Кей Хупер - Out of the Shadows

"All right. I'll be there in a minute." Miranda opened the file on her blotter and stared at the top sheet until the door closed quietly behind him.

Alone again, she took slightly more than the promised minute to work on her control. There wasn't much she could do about the pallor or the fact that the light bothered her so much she wished she could put on sunglasses. But she was able to bury the pain deep enough that she doubted Bishop or his psychics would sense anything unusual.

Maybe the price is too high to pay. Maybe . . .

But she knew it wasn't. Some things had to happen, events had to unfold in their proper order, or the results could be catastrophic. Instead of merely tragic.

Miranda got to her feet and grimly rode out the wave of dizziness. Then she squared her shoulders, pulled on the mask of professional detachment, and went to join the task force in the conference room.

Alex was there, in defiance of orders, though he did grimace apologetically when Miranda came in.

"I ought to fire you," she said.

"I'm not on the clock."

"You're here, you're on the clock." She sat down at the table beside him, across from the three agents, and focused on Sharon Edwards. "Doctor. Please tell me you found something to point to our killer."

"I wish I could." Edwards pushed a manila folder toward the sheriff.

Miranda didn't open it. "So what did you find? Did the post verify your preliminary conclusions?"

"More or less. She died approximately sixteen to eighteen hours before the body was discovered, which would put time of death at between two and four A.M. on Friday. And — it took her a long time to die, probably hours. I believe his weapon of choice was a baseball bat — I found a few slivers of wood embedded in her skin. Judging by the bruising, I believe he went at her on at least three occasions with pauses in between, perhaps to rest."

Alex muttered something under his breath, but Miranda kept her gaze on the doctor and her sickened reaction off her face. "Go on."

"She wasn't raped, and there are no signs she was ever bound or physically restrained. She had been drugged — I found a more than toxic level of chloral hydrate, most probably given to her in a cup of sweet tea. I believe she was comatose before he began beating her, and that she never woke up. She died of internal injuries caused by the beating, though the dose of chloral hydrate would most probably have killed her eventually.

"Her eyes were removed postmortem, and her body exsanguinated, both the carotid and femoral arteries opened."

"I didn't see any blood on her clothes," Miranda said.

"No, there wasn't so much as a drop I could find. That added to the wood slivers embedded in her skin tells me that he stripped her naked before beating her, and dressed her after it was all over. Not only that, but he washed the body. I found traces of a mild liquid soap, the kind you can buy in any pharmacy, grocery, or department store. Peter — Dr. Shepherd — checked with her mother, and the soap they use at home is something entirely different."

Miranda didn't bother to comment on Shepherd's overstepping his authority. "I see."

"There's one last thing, Sheriff. The killer had inserted a tampon into the girl's vagina."

A moment of silence followed, then Alex said uncomfortably, "How do you know she didn't—"

"She wasn't menstruating, Deputy. And I think we can be fairly certain she didn't insert it herself." She looked at Miranda. "It was still sealed in its plastic wrapper."

The silence this time lasted much longer. Then Miranda ventured a reluctant question. "Are we talking about an act of rape, even if symbolic?"

Dr. Edwards frowned. "I don't believe so. I mean, I don't believe it was about power or domination, as we all know rape generally is. There was nothing to indicate that any violence or force was used. No bruising, no tearing — in fact, no signs of irritation whatsoever. He was careful. He was even, one could argue, gentle. The wrapped tampon was lubricated with K-Y before it was inserted."

"I don't get it," Alex said blankly.

Miranda looked at Agent Harte. "Any idea how to interpret that data?"

He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands together over his middle, frowning. "Maybe he was . . . closing her, blocking her off. Making it impossible for anyone — including him — to have sex with her."

"Because he wanted to?" Miranda mused.

"Maybe. If he drugged her and covered her face while he was beating her because he knew her, even cared about her in some twisted way, then he might have been fighting the temptation to have sex with her — maybe for a long time."

"You mean before he abducted her?"

Harte nodded. "She was just barely fifteen, but pretty well developed for her age, physically more woman than child. It's possible he watched her, thought about her, a long time before he finally grabbed her."

Plaintively, Alex said, "But what does it mean? Will knowing any of this help us catch the bastard?"

Miranda said, "Eventually, it has to." She didn't wait for a response to that determined optimism, but went on broodingly, "There was no sign of sexual activity or even that sort of interest in Kerry Ingram. And if we add Adam Ramsay's murder, assume it's the same killer—"

"I say we do," the doctor broke in. "I have a hunch about the appearance of those bones, though I'd rather wait until my tests are complete to comment. But one thing I am sure of is that the Ramsay boy was also exsanguinated. I doubt you'd have two killers operating at the same time in the same small town, both draining the blood of their victims."

Miranda agreed to that with a grimace. "And as long as we manage to keep that detail quiet, it virtually rules out a copycat killer. I know you didn't have much to work with in examining the Ramsay boy's remains, but did you find any evidence of sexual activity?"

"No, none. But I'm sure you know such evidence would be difficult if not impossible to find with almost no soft tissue left, especially when the remains had been out in the elements for such a long time."

Miranda realized she was rubbing her temple only when she felt Bishop's eyes on her, and at once stopped the betraying gesture. "Okay, so our killer grabbed a seventeen-year-old boy and apparently tortured him to death over a period of weeks. Then he grabbed a fourteen-year-old girl whom he also tortured by repeatedly strangling her, also over a period of weeks. Then he grabbed a fifteen-year-old girl and drugged her senseless, and beat her to death with a baseball bat — within a matter of hours. No sign of sexual interest in the first two — though we can't be sure about the boy — and possible signs of some kind of reluctant or abortive sexual interest in the third. He killed the first two with blows to the head, but killed the third by beating her to death. Slowly."

"That sounds about right," Harte said. "If you want my . . . hunch ... I'd say we have an incredibly conflicted killer here. He feels he has to do this, and he won't let anything stop him, but at the same time regrets the necessity. Now, whether he feels remorse in any genuine sense is open to debate; my take is that he's sorry as hell he has to kill these kids, but not because they die — only because he has to disarrange his life and dirty his hands in order to kill them."

Alex stared at him. "You get all that from the little bit we know so far?"

Harte smiled. "It's just a hunch."

"Tony's hunches," Bishop said neutrally, "are generally pretty reliable."

Alex looked from one to the other, then shook his head. "What I don't get is that there doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to how he's picking them. The victims have nothing in common."