The Silenced (3 page)

He’d seen a lot.

This was still hard to tolerate.

“Yes,” Wong said. “He was right-handed and very certain in his movements. No hesitation marks at all. The guy’s done this before.”

“Were any organs taken?” Jackson Crow asked.

“The tongue is missing,” Wong said. He cleared his throat. “Bits of organs are missing—but that’s because the ripping of the stomach caused pieces to...fall out.”

Matt leaned forward to see the atrocity Wong showed them, setting a hand on the dead woman’s shoulder as he viewed her ruined mouth.

Her shoulder was cold, cold as ice. It was shocking what the body felt like when life was gone, so still and cold, as if the soul, the very essence of what had been human, had flown and left emptiness behind. “Same as the victim found on the Maryland shore,” Carl Hunter said, turning to Wong. “I talked to Jared Welch from the Maryland force before I came in. People might say that cops are territorial, but we’re both glad as hell that the feds are in. God knows, we might have got into this thing first, but we haven’t come up with anything. Both bodies brought in with no purses, no IDs, hell, no clothes. Just unidentified bodies, naked and ripped to shreds. We don’t have any leads at all and this killer...
has
to be stopped.”

Wong told them, “I haven’t seen the first body yet, but I have the report. The other victim will be transported here. As you requested, Special Agent Crow, we’re treating them as murders committed by the same perpetrator or perpetrators.”

“Right,” Jackson murmured. “The taking of the tongue—it’s a definite signature. I’m afraid it suggests this killer isn’t finished yet. We’ll need every law enforcement officer in the area on high alert.”

Two dead in less than a month,
Matt thought.

“But we haven’t matched her up with anyone?” he asked.

“We’re working on fingerprints and X-rays and hope to have something soon,” Wong replied. “As I said, I didn’t perform the autopsy on the first Jane Doe, but I’ve studied the sheets. To summarize, I can tell you that the murders were performed the same way. I believe both women were taken by surprise—since there appear to be no defensive wounds. They were drugged with an inhalant, and then—” he paused to show them the inner right elbow “—injected with propofol, a drug commonly used in surgery. Actually, our tox reports aren’t back yet, but that’s what was used on the Maryland victim and I’m betting this is going to be the same.”

“Interesting. So you think they were unconscious when they were mutilated?”

Wong nodded.

“That means he didn’t get off on the cutting,” Jackson mused. “And no sexual assault?”

Matt knew that the first victim hadn’t been raped or molested. Not as far as they could tell. While the bodies were badly decomposed, medical science could still provide them with evidence.

Wong shook his head. “No. Probably not. Doesn’t fit what we’re seeing here. I’d say the killer takes them, sedates them, rips them from stem to stern, stuffs the bodies with stones and tosses them. They’re found naked and heavily compromised by immersion in the water. As you can see,” Wong said, lifting the sheet, “she’s been nibbled on by many creatures.”

Matt
could
see—far too plainly.

“She was about five-six or -seven in life.”

“Long blond hair, five-six and a half,” Wong said.

“Almost identical to the first girl, according to the Maryland reports,” Carl offered.

“So, that’s his type,” Jackson said. “We’ll get the warning out. Press conference. I’ll ask you to handle it, Matt. Dr. Wong, please keep us apprised of anything new.”

They left the autopsy room, discarding their masks in the proper bin. Matt felt as if the smell of decomposition clung to him.

Carl paused in the hallway. “I’m not shirking,” he muttered. “I know this might be my last case, and I’ll be out there, working it as hard as ever. But... God, I hate cases like this. Like I said, we’ve got nothing, and until we get identifications, we don’t even have anyone to question. The killer knew what he was doing, disposing of the bodies. No trace on them—or not any that forensics has found as yet. Dump ’em in the river and you pretty well destroy any clue there might’ve been.” He paused. “We all know that some killers get away with it. I sure as hell hope it isn’t this guy.”

“We won’t let it be,” Matt said quietly.

Hunter nodded, but his expression was uncomfortable. “Gotta tell you, I don’t get the shakes easy. But...”

Matt was curious. Carl was as practical as a man could be. He seemed jittery, though, and Matt sensed that it was due to something other—something more—than the sheer horror of the case.

“What is it?”

“I got this awful feeling that she...that she looked at me when I first got to the scene. Impossible, of course. Her eyes...well, soft tissue. You saw...”

Matt glanced over at Jackson.

He’d touched the body. Whatever soul, whatever essence of life there’d been, was gone.

Carl shrugged. “I’m on it—task force, anything you need. I seem to keep saying this, but I’m glad you guys are in on this one. And no, we can’t let him be the one who got away.” He lifted a hand in farewell and hurried down the hall.

Jackson turned to Matt. “Right now, we have to be careful. Really careful. We need to get on the air, though. Say as little as possible,” he said. “But we need a warning out there. And we don’t know whether he might choose another type, so all women in the District and the surrounding area should be especially careful.”

“You don’t want the media folk at headquarters to handle this?”

“I think we need to take it from the start. I’ll arrange for clearance.”

Matt nodded. Headquarters had a division to deal with the media. But sometimes the Krewe worked on their own. He knew that he was often chosen to give press conferences because, according to Jackson, he had the all-American football player look. He could seem both stern and stoic—and, most important, trustworthy, reassuring to a worried public.

He wasn’t sure how anything about this situation could be reassuring; whether it was their usual kind of case or not, it was exceptionally disturbing.

And now he knew why the Krewe had been called in. Carl Hunter would’ve been careful about what he said and to whom. His own coworkers would have ribbed him mercilessly if he’d said that a corpse had looked at him. But somehow, he’d gotten that information through to the right people.

“When is the press conference?” Matt asked Jackson.

“As soon as we can organize it,” Jackson told him. “We’ll call an emergency task force meeting, bringing reps from the area. Meeting won’t take long. We don’t have anything to say yet. Then we’ll get on the air. You’ll speak, along with representatives from the DC police, Virginia and Maryland. You won’t be on the hot seat alone.”

Matt didn’t care about being on the hot seat; he was used to it. There was the truth—and there was the matter of telling the truth so that it afforded the greatest protection to the public while suppressing enough details to make sure law enforcement knew more than any kooks or would-be psychics out there.

They’d keep a lot quiet, he was assuming. Grotesque details did nothing but stir up sensationalism—and sometimes provide a killer with the notoriety he sought.

Jackson and Matt reached the big black sedan set for their use. Jackson let Matt do the driving. He was one of the best things about the unit, in Matt’s opinion. He was half–Native American and well aware of the diversity of people and beliefs around the country. He also had an aura of calm about him and an ability to listen to those who worked with him. He wasn’t a micromanager, and yet he expected the best from those around him. If he trusted you, it was with complete confidence.

Matt liked to believe he’d earned the man’s trust.

He also liked to believe that he was worthy of it. He thought he was; while their backgrounds were dissimilar, they were also much alike.

He wondered if Jackson’s thoughts were similar to his. Jackson grinned over at him and said, “You still don’t look much like a Native American.” Matt grinned in return. He was, like many, many people in the United States, someone who could actually trace his ancestry back to Pocahontas.

“A heritage sadly diluted by time.”

“Let’s just hope we both have some of that mystic wisdom we’re supposed to have,” Jackson said wryly. “We’re going to need it.”

* * *

The day felt long to Meg as she attended her sessions. At every opportunity, she tried calling Lara’s number.

Her calls continued to go straight to voice mail.

She tried calling Nancy Cooper, Lara’s aunt in Richmond, but Nancy hadn’t heard from Lara, either. Meg ended the call quickly, not wanting to worry her.

She tried a few of the mutual friends they had in the area. She even tried Lara’s ex-boyfriend, Clark Walden, despite the fact that the two had split up at least six months earlier. Clark was in the military; she discovered he’d been deployed overseas a month ago.

She called Congressman Walker’s office and was informed that Lara no longer worked there. No, she’d left no other information.

Despite failing with her calls, it wasn’t until she’d finished for the day and was sitting in the cadets’ lounge that she really began to feel a sense of panic.

And that was when the TV news came on.

A second body had been discovered. She remembered hearing about the first woman, who’d been found a few weeks back. The case had seemed particularly sad to her. Police had discovered a young blonde woman between the ages of twenty-five and thirty. She’d stood about five-seven and, while alive, had weighed approximately a hundred and twenty pounds. She had yet to be identified. There were no suspects in the case, and police had begged the public for any help they could give.

The newscast that came on made her sit straight up and spill her coffee.

The second murder victim had also been about five-six or five-seven. And she’d also been blonde. Because of the condition of the body, forensic scientists were seeking her identity through dental records. Fingerprint identification was being attempted but, once again, the police were seeking help.

Meg’s heart began to flutter with fear.

The body had been discovered that morning.

She stood, stumbled around the lounge until she could grab the remote control and turned up the volume.

She listened to a lieutenant from the DC police issue warnings and inform the public that extra police officers would be on the streets. An officer from Maryland spoke next.

And an officer from Virginia.

And then, a rep from the FBI took the microphone.

He was tall, a striking man with sandy, close-cropped hair, the shoulders of a linebacker and a ruggedly chiseled face. His voice was rich and deep; she assumed he was a regular spokesman for the agency.

But as he finished his speech, hotline numbers were flashed on the screen. She heard the assurance in his voice when he added, “We at the FBI will not stop our intense hunt until this killer is apprehended. Until he is, however, responsibility lies with every man and woman out there. If possible, don’t go anywhere alone. As of now, he has selected two blondes. He has seen to it that identification is a difficult process. Keep in mind that his choice of victim could easily change. When Ted Bundy was stalking women, most that we know about had long, straight brown hair. Because of that, many thought they were safe by dying their hair. We have very little information on this killer as yet, and that means
everyone
could be in danger, blonde or not. Although the killer, whom we’re assuming to be male, has targeted only young women so far, it’s quite possible that women of all ages and descriptions—and conceivably men—could also be at risk. While you shouldn’t panic, you must be vigilant. You’ve been given the call number—any and all suspicious behavior needs to be reported. We are relying on the public for assistance. We need to combine public awareness and the dedication of every law enforcement officer out there. We vow not to hold back any pertinent information—and we’d appreciate it if the media refrained from affording this man a nickname, as a label or a title. He’s a vicious killer and deserves no recognition.”

He went on to thank his audience, which included reporters from various news organizations, and stepped away from the podium. The DC mayor came forward again and began to speak.

But Meg didn’t hear him. Her heart seemed to slam against her chest. She saw that the agent who’d just finished was standing in the background, talking to an elderly white-haired man in a pristine suit.

Adam Harrison.

Meg got up. She
had
to speak with Adam; she didn’t want to simply call a hotline.

She’d intended to go to him eventually for another reason altogether. She’d always wanted to be part of the Krewe of Hunters—and she felt she belonged there. She’d wanted to graduate and enter the criminal division first, a matter of pride, perhaps. As in,
I’ve taken all the right steps. I’ve worked my hardest. I believe I’ve excelled and I believe I have the skills you need...

There was no waiting now.

She had to go to him; she knew he’d help her.

And she desperately needed help. She had to find out about the victim.

Because Lara was a blonde, five-seven, lovely and fit and about a hundred and twenty pounds.

* * *

“Margaret!”

Meg wasn’t sure why Adam Harrison even remembered her. He must have met hundreds of people through the years and she hadn’t seen him in more than a decade.

He was a very dear man. Ramrod-straight, dignified in manner and appearance, he had to be in his late seventies or early eighties. She’d been surprised that the phone number he’d given her all those years ago still worked. Her call to him via that number had gone right through, almost as if he’d been expecting to hear from her. How that could be, she didn’t know.

Years ago, Adam had arrived at her home, although the police and even Meg’s own parents had been skeptical. He’d come with the FBI agents who’d been called in because her cousin’s case had begun as a kidnapping.