Robert Walker - Blind Instinct

“Rare indeed,” replied Sharpe, “but it would appear, Dr. Coran, that someone the other side of the Atlantic is in dire straits to change all that, perhaps make it a bit less than rare?” The man's commanding voice, filled with bell-like resonance, along with his British accent, fell soft and pleasant on her ears.

'Tell me, Dr. Coran,” continued Sharpe, “what have you learned about crucifixion death since we last spoke on the phone?”

“Interesting thing about crucifixion, gentlemen…”

“Yes?” asked Sharpe.

“The weight of the body on the outstretched arms interferes with exhaling, due to the intercostal muscles which-well, suffice it to say that in a hanging state such as crucifixion breathing would become impossible. The normal rhythm of inhaling and exhaling would painfully and slowly cease due to the exertion of pressure on the lungs and the inability to lift the rib cage.”

“Rib cage?” asked Copperwaite, fingering his own ribs.

“In normal breathing, we lift our rib cage to bring in air. A man on a cross, arms overhead, he can't do this. Exhalation is impaired as well, given that it's passive and due to gravity pulling at the body.”

“Meaning the death occurs because you're unable to exhale properly?” asked Sharpe.

“Inhale, unable to inhale, so as to make the counterpoint of exhalation work. It's a tandem operation. Can't inhale, can't exhale, simple as that.”

“Now I have it.”

Jessica leaned forward in her seat, contemplating for a moment before going on, thumping the pen extended before her. “Any labored exhalation at all would become diaphragmatic, useless you see…”

No, they didn't see. She saw that in their eyes, not unlike the vacant black stare so often given to her by young Yon Chen.

She stepped to a chart of the human muscles and pointed, pinpointing the exact location within the intercostal muscles of the chest to which she'd referred. She added, “Over a prolonged time, this undue pressure, pressure the muscles were never designed to withstand

… Well, this would lead to impaired respiration and finally asphyxia.”

“I would've thought the pain, shock, and trauma”-Santiva's Cuban features winced with the words as he spoke- “from the nails driven through your hands and feet alone would kill a man.”

“A good Catholic boy like yourself, Eriq, and you don't remember how long Christ took to expire on that cross?”

“Guess it slipped my mind. Maybe I didn't want to know.”

“Some say three hours, some say three days and nights.” She turned to face their guests. She felt a bit like a female Sherlock Holmes, knowing the men wanted her to wave some sort of magic wand and instantly tell them their case represented an easy and simple matter to be cleared up in no time at all.

“Have you any leads whatsoever on the first crucifixion killing?”

Copperwaite bit his lip. Sharpe definitively shook his head and said, “We're in a dark closet.”

Jessica said, “It sounds like an interesting case. And of course, if there's any assistance I can lend, why, you have it, of course.”

Eriq told her, “Scotland Yard is requesting our-rather, your-assistance on this troubling case.”

“Then you will take on the case, Dr. Coran?” asked Sharpe directly.

Jessica looked from Sharpe to Santiva who said, “I promised these gentlemen our best, Jessica. And I promised you a trip to London some time back, if you recall. This is your opportunity to work with Scotland Yard on the biggest case since… well, since Jack-the-Ripper.”

“I suppose you've already sent two burly Secret Service men to my apartment to pack my unmentionables for me,” she quipped. “No, but I gave it some thought. It's an excellent opportunity for the bureau and the Yard to work hand-in-hand, something both agencies need more of, especially since the success you had taking out the Night Crawler with Scotland Yard's help.”

Jessica remembered the case only too well. Copperwaite said, “Everyone's seen reports on how you tracked down that Night Crawler monster in international waters off the Cayman Islands.”

Richard Sharpe bit his lip and nodded. A long sigh like a memory escaped him before he added, “And two years ago when you cornered that madman in your famous National Park, how you brought an end to that terror. Disgusting fellow, that one, torching his victims after locating you on the phone to treat you to their screams for mercy.”

Jessica looked quizzically across at the two Britons, saying, “I had no idea that British law enforcement paid so much attention to my cases.”

“Your cases have been taught at the Yard,” Copperwaite stated. “Every copper in London knows about you, and how you defeated Mad Matthew Matisak, and some of them other maniacs you've brought to justice. Some of your cases read like a… a Geoffrey Caine horror novel, I daresay.”

Eriq now laughed and asked, “So, Jess, how soon can you be packed?”

“Packed for London? Me?” She stared off into empty space. A smile colored her features as she wondered how she might get her long-distance lover in Hawaii, Special Agent James Parry, to meet her in London. They had continued their relationship against all odds far longer now than anyone imagined possible, until their last spat. London might be the answer to rejuvenate their passion.

Sharpe remarked, “It's a serious problem we have on our hands, no doubting that, Dr. Coran. We've put it out on the wires, Interpol, CIA, your FBI, anyone anywhere who might have seen the like of it… Well, as you see, we're anxious for help from any quarter, and if you can see your way clear to helping out the Queen, you see…”

“The Queen?” It sounded so quaint, she thought. “You mean I should go to London for God and Country?” she asked. “And the Crown,” added Copperwaite in deadpan.

“One hell of a case,” repeated Santiva. “Think of it, Jessica. Serial murder by crucifixion. You know anyone else in our organization ripe for this kind of case?”

“No… no, I don't.” She nodded and said, “I'll do it, and I hope your trust in me, gentlemen, is not misplaced.”

“Not at all likely,” countered Sharpe, whose grin brightened his dour countenance and the room, making him look like the quintessential father figure. Something most pleasing in his manner, something she found appealing, attractive.

Together they took Santiva's private car to the airport, and along the way, Santiva kept assuring Jessica from his front passenger seat that J. T. could handle the Tattoo Man case. The Britons, as if abducting her, crushed her between them in the backseat. They'd stopped at her apartment only long enough for her to throw a single bag together. She'd forgotten her umbrella.

“Three deaths so far, and silence for a time?” she asked Sharpe.

“Yes, that's the state of it,” replied Sharpe.

“Perhaps the number three is significant to the killer?” She raised a hand to her head, running fingers through her hair, biting the inside of her cheek in thought. “So, you've come for a forensic profiler.”

“That and all the advice and information your Behavioral Science Unit can provide,” Sharpe replied. Sharpe had thick, graying hair, once a deep, reddish black. He appeared a man who kept a strict regimen, his tall frame and hard body rivaled Sean Connery, Jessica thought. That's who he reminded her of, the actor and Otto Boutine, a kind of combination of the two. Otto had been her first mentor in the FBI Behavioral Science Unit. They'd fallen in love, and Otto had died saving Jessica when he threw himself between her and Mad Matthew Matisak. It had been in Chicago, Illinois, the first major case she'd ever worked, thanks to Otto, and now it seemed like forever ago.