Phillip Margolin - Executive Privilege

“So the stab wound to the spine killed Walsh, but the Ripper still went after her as if she was alive.”

“That’s one way to look at it.”

“Maybe he was upset that the first thrust killed her and he inflicted the other damage in a rage.”

“That’s possible, too,” Standish agreed before shoveling some more veal into his mouth. Evans sipped some coffee and thought while he waited for the medical examiner to swallow.

“We’ve got some other anomalies,” Standish said, pointing his red-stained fork at the FBI agent. “I didn’t find evidence of forced intercourse as I found with the other victim I examined. The autopsies you sent me on the other women listed bruising around the genitals and other indications of rape, but there was no indication of this with Walsh.”

Evans spread his hands and shrugged. “He may not have been in the mood if she was dead.”

“True.”

“And the other anomalies?”

“You know the substance that’s been found in the victims’ mouths?”

“The one we can’t identify?”

“Right. You found it in every victim’s mouth, right?”

Evans nodded.

“Well, it wasn’t present in Walsh’s mouth.”

Evans frowned. “Are you suggesting that we’re dealing with a copycat?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just the sawbones. You’re the detective.”

“How similar to the wounds in the other cases are the wounds in this one?”

“Oh, the MO is almost identical except for the extensive damage to the neck.”

“Is it possible that the postmortem neck wounds were inflicted to draw attention away from the real cause of death?”

Standish shrugged. “Anything’s possible. I will say that creating that much carnage was effective. I wouldn’t have stumbled across the fatal wound if I hadn’t decided to remove the brain myself.”

Evans was quiet for a while, and Standish took the opportunity to finish off his lunch.

“If we have a copycat who is able to duplicate the MO so closely, he’d have to have seen the other bodies at the crime scenes, or crime scene and autopsy photos, or he’d have to have read the autopsy or crime scene reports,” Evans mused.

“I’d say so,” the doctor agreed. “Unless the newspapers gave a very detailed description of the injuries that each victim suffered.”

“No, there was nothing like that in the press or on TV. Tell me, Art, could the Ripper have killed Walsh by accident? That would support the idea that he mutilated her postmortem in a rage. You know, he’s all set to work on her then she has the audacity to die on him. That could have set him off.”

“As I said, anything is possible, but I don’t really see the killing being committed by mistake. It’s like a rapist who claims he slipped and his dick accidentally penetrated the victim. This was a pretty precise thrust.”

Evans scowled then shook his head. “Thanks for ruining my day.”

“Hey, don’t blame me. I just work here.”

“As if I didn’t have enough to do, now I may have to find two killers.”

“You’ll solve the case, Keith. Remember, neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these…Oh, wait, that’s the postmen. What do you boys do when it snows and rains?”

“We go after the bad guys. Some days, though, are easier than others.”

Oregon

On Saturday morning, Brad Miller drove to Salem for his second meeting with Clarence Little. Ginny Striker was riding shotgun, and he was grateful for the company. He usually didn’t have any on a weekend. He also enjoyed discussing strategy with the attractive associate. In fact, he liked everything about Ginny. The only good thing to come out of Tuchman’s assignment was the opportunity it gave Brad to spend time with her. When he was with Ginny he felt none of the anxiety and sexual tension he always felt when he’d been dating Bridget Malloy, who seemed to go out of her way to keep him on edge. Ginny seemed genuinely nice, and the only friction between them arose when he refused to let her meet Clarence Little.

“Are you nuts?” Brad had replied when Ginny broached the subject. “I don’t want you within a mile of Little.”

“I’ll be perfectly safe,” Ginny insisted. “You told me there was concrete and shatterproof glass between you. How is he going to get to me?”

“That’s not the point. I don’t want him knowing you exist. What if he gets out somehow?”

“I don’t think freedom is in Mr. Little’s future, Brad. He’s serving three death sentences.”

“I don’t want to take any chances.”

“That’s sweet,” Ginny answered in a voice dripping with sarcasm, “but your chivalrous attitude is a bit outdated. I helped subdue paranoid bikers on speed when I was working the emergency room. I know how to take care of myself. If Clarence busts through the glass I’ll protect you.”

Out of desperation, Brad played his trump card. “Look, Ginny, I know you’re tough. You’re probably a lot tougher than me. But the truth is, you’d be a distraction.”

Ginny opened her mouth, but Brad held up a hand. “Hear me out. This guy loves to play games. He’s doing it with me, right now. I wouldn’t be surprised if this whole deal with the pinkie collection is a sick practical joke that will have us running all over Oregon on a wild goose chase. God knows what he’ll want you to do if you show up with me. Little’s idea of a good time is torturing women. If he can’t get his hands on you, he’ll figure out a way to play mind games with you and that will complicate our job of figuring out if he’s telling the truth about his alibi.”

Ginny folded her arms across her chest and stared through the windshield. Her silence was a good sign. It meant she was thinking about what he’d said. Irrational as it might be, he was worried about what might happen if Clarence Little met Ginny Striker.

On Brad’s second trip to the prison there were different visitors in the waiting room, but they had the same look of tired desperation and fake joy as the women he’d waited with the first time he’d visited Clarence Little. When his name was called he felt like an old hand as he navigated the metal detector, walked down the ramp to the visitors’ area, and arrived in the noncontact room reserved for visitors to death row inmates. He should have been thinking about his meeting while he waited for the guards to bring his client. Instead, Ginny occupied his thoughts. She was still mad at him for refusing to let her go into the prison, but she’d grudgingly conceded that putting her in close proximity to a man with very odd ideas about male-female relationships might interfere with their goal of discovering the truth behind Little’s protestations of innocence. As he waited for Little, Ginny was waiting for him in a coffee shop near the penitentiary, working away on her laptop at her assignments from the partners.

The door opened and the guards escorted Little into the cramped space on the other side of the glass. When Little saw Brad he smiled. The smile might have simply been the inmate’s way of greeting a visitor, but Brad suspected that it signified Little’s satisfaction with his victory in their battle of wills.

Little and Brad picked up their phones as soon as the guards disappeared.

“Thank you for visiting again,” Little said. “You have no idea how boring it is sitting in my cell all day with nothing to do. Every break in my routine is a wonderful gift.”

“I’m glad I’ve brightened your day, Mr. Little,” Brad answered brusquely. “But I’m here to find out where you hid the pinkies so I can try to clear your name in the Laurie Erickson case.”