Robert Walker - Grave Instinct

He pulled the door closed and drove off. At a safe distance away from the club as the Demoral began to work its magic, he stopped the van and dragged her back into the rear, handcuffing her into position.

She pleaded with him not to rape her. He promised that he would not do anything of the kind. “I told you I was a gentleman, a gentleman. I'm only interested in your mind, Winona.”

He'd remained true to his word as the saw now bit into her scalp. He liked to start at the top and work his way to each side at the ears, run to the base of each ear and then return to the midpoint between the eyes at the eyebrow line. Dr. Grant knew it was the neatest, most efficient way to handle the job with the least amount of bone shrapnel and blood. He didn't particularly care to have blood everywhere.

Jacksonville, Florida 4:25 A.M., same night

The helicopter descended over the gleaming Jacksonville cityscape, its surrounding waters reflecting the buildings, many lit with colorful pink and pale purple lights, turning the skyline into a 'Wizard of Oz setting. The pilot pointed at the police strobe lights below and said that he would put the chopper down as close to the scene as possible. That meant landing atop a small, weedy little plateau of pitted earth along the riverbank, a dusty sandlot for parking near the Venetia Warf. The dirt-and-sand parking lot looked at odds with the surrounding sheen of concrete high-rises, huge bridges and blacktop everywhere else.

While the new sun played hide-and-seek with the morning clouds, the pilot brought them down. Once the skids had settled and the chopper sat firm, Jessica took her medical bag and rushed out, crouching below the blades. J.T. followed. They then waved off the pilot and made their way to the waiting party of two uniformed people and one man in a gray suit.

“ Dr. Coran, so glad you could come.” Lorena Combs shook Jessica's hand. “I'm Sheriff Lorena Combs, Duval County.” Combs had a gazelle like grace about her, and a firm grip as she next shook J.T.'s outstretched hand. She then introduced the Quantico team to George Sheay, the heavyset chief of police in Jacksonville. The FBI's agent in charge, Henry Cutter, a tall man with a misshapen nose, stepped forward and introduced himself as well, telling them, “You can count on our full involvement and all the help we can offer, Dr. Coran, Dr. Thorpe. Sorry to take you away from home and family.”

J.T. was a bachelor, and Jessica shrugged Cutter's remark off, even as she gave thought to Richard Sharpe, who'd called from Korea during a stopover on his way to consult on the Beijing extradition case. “Where's the corpse?” Jessica asked.

Combs indicated the way and escorted Jessica to where the body still lay on the boat. With the onset of morning, traffic on the bridge nearby had increased and motorists were hearing about the victim over radio waves as they passed the wharves. The helicopter landing had also alerted people that something odd was going on at the wharf. A nearby sightseeing tour group chugged off on a river excursion, passengers pointing to the activity at the death boat. Jessica saw that they were surrounded by small businesses catering to weekend fishermen and tourists, but that the body was on a boat along one of the wharves filled with expensive yachts. Amid the yachts squatted the rusty old shrimping vessel. On the other side of a chain-link fence, a second wharf was lined with professional fishing boats and shrimp boats. “Community of yachtsmen are pissed off because the shrimp boat dared to dock in their little territory,” Combs mentioned.

While equipped with motors for maneuverability and chase, some of the relatively small shrimp boats also maintained backup sails. Though most of the rigging, Jessica realized as she approached, was actually nets strung about the boats-in serious need of disentanglement. Most of the shrimpers had already set out for an area where they could go from the St. John's River to the ocean. Those remaining were chugging and sputtering badly while at idle; some were under repair, while the one in question, squatted among a bevy of beautiful yachts, dead silent. This boat was littered with almost as much yellow police caution tape as rigging and netting.

An elderly, thin-faced man used a sea cap in his hand to punctuate his shouting at stationary police guards on the dock beside his boat. “What in God's creation is taking so long? I shoulda just threw the body back into the St. John's when it come up!”

“ Since the fish population has declined, the shrimpers usually go out twice a day, twilight and dusk,” said Combs in Jessica's ear. “Owner-operator of the boat being held is pissed off that we haven't released his vessel.”

As Jessica and J.T. walked toward the boat, their shoes slapping the boards, Jessica read the name painted across the wooden rear: Uneven Odds. As she neared the boat, she studied the screeching seagulls all around and overhead, and aside from their footfalls on the boardwalk, she heard a playful sound like melodic chimes. It was the boat's rigging just overhead, the ropes in the wind tapping out a tune over the body, as if playing a hymn for the dead girl.

Sheriff Lorena Combs said, “Boat captain says he picked her up about a mile north of here. I've got men combing that area for anything unusual, trying to determine exactly where she may have been dumped into the river.”

“ Shot in the dark, huh? Any luck identifying her?” Possibly. We put missing persons on it, and they're bringing over a couple to have a look.”

Jessica exchanged a look with J.T. No one wanted to break such news to the family in a normal death, let alone a mutilation death, and yet they had to have a positive ID. The two previous victims had been identified and put to rest, so those parents, family and friends at least had the closure of a burial. “Part of the killer's MO has been to take with him anything that might help officials identify the victim,” J.T. said to Combs.

Combs replied, “Worst part of the job. I told the possible parents that it would be easier on them after we got her to the morgue, that they could view the body through a window, but they're adamant and on their way here.”

“ Determining where she entered the water might well be of help in the investigation,” Jessica said, changing the subject. “Might locate some tire prints, some cigarette butts.”

“ We can only hope.”

They now stood on the dock, high over the boat captain in the hull. Abrams's clothes marked him as a working crewman as well.

“ Dr. Coran, Dr. Thorpe, meet Captain Abrams.”

“ Permission to come aboard, sir?” Jessica asked the skipper.

He laughed in response. “You know how many people have come and gone here? You're the first to ask permission.”

“ So, may we?”

He returned his cap to his head. “Why not? Permission granted. I'm going to find a drink.” He stormed off to his pilothouse.

Jessica noticed the tarp someone had positioned over the body, and now she and J.T. went toward it. J. T grabbed hold of the tarp and pulled it down to the victim's chest area. Jessica went to her knees beside the dead girl and tore the cover away entirely. She found the body now just as it had been described to her-as having been rolled. The victim lay on her stomach, no visible sign of injury. “Help me turn her, carefully.”

J.T. did so as the others held back. When the body was fully turned, Jessica heard Police Chief Sheay, standing well back, moan and say, “My God, Cutter. Do you see what this butcher did to her?”

“ Gentlemen,” said J.T., “this is surely the third such victim found in this horrid condition within a month. But it's not a butcher's job he's done on them.”

“ What do you mean?” asked Chief Sheay.