victims. Something was off. The rope mark around Holly’s abdominal region seemed a shade lighter, yet it was fairly obvious that the binding was made of identical material. The yellow fibers found on each of them said so.

The strand imprint even indicated the rope used on both ladies probably came from the same batch. It could be a bit different because of pressure or maybe the women struggled at different levels. She didn’t think so, however. It was obvious to her that Holly’s skin was simply lighter where the binding had contacted her skin.

She reached into the report file that showed if there were any unusual residues recorded by the FTIR spectroscopy. There was a spike for one of the polymer acids used in the chemical mixture of certain duct-tape adhesives and another minute spike in the particulate section of the report that measured dust content in Holly’s report, but not Clara’s. Her scowl intensified.

What was different?

Running her finger over the report, she remembered something from her training days. Nylon binding like this could change color by chemical exposure to certain molecules found in specific types of dust. Or it could be different because one rope was coated with something and the other was not.

She brought her finger back to the part of the report that showed the spike in the chemicals in the dust and headed for the door.

“Where you going?” asked Brice, falling into step.

“I need to check one more thing, but I think I might know where these women were held.”

CHAPTER-28

With all of the self-
constraint she could muster, Joannie smiled at the hooded man standing in front of her. Maybe
muster
wasn’t the right word. It was more like
desperately conjure
. Her look had to be magical, not surprised, not appalled, not even a hint of disgust that, if released, could lead to her death. Right here. Right now. In this chair.

If she slipped, bounced out of character, the hooded figure, and most certainly Kyle, would see it and know she was lying. It would be her end. She wasn’t at all sure how that realization had embedded itself in her mind
—they’d promised not to hurt her. Yet, she knew better. If she didn’t play like she had to play, she’d never see daylight again.

And what of the comment that his
brother
Kyle had
found
her for him?

What the hell did that mean, exactly? Were they real flesh and blood brothers or just one of those phrases men used when referring to a close friend?

The thought of either scenario was less than comforting but the idea of blood brothers in this game, this courting ritual, or whatever they wanted call it, caused her skin to crawl. Talk about a total creep factor. Yet, if that were true, that they were real brothers, then it gave her a piece of the puzzle to work with. Most brothers loved each other, yet there almost always was some degree of sibling rivalry that manifested itself. Perhaps Kyle picking his brother’s “woman” could be a sensitive point.

Her smile grew ever so slightly, possessing just the right touch of friendly, almost sexy. The masked man turned his head, and even in the less-than-perfect light, she could sense that he was a little unnerved, maybe even shy. That could mean he wasn’t at all comfortable with
women. But why? He was built as well as Kyle and carried himself well.

Her hooded suitor hesitated and finally moved closer to her, kneeling in front of her in a classic proposal position. He searched her face
, and she saw the eyes of an anxious man—beautiful, blue eyes, but frantic just the same. Her heart jumped as the freak factor escalated.

Good God, is he going to ask me to marry him?

He stared at the floor for a long moment then slowly, with an unsteady hand, he touched her thigh. She remained still, unmoving, except she wanted a hot, cleansing shower almost immediately. Screaming stormed her mind. Somehow, she didn’t.

“I’m extremely pleased that you weren’t shocked or totally disconcerted over my last statement. The others were. One was drastically so. But you weren’t in the least. Why?”

Even through the slits in the mask, his gaze was electric, piercing, with just a hint of crazy. She’d met people who were teetering on the edge, their grip with reality as tenuous as ice in the sun—her ex for one, her neurotic boss for another. She recognized the face of the “off,” but this was different. This man
knew
right from wrong, yet his desperation was far beyond that. He’d do anything to get what he wanted. What he
needed.

“I’ve heard a few things in my life. Lines in bars that made me laugh and cry at the same time. Men trying to just get into my pants
, who couldn’t care less what happened to me after that. Those men are used to getting what they want. None of them got anything from me. You’re different. You’re serious about your statement, right? I take serious seriously,” she answered, keeping her voice low, controlled, soothing.

“Yes. I’m always serious. Too much, according to Kyle. But that’s me. I also get to the point. I feel I must. Wasting time on endeavors that will only end up as fruitless exercises aren’t in my makeup. I’ve learned a hard lesson or two.”

Removing his hand from her leg, he stood and turned his head from one side to the other without speaking. She wanted to say something, to break the silence, because it made her uncomfortable to not know what he was thinking. But she’d learned a few lessons too. One from an old car salesman. He said the first one to speak loses, and he’d been right most of the time.

Glancing briefly at the spot where he’d touched her leg, she then looked up and smiled at him. He turned and paced away for a few feet. As he did, Joannie noticed something else. She realized that Kyle was no longer in her line of sight. She hadn’t seen him move away.

She did her best to search the room. He was nowhere to be found. Damn it. Was he directly behind her?

Then she heard it. Another wooden door scraped against the floor and closed ever so faintly. Kyle had left, or at least wanted to make her think that. Either way, she felt relief. His leaving the room meant that the man she’d met those hours ago wasn’t in charge of what happened next. Her hooded beau was in the driver’s seat.

Damon turned back to her, leaning nearer than before.

“Are you playing me, Joannie Carmen? Are you
acting
like this doesn’t bother you, that you’re not intimidated by this unorthodox way of getting to know one another?”

Leaning as close to him as she could, almost touching his face, her eyes bright, strong, she stared.

“If you want me to say that I’m comfortable with being tied, blindfolded, gagged, and sitting in an old wooden chair half naked . . . well, you figure that out . . . but if you need help, I’m not. It’s bizarre to say the least, and I’m afraid. I mean, couldn’t you have just walked up to me and asked me out?” Joannie said, keeping a quiet, strong tone in her voice.

He stiffened, and his hand twitched as he began to pace again. She heard the unsettling
mumbles coming in rapid succession. She’d touched a nerve and had to think quickly.

“Listen. I’m flattered that someone would go to this extreme to meet me. But, hey sailor, couldn’t you have bought me a drink first?”

Stopping in the middle of his latest stride, he moved back to her, keeping a small distance away. Not good.

“I could’ve, Joannie. I think I could have. But Kyle thinks I would have . . . have sent you scurrying far away. He say
s I need to meet women this way . . . that I need a captive audience, so to speak. I think he’s right.” He spoke as if he’d resigned himself to a truth, a reality that was inescapable. A melancholy certainty that affected him to the very core.

Out of nowhere, she experienced a wisp of compassion for this man. What drove him, and his brother, to this sort of thing was crazy, inexcusable
, and terrifying, but they seemed to have a reason to go along with their madness. Maybe the reason spawned the crazy, or maybe the crazy spawned the reason. Either way, Joannie felt his torment was genuine. “What could be so bad that you wouldn’t take a chance to talk to me? I’m not unapproachable,” she asked.

Reaching for the hood, he began to remove it, and then stopped, preferring another round of pacing. She felt her stomach clinch.
It’s the face, Joannie. The face.

Turning away from her, he pulled the hood off slowly and let it slip gently to the floor.

In a movement that reminded her of a slow-motion scene in an old-fashioned horror movie, her suitor turned her way, his blue eyes alive, searching.

“What say you now, my lady?” he whispered.

Any thought of acting to facilitate an escape melted into the deep recesses of her mind.

Joannie Carmen screamed.

CHAPTER-29

The list on his computer monitor
jumped from the screen and gripped his throat, working its way down to the center of his soul. Big Harv Patterson read each name, all thirteen, again, reaching out with a meaty hand to gently trace the letters.

Each woman had been counted missing over the last twelve hours, according to the people who had filled out the reports. To top it off, the number of allegedly missing women was far above the typical amount. He wasn’t sure if it was because the media spewing information to the city at an ungodly rate had created a panic or that the Chicago
PD’s warnings had been dutifully noted.