Robert Walker - Absolute Instinct

“Confound bastard is like a fiery coal from hell's own hearth.” She took in another deep breath. “Should've brought some whiskey along.”

Jessica re entered the death room and stepped to the body again. “This one,” she said to the others in the room, “this one may lead me into early retirement. You say she lived alone, that she hardly socialized or went out?”

“That's right, a reclusive type,” replied Agent Reynolds. “Vic's name's Joyce Dixon-Olsen, aged forty-eight, a loner, lived with her dog, Shep. Dog's at his vet's… nice, good-natured as all hell.”

“I suppose it'd be asking too much to hope that someone in a forensics capacity got to the dog before he was shampooed?”

Sands frowned and shook his head. “Gone long before I got here, I'm afraid.”

“He was one hell of a mess, a long-haired cocker spaniel,” Reynolds replied apologetically. “First on scene took better care of him than he did securing the body, I'm afraid. Dog lover.”

Jessica kneeled beside the blood-soaked corpse, and looked into the woman's face, turned as it was sideways against the carpet. Jessica mentally traced the features, thinking she had character written right into them, that she appeared to be someone who had seen and overcome much adversity until now. That which does not kill us, makes us stronger. She might be anyone's mother or aunt. “No family?”

“Ex-husband passed away two years ago. Some distant relatives in Nebraska. They've been notified,” said Reynolds in his resonant voice.

Jessica placed the ruler end of her scalpel against the wound to Olsen's cranium. “Diameter of the wound is less than an inch; the work of a small blunt object, likely a hammer of some sort as Sands said. From the concave appearance an educated guess says the hammer blow came from a ball peen styled one.”

Darwin Reynolds now knelt alongside the cadaver, too. Reynolds's black skin was as ebony as one of his African ancestors-Nigeria or Ghana, Jessica guessed from his bone structure and height. He had a broad, strong face, and a nose any Roman would kill for, all beneath those black, probing eyes. Every girl's dream, she thought, but not mine. I've got Richard.

Milwaukee Police Chief Wyatt Abrams, who had remained sullen and silent throughout, a great anger seething below his calm, had also partaken of the balcony air. A big man not to be missed by anyone, his footsteps alone announced his return from outside. Everyone else had returned ahead of Abrams. Staring down at the scene, at Reynolds, Sands and Jessica all on knees perched about the body like so many ghoulish scavengers, Abrams erupted, “I don't fucking suppose you people in Washington have anything like this in your data banks! We gotta catch this moth-erfuckingfreak before he strikes again.”

“I couldn't agree with you more,” she replied.

“Not in my city… not here. I can't look at this kind of thing again, not ever, Dr. Coran.”

“Sir… I completely understand.”

“What about those international guys you guys check with all the time, Interpol? They ever get anything remotely like this overseas someplace? Say just off a military base? Maybe our guy is some sort of military butcher or even a military medic type.”

Jessica stood and went to Chief Abrams. She walked with him away from the others. “Checked with Interpol and every law-enforcement agency that cooperates with the FBI worldwide, Chief. Sorry, no one anywhere has ever seen anything like this save Portland, Oregon, and-”

“I know, Millbrook, Minnesota.”

“But this is the first one to fall under the lens of the FBI's Behavioral Science Unit. It's a… a uniquely sick MO… nothing like it in anyone's computers.”

Reynolds had followed them, listening. He added, “Wyatt, it's got to be related to the Towne case in Portland, Oregon, over a year back. Ex-husband, a regular mountain man type, a black Jeremiah Johnson for the modern age, and he's on death row for the crime. He supposedly hated her enough to do something like this.” He pointed back to the mutilated corpse. “Can you really imagine that two men on the planet could conceive of and execute this exact atrocity?”

“Yeah, I can if they turn out to be bunk mates in a prison cell, or two nuts meeting on a train or at a window placing a bet, and your boy Towne in Oregon spent a lot of time in prison cells from what I gather.”

“He's locked up. Can't have done this here in Milwaukee, and there's no proof he had ever been in Minnesota, Chief.”

Abrams spoke to Jessica. “Remember that case breaking on CNN?”

She nodded.

“Reynolds thinks it's somehow relevant to this murder.”

“Didn't he say he killed the woman for her spine because she always called him spineless?” Agent Pete shouted from the kitchen where she was using Luminol spray and a blue light to scour for useful blood evidence. Obviously by now everyone in the apartment was involved in the speculation and debate.

“And in his confession,” added Sands, getting into the foray. “What was it he said at the trial? Let me see if this old brain still has it tucked away. Oh, yeah… yeah. He said, 'I guess in a way I did kinda get her hackles up. Got those spiney bones breaking skin on her backside once't or twice't… kinda made her what she was-all spine and blister.'“ All but Darwin Reynolds laughed at this.

Abrams shouted, “The man had an insanity defense at trial, and at the time, the guy was a lunatic, but jail time sobered his ass up, and now he claims his entire confession was a bold-faced fabrication!”

“To end an eighteen-hour, marathon interrogation,” countered Darwin.

“Were there sketches at the Portland murder scene?” Jessica asked.

“Matter of fact, yes.”

“Charcoal drawings?”

“Yes.”

“And what did they depict?”

“The dead woman and her horses.”

“Horses?”

“She loved horses… a real horse lover.”

Sands broke in. “Didn't the husband say she slept with her horses?”

“Actually, he said she'd rather have fucked a horse than ever get down with him again,” replied the resident expert on Towne, Darwin Reynolds, and this brought on laughing jags all around and a halt to the discussion, and everyone took a moment.

Dr. Sands turned his attention back to the body and began probing the ugly wound, taking a few more measurements. Abrams said he needed a smoke, but remained.

Reynolds didn't let it drop, however. “Look, the victim was white, and Towne's only prior was an aggravated battery charge, a domestic, and that only once, but him being a black man-”

“Oh fucking hell, here we go again with the poor black man's wrongfully accused defense because he's black shit,” countered Abrams. “Pah-lease, Darwin.”

“A black man beating on a white wife,” continued Darwin. “It conjured up every redneck's primal prejudice- images of O.J. and Nicole-and it was all that came up on every Portland cop's radar screen.”

“The woman was found with her spine ripped out,” stated Abrams. “And his prints were all over the place.”

“The man lived there for years. And as for her spine, it was never recovered. Neither was the one in Minnesota or here to date.”

“Aggravated battery, hell, I'd be looking close at him for his wife's murder even without that, but with it on his record, Darwin, it's not about race,” argued Abrams, his face reddening.

“I'm not so sure. Way people behave in this life, seems everything is about race. And you know the fact is the other two victims were white women approximately the same age.”

“Yeah, so what, Darwin?”

“Dr. Coran, will you please tell these backward Milwaukee yahoos how damned rarely a serial killer kills outside his own race? Tell 'em, Dr. Coran.”