Tami Hoag - The Alibi Man

“I’d rather be under the truck,” Landry said.

“Amen to that. I did the autopsies on two of those recent alligator-attack victims. That’s not a good way to go. I can’t even imagine the terror those people felt. I suppose the good news here is that our victim was already well past feeling anything when she was attacked-by the second animal, that is,” Gitan added grimly.

She heaved a sigh and shook her head as she looked down at Irina Markova’s face, the ravaged eyes and lips. “These are the tough ones. I can slice-and-dice drug dealers and gangbangers all day long. They know what they’re in for, doing what they do. This one is a pure victim. She didn’t go out looking to cross paths with a killer.”

“I knew her a little bit,” Landry said. “Enough to say hello. She was an acquaintance of a friend.”

“I’m sorry. You don’t have to stay for this, James. I can call you later.”

“No. This is part of it. She’s my vie. You know how I am.”

“Superstitious?”

He shrugged, still staring at the body. “I need to see what happened to them with my own two eyes. I feel like… like I owe it to them to be here, at least for this part, you know? Crazy, huh?”

“Not so. Shows that you’re still human. I always figure that the time I start just counting the bodies, not thinking of them as human beings, is the time I need to consider another career. I mean, I don’t get emotionally involved. We can’t do that and stay sane. But I do them the courtesy of knowing their names.”

“Thanks for coming in for this one, Merci,” Landry said.

He had called her personally to make the request. He’d known her for six or seven years, had watched her work her way up the adder. She was very good and very thorough. This wasn’t going to be an easy case. Gitan would garner every bit of information, no matter how insignificant it might seem. She wouldn’t miss a thing.

“Oh, who needs to have a life?” she said. “Besides, the mayor of Wellington, the mayor of West Palm, the mayor of Palm Beach, he sheriff, the state’s attorney, and half a dozen other big shots called me after you did.”

Landry gave a humorless laugh. “Nobody cares when some Poxahatchee redneck gets his brains blown out. A beautiful young woman strangled and dumped-that’s bad for tourism. Can’t have killer running around during season.”

Gitan glanced at her watch and huffed a sigh. “Where the hell is Cecil? WHERE THE HELL IS CECIL!!”

“Just waiting for you to scream, boss.”

Gitan’s assistant, a seven-foot-tall black transvestite, came into the suite. Even on the stool, Gitan had to crane her neck to look up at him.

The process began with the external examination of the body, Gitan spoke quietly into her microphone, identifying the victim, stating her age, height, weight, sex, color of hair. She couldn’t state the color of her eyes, because there was nothing left of them.

Landry stared at the girl’s hand, at her fingernails, still flawlessly painted a vibrant red despite her time in the water. A couple of them were broken. Hopefully she had sunk them into her killer, hopefully Gitan would discover something to suggest that-skin cells, a microscopic bit of blood, enough of something for a DNA profile.

The body had been in the water for some time, but unless the fish had taken up giving manicures, maybe there was a chance that something lodged well under the nails could still be there.

The analysis of that kind of evidence took time. Serology, toxicology, DNA profiles. Real life isn’t like television. Even with a rush put on the potential evidence, it would take days, even weeks to get results back. And even if they got a DNA profile on the perp, it would be helpful immediately only if the guy had offended before and was in the national data bank.

Gitan examined every inch of the girl’s body. Every mark, every cut, every bruise was measured and photographed. Landry was hoping for bite marks. No defense attorney could argue away bite marks. They were as good as fingerprints.

“What do you think here? Bite marks?” he asked, pointing to several dark semicircular marks around the areola on the left breast. He had put his reading glasses on and bent down close to squint at them.

“Could be,” Gitan said. “The shape is right, but I’m not seeing clear individual tooth marks. Maybe he bit her through something like sheets or a light blanket, to obscure the marks. Maybe he’s smart.”

“Maybe he’s done this before,” Landry said.

That was a very bad thought. They wouldn’t be talking about some random horny bastard who didn’t want to take no for an answer. The crime wouldn’t be about a situation that had gotten out of hand. It would be about something done methodically, which required organized thought and enough cool in the heat of the moment to take precautions against self-incrimination.

Gitan moved on to the ligature marks around the girl’s throat.

“What do you think?” Landry asked. “A rope? A wire?”

“First,” Gitan said, “we have thumbprints on either side of the larynx. See here? So we know her killer choked her manually at some point in the attack. But then we have the ligature marks as well. Not a wire. There’s too much abrasion. It had to be something with texture. If it was a rope, it was quite thin. I’m not seeing any natural rope fibers, but she’s been in the water. Fiber evidence is a lot to hope for. Or the rope could have been synthetic. Nylon cord, maybe.”

Looking through a lighted magnifying glass, she studied and studied the deep grooves cut into the girl’s neck. The skin had broken in places.

“Huh,” she said, as she took a tweezer and very carefully clucked a piece of something out of the wound.

“What is it?”

“Dried coagulated blood. Look.”

Landry looked at the scab through the magnifying glass. Stuck in it were several fibers so small they were all but invisible to the naked eye. Short, superfine, dark. Almost like short hairs.

“The lab rats will have an answer when they can get it under a microscope,” Gitan said.

“I’m surprised you found anything,” Landry said.

“Sometimes we get lucky. Her killer didn’t dump her right away, the wounds had time to dry and harden.”

When Gitan was satisfied she had examined every inch of the front of the body, Landry helped Cecil turn the girl over. Gitan moved Irina Markova’s hair out of her way to examine the marks on the back of her neck. There weren’t any.

“Okay,” Gitan said. “Either there was something behind her and between her and the killer, or maybe the killer was on top of her, holding her down with the ligature.”

“In my experience, the kind of guy who does this kind of thing wants to watch the victim’s face as he chokes her,” Landry said. “The fear gets them off. Watching the lights go out in the eyes is a big power trip.”

“Looks to me like he strangled her to the point of unconsciousness, then let her regain consciousness, only to ‘kill’ her all over again.”

“Sick fuck,” Landry muttered.

“He let her lie somewhere for quite a while before he dumped her in that canal,” Gitan pointed out.

With no heartbeat to move it through the circulatory system, the girl’s blood had pooled down her back and the backs of her legs and arms in a huge purple stain. The body had remained on its back long enough that the blood had clotted and set, which took hours. No matter what had been done with the body after that, the lividity wouldn’t move or change.

“Maybe he had to wait to dump her,” Landry said. “Or maybe he’s one of those freaks that likes to play with them after they’re dead.”

Landry stayed until Gitan was ready to make the incision across the top of the girl’s head. The scalp would be pulled back and the interior examined for evidence of trauma; the cranium would be checked for fractures. He didn’t need to hang around for that. He didn’t need to wait for Gitan to make the primary Y incision across the chest and down the torso. He didn’t need to watch as Irina Markova’s sternum was split in two and her chest was cracked open like a clamshell. He didn’t need to watch as her organs were lifted out of her body and weighed.