Authors: Carolyn Arnold
“You’re sure this is her?” he asked into the receiver.
His wife looked at him and he mouthed the words,
it’s a case
.
“When isn’t it?” She closed the dishwasher door and started the cycle, leaving him in the kitchen but kissing his cheek on the way by. “See you in the morning?”
Lenny made a sad face. He held her hand until it filtered out of his, keeping his eye on her until she disappeared up the staircase.
“The ring. It matches, I swear to you.” Trent sounded out of breath.
“And she took the ring off the woman’s finger?”
“Off Nina’s finger? Yes.”
“Before you get all caught up on—”
“I swear to you, it is. The engraving on the band matches the one noted in the missing persons database and there’s—”
“There’s what?”
“Audrey Phillips, who found the body and took the ring, she took some of the flesh with it.”
Bile hurled up Lenny’s esophagus. He swallowed—roughly. “What is wrong with some people?” His stomach tightened, compressing his dinner into a reduced space.
“Don’t know. She seems like a sweet woman, but I don’t get it.”
“People do strange things when faced with extreme circumstances.”
Lenny remembered one case where a woman leaned over her husband’s body and open-mouth kissed him. She only admitted that he was dead when he didn’t reciprocate. The hole in his head and the blood pool around him wasn’t enough. He shook the memory from his mind.
“And you haven’t told anyone else about this yet?” A couple of seconds passed. “Trent? You hear me?”
“Sorry, I was shaking my head.” He let out a small laugh. “Guess you couldn’t see that.”
“No.” Lenny sensed a mixture of emotion coming through the line. Trent was excited that his fixation on the missing women hadn’t been in vain, but, at the same time, he came across as regretful that his assumptions might be correct.
“We’re dealing with a serial killer Len. It’s obvious. Amy Rogers went missing just last week. They called in the FBI for her. They need to know about this.”
“We can’t rush to conclusions. I’m going to notify the chief to let him know about the find and contact crime scene and the ME. I’m heading out to her place now. Stay with the woman there, keep her calm, and let her know we’ll take care of it.”
“It?”
“The DB Trent. The victim. You have to learn to think of them that way, otherwise the job will eat you up.”
“I’m not babysitting this woman. I’m going to the crime scene.”
“Oh, no, you’re not.”
“Len—”
“There isn’t room for debate here. You have to stay there. That’s your job. This is mine.”
“So you keep reminding me. Just remember, I connected everything before the detectives of PWPD even had a clue.”
“Now you’re resorting to digs? Come on, Trent, you know I’ve got your back. I always have.”
“I still don’t see detective on my badge, and, yep, I’m definitely in uniform.”
Lenny laughed. “Stop sulking. I’ll keep you posted.” He hung up the phone, went upstairs, and told his wife there was another case. His hours around home would be hit—and more likely miss—for the next while.
“Just take care of you.” She brushed a hand on the side of his face, and he kissed her forehead.
“That’s why I love you.”
“Love you.” Her nose went back into her paperback. She would be carried off into a fictional world before he hit the front door.
Chapter 4
Prince William County, Virginia
Monday, 8:45 p.m.
“I’m picking up on the smell and, according to the property owner, the body should be right over—” Detective Hanes cast the flashlight across the field as he walked and stopped just shy of making contact with the corpse. If it had been another second, he would have tripped over the thing. It’s good that he didn’t have any aversions to dead bodies because this one would top the list of gruesome finds.
Jimmy Chow, the lead crime scene technician, came up behind him. As his name suggested, the man was Chinese. He called things how they were, had a wacky sense of humor, and repeatedly proved more loyal than a canine. Chow gestured for a couple of his people to move out over the area. Portable lights were set up and turned on.
Chow pinched his nose and spoke. “Surprised we didn’t pick up on this odor from farther back.”
The smell of death occupied not only the sinuses but seeped into the skin and clung to clothing. This case would have them reeking of it from every pore and breathing it from their lungs. “You’re acting like a newb. Isn’t it worse breathing through your mouth? Come on, you’ve been around—”
“No, not quite this bad.” He dropped his hand, swallowed deeply, and analyzed the body. “She appears to be mid-thirties. You said Stenson thought this was Nina Harris? I quickly looked at her file before coming. She’s the right appearance. At least I can imagine it.”
Unlike Chow, Hanes didn’t need to study her file. Trent and he had shared many beers talking about the missing women from the area.
Hanes infused life into what had simply become a shell, a carcass. He imagined Harris smiling like she had in her wedding photo. He envisioned her eyes rolling back and the sultry expression piercing her lips into a subtle pout. He pictured her on the arm of her husband, being his pride and sense of accomplishment.
“It gives you a point of reference to ID the body,” Chow said.
“But it can also limit perspective. One step at a time.” Hanes circled the body, trying to take in every angle. Despite wafts of decomp tearing up his eyes, he pushed through. “There’s the finger Audrey Phillips took the ring from. God, it is missing flesh.”
“She took the finger with the ring.”
Chow’s rhetorical summation caused Hanes’s belly to perform a flop like it had when he first heard about what Phillips had done.
What was left of the victim’s skin was bloated and appeared to float over the bone mass beneath it, as if one could poke the flesh with a pin and have it hiss out air. Many of her fingernails were gone, and her eyes were missing. The decayed milky slime likely washed away in the river, or had been picked on by fish for food.
The flesh that remained was gray, and in some areas, the skin appeared waxy and held a brownish tinge. The body that would have once been considered beautiful and have garnered the attention of men, now, resembled something that could star in a swamp horror movie.
Animals hadn’t disturbed the remains which Hanes found unbelievable due to the odor she gave off. Maybe even wild creatures had a tolerance threshold.
Around her wrists and ankles there were darkened markings. Hanes bent down next to her left ankle. The stench, being this much closer, stole his breath for a second.
“It looks like she was bound.”
“I was just noticing that myself.” Chow pointed with the tip of a pen to her wrists. “She was definitely held for a period of time to create these impressions.”
“Agree. Also, there are contradictory signs as to the age of the remains. She has flesh in some areas, but even they don’t tell an accurate timeline.”
“Very astute Detective Hanes.” Hans Rideout, the Medical Examiner, came over to them.
He worked out of the Department of Forensic Science in Richmond. He was in his late forties with a full head of gray hair and a wash of white sideburns. He had a contagious smile, and the lines around his mouth testified that he shared the expression often. His work with the dead never brought him down. Hanes wondered sometimes if the man was clairvoyant due to the clarity with which he saw the victims.
“I’d also say she didn’t die here. This is a secondary crime scene,” Hanes said.
Rideout laughed, jacked his thumb toward Hanes. He spoke to Chow. “That’s why they pay him the big bucks.”
Chow smiled. “I keep trying to tell him.”
The joviality in ME’s eyes narrowed with intensity as he focused on the body. “She has been dead for some time. There is some evidence of adipocere.” He must have sensed their energy and added the explanation. “That’s the result of the chemical process saponification. The body’s fat petrifies into a wax-like substance, kind of like soap.”
Hanes cast a glance at Chow. He was surprised the man held onto his stomach contents given his earlier reaction.
“I wouldn’t suggest exfoliating with her.” Rideout’s sometimes inappropriate sense of humor garnered a smile from Chow. Hanes suspected it helped him fight the urge to vomit.
Rideout continued. “This process results in what you see here.” He pointed to the areas that appeared waxy and brownish gray in color. “The victim appears as if she were in good physical condition. It might be why there isn’t more of it, or it could simply be the length of time to discovery wasn’t significant enough to complete the process over her entire body. This tells me two things immediately. She’s been dead for months, and the body’s spent time in a warm, damp area, deprived of any oxygen.”
“So, she died in the river, or on the side of the river?” Hanes asked.
“Not necessarily. Even moist soil. She could have been buried. It’s possible the high waters eroded her burial site, swept her into the river, and voila! She’s before us now.”
Voila!
Like it was a magic trick, Hanes thought.
“How much time would you say she spent in the river?” Hanes asked, considering timeline and estimating distance traveled. If they could figure that out, maybe they could pinpoint an entry location.
“It’s hard to say for certain. If she was buried, her decomposition would have started in the soil, and, as I’ve stated, the soil would have been moist and contained bacteria that would result in adipocere. She’s missing most of her fingernails. Based
on
submersion in water alone
,
that takes approximately eight to ten days. The water around here, on a blanket hypothesis, would be temperate, but, like I said, time of death would date back months.”
“Could we narrow down where she went into the water?”
Rideout let out a small laugh. “You have a body that has been through the gamut. She’s been buried, and she’s been on a trip down the river. Now, you’d like me to give you a point of entry? Think of it this way. She could have been in her grave for X number of days and then went into the river, or she could have been in the soil for a longer period and then got swept into the river. She could have hurried down the river like she was on a white water rapids excursion, or she could have gotten snagged along the bottom. Predicting an entry point based on the circumstances in front of me, would be a crapshoot.”
“A crapshoot,” Hanes repeated.
Chapter 5
The next day…
Washington, D.C.
Tuesday, 10:00 a.m.
Jack had sent Paige and Zachery to speak with Albert Patton, the chief of police in Woodbridge, about Melanie Chase who was found in nineteen seventy. We were going to talk to Kirk Rogers about his missing wife, Amy, and Stanley Fox, the chief of police for Washington, was to meet us there as well.
Trinity Communications boasted a thirty-story, glass building in downtown Washington. They were a leading Internet provider, but their product range also included cell phones and television satellite service.
Inside, the lobby ceiling was three stories high. A wide staircase, with escalators to the sides, led up the back wall to the second level. The space had a modern cool feel to it with brushed metallic accents and marble flooring. Oversized steel structures, some might consider art, were dispersed in the space, likely to instill a sense of awe in visitors. Large screen televisions dangled from above, giving the appearance of being suspended by nothing. They broadcasted commercials for Trinity.
A large reception desk was located in the middle of the modern design. Two guards were stationed to each side, and one woman sat there. A kiosk near the desk had a sign above it that read
Learn where it all began
.
“Welcome to Trinity Communications.” The receptionist offered a sincere smile. “What can I assist you with today?”
Jack held up his creds.
Her smile faded. “What can I do for you?”
“We’re here to see Kirk Rogers.”
“Well, I don’t know if…” She adjusted her seated position. “Do you have an appointment?” She tilted her head to the side, her salon haircut which had the front tips of her hair longer than the back, reached her shoulder. “I couldn’t possibly disturb him. If you don’t have an appointment, I can make you one.”
“We have one for ten.”
“Oh.” Relief washed over her expression
,
and she straightened her head. “Your names?” Her eyes went from me to Jack.
“Special Agent Harper and this is Agent Fisher.”
I noticed how he dropped the special part when it came to me. I don’t think it was lost on the receptionist.
She made a snapping noise with her mouth as she typed into the computer. A few seconds later she looked up at us.
“You take the South elevator to the thirtieth floor.” She gestured to the bank of elevators on her right. “When you get up there, you will have to check in with Helena. I will notify her that you are on your way. Good day gentlemen, and remember, choose Trinity and get far.”
I saw Jack roll his eyes before he left the counter in the direction of the elevator.
“Get far. It’s kind of an ingenious slogan really,” I said.
“Hmm.”
“Well, it implies a lot without spelling it all out.”
Jack tapped his shirt pocket.
I was determined to help him with his addiction. There was no way that chain smoking was good for his health in any fashion. Maybe
,
if I could get him addicted to exercise as a form of stress relief, he wouldn’t feel so inclined to put those sticks in his mouth at every turn.
“When did you start smoking?”
The elevator chimed its arrival. He loaded onto the car. I followed.
“Were you young? My guess is you must have been.”
Jack turned to face me, not with his entire body, or even his upper torso, just his head.
“You smoke all the time. You had one on the way over here. You’re wanting one now. It’s coming off of you.”
“Hmm.”
“What’s that for?” I still didn’t always understand his expression, which, in my defense, wasn’t a word but a guttural sound.
“You should be focused this much on the case.”
It was maddening trying to communicate with this man at times. But I should have known better than to even try to obtain personal information from him. He had it wrapped up tightly to his chest. Paige once told me Jack wasn’t afraid of anything. I think he feared letting anyone get close.
“Mr. Rogers.” The random thought verbalized, and I laughed. I thought of the children’s television show and the man in the gray tweed suit.
Jack raised his brows. “Am I missing something Kid?”
“Oh, don’t start with that again.” I wasn’t sure whether to say what I was thinking or not. “And what was up back there? You introduced yourself as Special Agent and me as just an Agent.”
“It’s for reasons like that the nickname slips out.”
“Come on Jack. Haven’t I proven myself enough?” The cases we worked in the last three months flashed through my mind.
“What’s left on your probation? Twenty-one months, give or take?”
“You’re going to need all that time to make up your mind about me?”
“I’m saying that until you have proven yourself,” he held up a hand to silence me, “until you have done so repeatedly, and until your attitude improves some, I can’t help the nickname, and I am old enough to—”
“Yeah, yeah.” He always had a way of reminding me of the age difference. I was only twenty-nine. He’d have me believe he was on the earth when the dinosaurs roamed.
It took less than a minute but felt much longer, and we made it to the thirtieth floor.
The reception area was a scaled-down version of the main lobby. It was also inlaid with marble and accented with brushed metal. The reception desk was a half circle, and the lettering
Trinity Communications
was mounted on the wall behind it.
Helena, I assumed, sat behind the desk, a headpiece situated over one ear.
She smiled as we walked toward her. “Good morning. Welcome to the thirtieth. Is there something I can assist you with?”
It was obvious by her expression, by the way she took us in, that she knew who we were, but she wanted us to announce ourselves.
“Agents Harper and Fisher with the FBI.” Jack passed me a glance, and I picked up on his wording. Apparently neither of us was special now.
“Of course. Mr. Rogers is expecting you. I will take you to the conference room.” She flipped a sign on the front desk that read
I will be back to service you in a moment
. The company’s slogan was beneath that.
She led us down a hallway where she opened the fifth door on the right and gestured for us to go inside.
“Please, have a seat. Make yourselves comfortable. He’ll be with you in just one—” She pressed a button on her headpiece. “Trinity Communications, thirtieth floor. How may I direct your call? Certainly. One moment, please.” She pushed the button again and then addressed us. “I apologize for the interruption. He’ll be with you shortly.” She smiled and excused herself.
“Gentlemen.” No sooner had the receptionist cleared the doorway when Kirk Rogers walked into the room. Two men shadowed him. One was a lawyer, as evidenced by his expensive suit and haircut. The other would be Chief Stanley Fox.
Rogers had a wide smile that appeared more caricature than real. His eyes pinched into dark lines with the expression narrowing his eyes to slits. His brown hair was trimmed short, and he had a high brow line, his hair coming to a subtle V mid-forehead.
I found it strange the man was smiling, given the circumstances. He must have been bred to put on the expression regardless of a situation—an indication of pride and arrogance. The report showed him to be thirty-three, only a few years older than I am, yet there was the equivalent of many more years’ experience in his eyes. Maybe it came with owning one of the largest communication companies and from working in a building he owned.
“This is Hugh Pryce, my lawyer, and this is Chief Fox with Washington PD.” Rogers gestured toward Fox.
We all shook hands as the formal introductions were made. The lawyer and the chief had a firm shake, as expected, but Rogers’s was even more so. As he shook my hand, I sensed a silent communication that said,
just find my wife.
There was pain that resided in his eyes, although he buried it behind the winning smile and confident demeanor.
Rogers undid his suit jacket, laid a flattened hand over his abdomen, and took a seat across from us with his lawyer and the chief of police. He leaned forward, clasping his hands on the table in front of him.
“Have you gotten any further with your investigation?”
Pryce took a legal pad out of his briefcase and then poured Rogers a glass of water for which he never received acknowledgement by means of a thank you or a nod.
Rogers was a mogul. He was used to being spoiled, used to getting his way, and, when things went off track, well, maybe that’s why we were called. He wasn’t worried as much about his missing wife as he was his reputation. Those other murdered women who his investigator found out about served simply as the metaphorical icing he needed to involve the FBI.
Fox steadied his focus on me, and it made me uncomfortable, as if he were assessing me negatively. He was in his late fifties and had very little hair on the top of his head. He was dressed in a checkered suit with a cheap tie.
Jack leaned back in the leather chair, crossed his leg, and clasped his hands over his knee. “Tell us about your wife Mr. Rogers.”
“My wife is everything to me Agents. She is really what gives my life any calm at the end of the day.”
I knew what the media said about this man. On one hand, he was a philanthropist who followed in the shadows of his father, but I gauged the monetary donations and charities were made solely to benefit one person—himself. Opposite of the positive projection, the rumors were he slept with many women, and, according to some sources, the man possessed no morals.
“How long were you married?” Jack asked, even though we knew the answer.
“Two years.”
“Guess it doesn’t take long, does it? When you know you have the one, you know.”
“Are you mocking my feelings in some way? Implying that
,
because we haven’t been married long
,
she can’t mean that much to me?”
“I’m simply making a statement. Continue.”
Rogers pulled out on his collar. With the motion, I knew what Jack was doing. He was testing the man’s anger threshold.
“She would never cheat on me if that’s what you’re implying. I know what the papers say. Did you know that five publications are being sued by me, as we speak, for defamatory statements?”
Maybe it came from working with Jack for the months I already had, the cases that required the team connect their psyches to find a killer, but I sensed what Jack was thinking right now. At least, I was thinking it. There’s usually a shred of truth that these magazines build on.
“Were you faithful to your wife?”
Rogers glanced over at his lawyer.
“Relevance? It’s like he’s on trial here. Mr. Rogers simply wants the disappearance of his wife and her safe return to be given top priority,” Pryce articulated and twisted a large gold ring on his finger.
“And, of course, justice found for those other missing and murdered women,” Jack added.
“Goes without saying.”
“Hmm.”
“What is that?” Rogers’s eyes went between Jack and Pryce. “You don’t believe us when we tell you that this case is larger than my wife. You think this is a media stunt to draw more attention to Trinity?”