Tess Gerritsen - Vanish

She slipped in beside her husband and looked down at the file folder lying on the table. “What do you have to show me?”

Moore didn’t answer, but glanced up with an automatic smile as the waitress approached.

“Hey, Detective Rizzoli. You’re all skinny again,” the waitress said.

“Not as skinny as I’d like to be.”

“I heard you had a baby girl.”

“She’s keeping us up all night. This may be my only chance to eat in peace.”

The waitress laughed as she took out her order pad. “Then let’s feed you.”

“Actually, I’d just like some coffee and your apple crisp.”

“Good choice.” The waitress glanced at the men. “How ‘bout you fellas?”

“More coffee, that’s all,” said Moore. “We’re just going to sit here and watch her eat.”

They maintained their silence while their cups were refilled. Only after the waitress had delivered the apple crisp and walked away did Moore finally slide the folder across to Jane.

Inside was a sheet of digital photos. She immediately recognized them as micrographs of a spent cartridge case, showing the patterns left by the firing pin hitting the primer, and by the backward thrust of the cartridge against the breechblock.

“This is from the hospital shooting?”she asked.

Moore nodded. “That cartridge came from the weapon that John Doe carried into Olena’s room. The weapon she used to kill him. Ballistics ran it through the IBIS database, and they got back a hit, from ATF. A multiple shooting in Ashburn, Virginia.”

She turned to the next set of photos. It was another series of cartridge micrographs. “They’re a match?”

“Identical firing pin impressions. Two different cartridges found at two different death scenes. They were both ejected from the same weapon.”

“And now we have that weapon.”

“Actually, we don’t.”

She looked at Moore. “It should have been found with Olena’s body. She was the last one to have it.”

“It wasn’t at the takedown scene.”

“But we processed that room, didn’t we?”

“There were no weapons at all left at the scene. The federal takedown team confiscated all ballistics evidence when they left. The took the weapons, Joe’s knapsack, even the cartridges. By the time Boston PD got in there, it was all gone.”

“They cleaned up a death scene? What’s Boston PD going to do about this?”

“Apparently,” said Moore, “there’s not a thing we can do. The feds are calling it a matter of national security, and they don’t want information leaks.”

“They don’t trust Boston PD?”

“No one trusts anybody. We’re not the only ones being shut out. Agent Barsanti wanted that ballistics evidence as well, and he was none too happy when he found out the special ops team took it. This has turned into federal agency versus federal agency. Boston PD’s just a mouse watching two elephants battle it out.”

Jane’s gaze returned to the photomicrographs. “You said this matching cartridge came from a crime scene in Ashburn. Just before the takedown, Joseph Roke tried to tell us about something that happened in Ashburn.”

“Mr. Roke may very well have been talking about this.” Moore reached into his briefcase and pulled out another folder, which he set on the table. “I received it this morning, from Leesburg PD. Ashburn’s just a small town. It was Leesburg who worked the case.”

“It’s not pleasant viewing, Jane,” said Gabriel.

His warning was unexpected. Together they had witnessed the worst the autopsy room could offer, and she’d never seen him flinch. If this case has horrified even Gabriel, she thought, do I really want to see it? She gave herself no time to consider, but simply opened the folder and confronted the first crime scene photograph. This isn’t so bad, she thought. She had seen far worse. A slender brown-haired woman lay facedown on a stairway, as though she had dived from the top step. A river of her blood had streamed down, collecting in a pool at the bottom of the stairs.

“That’s Jane Doe number one,” said Moore.

“You don’t have ID on her?”

“We don’t have ID on any of the victims in that house.”

She turned to the next photograph. It was a young blonde this time, lying on a cot, the blanket pulled up to her neck, hands still clutching the fabric, as though it might protect her. A trickle of blood oozed from the bullet wound in her forehead. A swift kill, rendered with the stunning efficiency of a single bullet.

“That’s Jane Doe number two,” said Moore. At her troubled glance, he added: “There are still others.”

Jane heard the note of caution in his voice. Once again she was on edge as she turned to the next image. Staring at the third crime scene photo, she thought: This is getting harder, but I can still deal with it. It was a view through a closet doorway, into the blood-splattered interior. Two young women, both of them only partially clothed, sat slumped together in a tangle of arms and long hair, as though caught in a final embrace.

“Jane Does number three and number four,” said Moore.

“ None of these women have been identified?”

“Their fingerprints aren’t in any database.”

“You’ve got four attractive women here. And no one reported them missing?”

Moore shook his head. “They don’t match anyone on NCIC’s missing persons list.” He nodded at the two victims in the closet. “The cartridge that popped up in the IBIS match was found in that closet. Those two women were shot with the same weapon that the guard carried into Olena’s hospital room.”

“And the other vics in this house? Also the same gun?”

“No. A different weapon was used on them.”

“Two guns? Two killers?”

“Yes.”

So far, none of the images had truly upset her. She reached without trepidation for the last photo, of Jane Doe number five. This time, what she saw made her rock back against the booth. Yet she could not drag her gaze from the image. She could only stare at the expression of mortal agony still etched on the victim’s face. This woman was older and heavier, in her forties. Her torso was tied to a chair with loops of white cord.

“That’s the fifth and final victim,” said Moore. “The other four women were dispatched quickly. A bullet to the head, and that was that.” He looked at the open folder. “This one was eventually finished off with a bullet to the brain as well. But not until…” Moore paused. “Not until that was done to her.”

“How long…” Jane swallowed. “How long was she kept alive?”

“Based on the number of fractures in her hands and wrists, and the fact that all the bones were essentially pulverized, the medical examiner felt there were at least forty or fifty separate blows of the hammer. The hammerhead wasn’t large. Each blow would crush only a small area. But there was not one bone, one finger, that escaped.”

Abruptly Jane closed the folder, unable to stomach the image any longer. But the damage was done, the memory now indelible.

“It would have taken at least two attackers,” said Moore. “Someone to immobilize her while she was tied to the chair. Someone to hold her wrist to the table while that was being done to her.”

“There would have been screams,” she murmured. She looked up at Moore. “Why didn’t anyone hear her screaming?”

“The house is on a private dirt road, some distance from its neighbors. And remember, it was January.”

When people keep their windows shut. The victim must have realized that no one would hear her cries. That there would be no rescue. The best she could hope for was the mercy of a bullet.

“What did they want from her?” she asked.