The White Carnation (6 page)

She brought up the newspaper's archives and searched for everything they already had on the Harvester. Details were sketchy because the police were concealing evidence as they always did in these cases—it was the only way to weed out the nuts coming forward, confessing to the crimes, and stalling the investigation. Abel was frustrated because he was being stonewalled at every turn. He'd even had the nerve to ask her to call Rob and see if he'd give her anything. She'd quickly disabused him of that idea. She'd be the last person Rob would throw a bone to. Look at what had happened with the last tip he'd given her.

Faye sighed. She should call Abel and give him a heads up, but Rob hadn't said where they'd found the body, and since she couldn't be sure it was another of the Harvester's victims, the last thing she wanted to do was piss Abel off by sending him on a wild goose chase.

She opened a new document, then copied and pasted pertinent details from the newspaper's database into it. She opened three other documents, one for each victim, noted the locations from which they'd disappeared and where the bodies had been dumped. She added the dates they'd been reported missing, who'd reported them, and the dates the bodies had been found. Something about the dates seemed familiar. She examined the photographs. All of the victims were white, in their mid-twenties to early thirties. Two were brunettes, one a dark blonde.

All three women could have been sisters—they bore an uncanny resemblance to one another—and yet none of them were related, nor had they known one another. None of them had lived less than fifty miles from the other either, but the resemblance was there, and the more she stared, the easier it was to see. It was in the bone structure … oval faces, high cheekbones, small noses, and unblemished complexions.

The women all lived alone, in apartments or condos, and had good careers, but there was no way they'd have met professionally. The only common ground seemed to be the fact that they'd vanished in the third trimester of their pregnancies, had given birth recently, and no grieving partner had come forward to beg for his child. Rob's comment about artificial insemination echoed in her head, but she dismissed it. Surely the police would've found a common clinic or practitioner by now. Rob was thorough. If there was a simple connection, he'd have found it.

Mary, pregnant? Well, stranger things had happened, but she couldn't imagine Mary undergoing that procedure, and since the other way involved a man …

She grew warm thinking of Rob and the sessions they'd had burning up the sheets. The events of the day and the whiskey were getting to her. The last thing she needed right now was to turn into a horny, maudlin drunk.

Faye took a deep breath and forced herself to focus on the task at hand. So, the middle image, the second victim, was Tracy Volt, a graphic artist who was just beginning to make a name for herself.
I've seen her somewhere, I'm sure of it, but where?

Rob's refusal to answer her question earlier implied her guess about the call had been correct and the Harvester had struck again. According to the Harvester's MO, he kept his victims at least a couple of months before killing them. She checked the missing person's registry for single, white women between twenty-five and thirty-five in the New England/New York state area, missing for three months or less. Twelve names came up. She narrowed it down to career women who lived alone and came up with a list of nine names. She brought up the photographs and stared at the women, bringing her list down to three who most closely resembled the type—a redhead, Coretta Lincoln, twenty-seven; a blonde, Meredith Howard, twenty-five; and a brunette, Malinda Stevens, twenty-nine. Although Meredith was the youngest, the fact that she was pregnant was included in the details.

On a quick check for other missing pregnant women, the name Ruth Hamilton came up. She'd been missing for more than six months. Faye immediately saw the physical similarities and added Ruth's name to the file. Any one of them could be the Harvester's latest victim or his next one. Reluctantly, she added Mary's name to the list, praying she was wrong and all of this was just a stupid coincidence … but while Mary might've been a little heavier, she fit the profile to a T.

Shivering, Faye put all the documents into a new folder and labeled it. Opening a new document, she made notes about everything she knew concerning the Green murder. She'd beg Sloan to let her have this story and kiss Abel's ass from here to kingdom come if he'd support her.
I found the body, damn it. That should carry some weight.

She saved all the files to a USB drive, shut down the computer, and carried it into her office to recharge. Pulling out the USB drive, she slipped it into a porcelain doll's rag body. Since she often took this laptop to work and left it on her desk, she wasn't taking chances.
I've lost one story to Tina; I'll be damned if I'll lose another.

Padding into her bedroom, she turned down the covers. It was almost eleven. She was bone-tired but knew she probably wouldn't sleep. If her dreams weren't plagued by her usual white-faced monsters, she'd bet the farm either Lucy Green or Rob would be there. She wasn't sure which would be worse.

Parking in the public lot, Rob walked across the sand, past the swing set, to the edge of the mowed grass. The FBI forensic team moved around the crime scene, bagging garbage and whatever else they could find, keeping the morbid curiosity-seekers away from the corpse. So far, the bastard had dumped the bodies without leaving a trace of evidence, and with the rain, if he'd left anything this time, it would be compromised. Rob shivered and cursed the fact that he'd left his overcoat at home. His damp wool suit, now chilling him in the ongoing mist, would have to go to the cleaners in the morning. He had to remember to leave an umbrella in the car.

In any murder investigation, the first forty-eight hours were critical. Rob's eight-hour shift had become a twelve-hour one, and it wasn't likely to end soon. He'd put in twenty-four-hour days before—he'd do so again. With two new cases to solve, he doubted he'd have five minutes to himself in the near future.

He sought out Garett Pierce, the FBI agent attached to the case. As usual, the man, in his mid-thirties, reminded him of a tall, skinny Peter Falk in his role as Columbo, the fumbling detective who always seemed wrinkled but inevitably solved the crime. He looked like he'd just crawled out of bed after sleeping in his clothes, but Rob was convinced appearances were deceiving. Tom distrusted the guy, but that was probably just posturing. Due to retire soon and therefore a little territorial, Tom didn't want to share the glory of solving this case with an outsider. Pierce's unkempt look had a habit of relaxing people, and when people relaxed, they often gave up more information than they would otherwise. Rob didn't understand it, but apparently it worked.

Tonight, the man was even more disheveled than usual. How did a guy like this become one of the Bureau's top men?
J. Edgar Hoover must be rolling over in his grave.

“Hey, Pierce,” Rob said, approaching the agent. “Lousy night. That yours?” He pointed to the tarp over the lump on the grass.

“Yeah. I threw it over her—I know, I contaminated the scene, but hey—look at them.” He indicated the people milling around. “It'll be harder to contain the information this time, but everyone's still too stunned to take pictures—too stunned or too stoned. It doesn't really matter as long as it doesn't hit the web. Maybe, given the dim light, no one noticed her color either.”

Rob nodded. “Good move. A fourth body's going to stir up the press as it is. No sense making it worse. She pink?”

Pierce nodded and opened the small notebook he carried. “Like cotton candy. She's only been here a few hours. The maintenance man over there cut the grass late this afternoon. There are fresh clippings on the blanket.” He pointed to a group of people huddled in the gazebo that served as a band shell. “Those kids came into the park around seven thirty. They were busy drinking and smoking up and didn't see anything. Two of them were heading into the trees for a make-out session when they found the body. Their parents are over there waiting to take them home. Do you want to talk to them here, or shall I have them taken back to Boston? It's late, and a couple of the girls have been sick.”

Rob glanced over at the half-dozen teenagers wrapped in blankets. From the scowls on the faces of the adults with them, it looked like six kids might just be grounded for the rest of their lives.

“Let's get their names and have their parents bring them into the city in the morning. Are the local cops going to charge them with anything?”

“They should, but stupidity isn't a crime in Massachusetts. The kids had a couple of joints and a bottle of tequila. If finding a body doesn't scare them straight, nothing will.”

“Agreed. I need to talk to the coroner and then get back to Boston. I've got another murder on my plate—a home invasion where the woman had her throat slit. I'll see you at the precinct around eleven. Does that work?”

Pulling out his pencil, Pierce smiled. “Yup. I'll get the names and head home myself. Any idea who cut your victim?”

“No, not yet. They've found a few fingerprints, but I doubt they belong to the perp. My former fiancée found the body. Just makes everything more difficult.”

“And awkward. I heard about your breakup.” Pierce chuckled. “Gossip is alive and well in Bean Town. How is the lovely lady?”

Something about Pierce tonight irritated Rob, but he knew his bad mood wasn't really the man's fault.

“As stubborn as ever. She may have caught a glimpse of the killer or some delivery boy who has nothing to do with anything. I'm bringing her in tomorrow to work with the sketch artist.”

“Really? Well, I look forward to meeting her. I've heard a lot about her Irish temper from the boys in vice.” He held up his notebook. “I'd better get to work. The coroner got here a little while ago. She promised to start on the body as soon as she gets it to the morgue. If we're lucky, by ten tomorrow, we'll know the victim's name.” He waved at Rob and headed toward the gazebo.

Scowling, Rob moved closer to the coroner as she bent over the body and pulled back the tarp. Like the other victims, this one had been dumped in an area associated with children, a place where it would be found quickly. Normally, Boston PD wouldn't be involved in a murder case in Beverly, but the first body had been found a year ago within the city limits, and that made it their case. The second had been found three months later near Salem, and Salem PD had gladly turned it over to them, certain once the information about the ritualistic aspects of the crime got out, tales of witchcraft would be rampant. The last thing anyone wanted was witch-hunters on the loose. The third body, found on state land six months ago near Chebacco Lake, had brought in the feds, but they had no more information now than after the first body had turned up, and they had four corpses to deal with.

“What can you tell me?” he asked, coming up behind the woman who was giving orders to her staff.

“I know that sexy voice.” She stood and turned, a huge grin splitting her familiar face. “Rob Halliday. As I live and breathe. What's Boston's finest doing here? I thought this was an FBI case. Have you left the department?” She threw her arms around him and gave him a fierce hug. “You haven't changed a bit. Firm muscles, just the way I like my men. So, why are you here?”

“Mira, it's great to see you,” he said and smiled, returning the hug. “I'd heard you'd set up practice in the boonies, but I thought you'd given up this particular aspect of the medical profession. This case is a joint investigation, and I'm running point tonight.” Mira Kane had been the assistant medical examiner in Boston. They'd dated briefly until he'd met Faye. It had been a mutual breakup without hard feelings. She'd gotten married a couple of years ago.

“Some things you just can't escape. All the doctors in the area take turns. This is my month for coroner duty. How's Faye? The last time I saw you, I thought you were ready to pop the question.”

Rob clenched his jaw. “It didn't pan out. How's the new family?”

“Sorry to hear that.” The sympathy on her face was real. “I thought you and Faye were made for each other. The baby's great. She'll be one in August. Working with my husband has its ups and downs, but I like it.”

“I'm glad. So, what am I looking at?” he asked, nodding toward the corpse behind her.

“I can't be precise until I get her back to the morgue, but from what your FBI buddy over there told me, I'd say you're looking at the Harvester's fourth victim. She's been dead about forty-eight hours; rigor's almost gone. She appears to be in good condition, but there are ligature marks on her ankle where she was shackled. She's young—early twenties. His other victims were pushing thirty, weren't they?”

“Yeah. Cause of death?”

“Can't be sure. May have bled out, there's a lot of fresh blood on her pad, but the pink tinge to the skin and the red lips suggest either carbon monoxide or cyanide poisoning.”

“If she's his, you'll find it's cyanide.”

“I hope you're wrong. How much of this has been leaked to the press?”

“Very little. The FBI has managed to keep the lid on most of the details, so a copycat is unlikely.”

She shook her head. “Have you found any of the babies?”

“No, we haven't. The FBI is working with Interpol, but so far they've got zip.”

“Selling babies like slaves. It's barbaric. I can't imagine a tiny child in the hands of a creature who'd do this. My people are discreet, but I'll remind them to keep their mouths shut. I'll do the preliminary while she's fresh and send the results, along with the body, to the city morgue tomorrow. It looks like her nails have been cleaned and clipped. There won't be anything there.”