Allison Brennan - Speak No Evil

And many died.

“Did the drugs kill her?” Carina asked.

“I don’t know yet, Detective,” Chen said. “From the levels in her system, I don’t think so, but I’ll know more when I inspect her organs. It may have been a contributing cause.”

He continued. “I have the victim’s medical records, which indicate that she had a history of asthma and was allergic to latex.” Chen continued his visual inspection of the body, documenting each external wound. While he did that, Nick said to Dillon, “No plastic wrap. Why?”

“She died on him. He didn’t have time.”

“There was no postmortem sexual assault,” Jim interjected. “He didn’t need the plastic to keep evidence off her body.”

“He gets his thrill from killing her during the rape,” Dillon said. “After she’s dead he doesn’t want to have anything to do with her. Gets rid of the body as quickly as possible.”

“Like a snuff film,” Nick said, and everyone grew silent.

“Yes,” Dillon said finally. “The suspect Scout’s profile says he’s studying computer science and photography.”

“I’ll pull Vice into the equation to watch and see if any films or photographs of the murders start showing up.”

“He’s not going to want to share,” Nick said.

“Why?” Dillon asked, curious.

“It’s just my gut feeling. I don’t have anything to base it on. I just think these are his women, he wants to keep them for himself. He might have pictures, or maybe even filmed the murder, but it will be for his eyes only. For his pleasure, no one else’s.”

Chen cleared his throat to indicate that he was getting started, then he cut open her chest.

Carina never felt the need to “be strong” and watch something that thoroughly disturbed her, so she turned her head and took a deep breath. The smell she could handle. She’d smelled far worse-her second homicide was a week-dead decomposing prostitute in a Dumpster in the heart of the Gaslight area. In general she could handle dead bodies in various states of murder.

But watching an autopsy seemed too clinical. Scientists dispassionately documenting injuries, weighing organs, as if the human body was a thing. It made her feel vulnerable, mortal. She didn’t want to think about what would happen to her own body after she died.

Jim walked over to the table. “Just what I suspected.”

“What?” Carina couldn’t help but ask, turning her attention back to the autopsy.

“Asphyxiation,” Jim said, “from anaphylactic shock.”

“Why didn’t Angie die the same way?”

“She wasn’t allergic to latex,” Jim explained. “In this victim, her airways became clogged with hives. With no medication to reduce the swelling, she suffocated.”

Carina pictured Jodi tied to a bed, struggling for her last breath, alone and scared. Her stomach flipped and she turned away from the dead girl’s corpse.

Nick touched her lightly on the small of her back, cleared his throat. “He came in and found her dead. Became enraged and punched her.”

“Repeatedly,” Chen said. “Two broken ribs, the nose, severe postmortem damage.”

“Her abdomen looks like pulp,” Jim said, disgusted. “She’d been dead about four to five hours before he found her.”

“Did he use his bare hands?” Carina asked.

“Absolutely. He may have had on gloves of some sort, but I don’t see any latex or fiber residue under the microscope. And if he’d used a hammer or another object the wounds would have a smaller center. These are fist-size impressions.”

“But if he didn’t use latex gloves, how could she have died from a latex allergy?”

“Some glues have latex in them. I’m going to check for latex on the glue samples when I get back to the lab.”

“His hands would be damaged, wouldn’t you say?” Carina asked. She couldn’t rid her mind of the image of Jodi fighting for breath as her body swelled up.

“Very likely. Bruised. Possibly split, especially on the knuckles.”

“He’s like a kid with a bug jar,” Nick said.

“Excuse me?” Jim looked over his shoulder. Nick had even attracted Chen’s attention.

“Essentially, he has a woman in a jar. She’s restrained, trapped. He can watch her if he wants. Prod her. Attack her. He touches her to see how she reacts. Rapes her for the sensation, then uses convenient items so he can watch. Like pulling the wings off a fly. It can’t go anywhere, can’t escape. When the bug finally dies, sometimes a kid gets mad. How dare the bug die on him. Stomps on it. Shows it how powerful he really is, though he really feels small and helpless because he couldn’t keep the bug alive long enough to do everything he wanted.”

No one said anything for a long minute.

“Sheriff, I think you’re right,” Dillon said. “She died before he wanted her dead. She shattered his fantasy. The ultimate high for him is sex and death.”

Dillon looked at everyone in the room. “He’s going to act again, and soon. Jodi cheated him and he’s angry. But because he’s angry, he has a greater chance of slipping up.”

Carina prayed they caught a break before another woman died.

His skin prickled, as if a spider were crawling on him. He batted it away, and it was replaced by another phantom spider.

It was Jodi’s fault. She’d ruined everything. She wasn’t supposed to just die like that. She wasn’t playing her part. In the back of his mind he kept thinking that somehow he’d forgotten something, that maybe he’d made a mistake. So he kept replaying everything in his mind. From going in through her window-he’d worn gloves-to putting her in the trunk-no one had seen him-to cleaning her body. He’d covered all bases.

So why did he feel so odd?

The high he’d had after Becca plummeted, and he didn’t know what to do. He watched his special tapes over and over. They didn’t help.

He watched the slide shows he’d made of Angie and Becca. That was a little better, but then the show he had of Jodi reminded him of his failure.

When his father disappeared, he knew it was his mother’s fault. She was loud and disrespectful, and she slept with other men. Even then as a child, he’d known it. He’d seen it. For years he’d blamed his mother and wished he had the courage to kill her with his bare hands, watching her eyes bulge, squeezing her throat until every bone in her neck broke.

But it was his fault, too. His failure as a son. If only he’d been older, smarter. If he’d followed his father and begged him to take him, too.

For a long time he’d thought his father was back in prison, but his mother denied it. Said he wasn’t coming back and to forget him. How could he do that? How could he forget his own father?

His dad would understand the feelings. The pictures that popped into his mind all the time.

When he looked in the car next to him and saw a pretty woman, he could imagine her naked and bloody beneath him-a vision so vivid he believed he could touch her and feel warm blood on his fingers.

Or when his mother was around and he dreamed so distinctly of going into her bedroom and cutting her throat. He’d wake up after that smelling blood, certain he’d done it, needing to check that he hadn’t somehow killed his mother in his sleep.

He never had.

Or when he saw his brother and wondered if he had the same feelings, that maybe if he talked to him and explained everything clearly, he would have a partner. Someone to help. Someone who understood.

But he didn’t dare go after his mother, and didn’t dare tell his brother. It was just him, alone. He had to figure everything out.

He stopped the slide show and stared at a picture of Becca dressed in plastic wrap. She wasn’t dead, but waiting. Becca had been the best. Why? Why had he felt complete with Becca and not Angie or Jodi?