Тесс Герритсен - I Know a Secret

“Did these two victims know each other? Have the same circle of friends?”

Jane considered this. “I’m not aware of any connection. They lived in different neighborhoods, worked in completely different jobs.” She pulled out her cell phone. “Frost should still be with Tim’s sister. Let’s find out if she knew Cassandra.”

As Jane spoke with Frost, Maura spread open the stomach, revealing no trace of undigested food. When the victim was last seen, it was a holiday afternoon, when a single young man might meet friends for a drink before dinner. Cassandra Coyle’s stomach had been preprandial as well, containing only traces of wine. Was drinks with friends the common factor?

She looked at Yoshima. “Do we have the tox screen back yet for Cassandra Coyle?”

“It hasn’t been two weeks, but I marked it expedite. Let me check,” he said, and crossed to the computer.

Jane hung up her phone. “Timothy’s sister says she’s never heard the name Cassandra Coyle. And I can’t really think of any connection between these two victims, except for the fact they were both young, healthy, and drank booze before they died.”

“And they were both mutilated postmortem.”

Jane paused. “Well, yeah. There’s that.”

“Got it,” called out Yoshima. “Cassandra Coyle’s tox screen came back positive for alcohol. And for ketamine.”

“Ketamine?” Maura crossed to the computer and stared at the report. “Blood alcohol’s point zero four. Ketamine level is two milligrams per liter.”

“Isn’t that a date-rape drug?” said Jane.

“Actually, it’s an anesthetic, sometimes used for date rape. But I found no evidence that Cassandra was raped.”

“So now we know what killed her,” said Jane.

“No, we don’t.” Maura looked up from the computer. “She didn’t die from ketamine. This blood level is in the therapeutic range for anesthesia. It’s enough to incapacitate but not high enough to kill a healthy young woman.”

“Maybe she was given a drug you didn’t screen for.”

“I screened for everything I could think of.”

“Then what killed her, Maura?”

“I don’t know.” Maura returned to the table and stared at Timothy McDougal. “I don’t know what killed this man either. We now have two young victims with no apparent cause of death.” Maura shook her head. “I’m missing something.”

“You never miss anything.”

“If our killer uses alcohol and ketamine to incapacitate his victims, what does he do next? They’re unconscious and vulnerable. How does he kill them, without leaving any trace of—” Abruptly she turned to Yoshima. “Let’s get out the CrimeScope. Before I do any more dissection, I want to examine his face.”

“What do you think you’re going to see?” said Jane.

“Put on the goggles and let’s find out.”

Details hidden to the naked eye under normal light could sometimes magically become visible under wavelengths from a forensic light source. Fibers and body fluids will fluoresce, and against a background of pale skin, otherwise invisible residues and inks will show up as dark patches. This search would not be entirely random; Maura already knew what she was looking for.

And where she would find it.

“Lights off,” she said to Yoshima, and he flipped the switch.

The room went dark. Under the glow of the CrimeScope, a host of new details suddenly became visible as Maura tuned the instrument, altering the wavelength. Strands of hair glowed on the floor, the detritus shed by multiple cops and ME staff. Gloves, gowns, and shoe covers were not 100 percent effective in preventing the shedding of hairs and fibers, and here was the evidence.

Maura focused the beam on Timothy McDougal’s face.

“CSRU already searched him for trace evidence at the scene,” said Jane.

“I know, but I’m looking for something else. Something I’m not even sure will turn up.” She couldn’t see it yet on the face, so she lowered the beam to the neck and once again tuned through different wavelengths, ignoring the dark pinpoints of blood spatter that she’d disseminated during her Y incision. She was looking for something less random. Something geometric.

And there, just above the level of the thyroid cartilage, she saw it. A faint band that encircled the throat and extended toward the back of the neck, where it vanished from sight.

“What the hell’s that?” asked Jane. “A ligature mark?”

“No. I’ve already examined the neck and there’s no bruising, no impressions on the skin itself. And his hyoid bone is intact on the X-ray.”

“Then what made that pattern?”

“I think it’s residue. Adhesive manufacturers sometimes add materials like titanium dioxide or iron oxide to their products. I was hoping this would show up under the CrimeScope, and here it is.”

“Adhesive? You mean like duct tape?”

“Possibly, but this tape wasn’t used to restrain him. See how the pattern extends only around the front of the neck? The tape was used to hold something in place, but it wasn’t tight enough to leave bruises. If this man’s tox screen also comes back positive for ketamine, then I have a pretty good idea what happened to him. And to Cassandra Coyle. Yoshima, lights.”

Jane pulled off her goggles and frowned at Maura. “You think they were killed by the same perp?”

Maura nodded. “And I know how he did it.”

Blue eyes looks surprised to see me standing in his doorway. It’s been nearly two weeks since we slept together, since I sneaked like a thief out of his bedroom. I haven’t tried to contact him, not once, because sometimes a girl doesn’t need any more obligations in her life. It’s too much work trying to keep a man happy, and I have my own needs to look after.

Which is why I’m now standing on his doorstep: Because I need him. Not him , specifically, just someone who’ll make me feel safe again after the unsettling news I read on the Boston Globe website. I’m not even sure why I chose to run to him. Maybe it’s because instinct tells me he’s reliable and utterly harmless, someone I can turn my back on without worrying about a knife sinking between my shoulder blades. Maybe because he’s a relative stranger who won’t know the difference between truth and the fiction I occasionally spin. All I know is, for the first time I can remember, I’m hungry for some human connection. I think he is too.

But he doesn’t seem eager to invite me in. He just frowns at me as if I’m some pesky neighborhood evangelist he’d love to get rid of.

“It’s cold out here,” I say. “Can I come in?”

“You never even bothered to say goodbye.”

“That was shitty of me. I’m sorry. I was going through a tough time at work and I wasn’t myself. And that night I spent with you, it sort of overwhelmed me. I needed time to think about what happened between us. What it all meant.”

He gives a resigned sigh. “Okay, Holly, come in. It’s, like, ten degrees out there and I don’t want you to catch pneumonia.”

I don’t bother to correct him that you can’t catch pneumonia from the cold, and I just follow him inside. Once again I’m impressed by his townhouse, which feels like a palace compared with my dinky apartment. Everett is what my late mother would have called a quality acquaintance, a boyfriend worth cultivating. I fear I’ve already fouled things up between us, and he’s too nice a guy to throw me out yet. He’s wearing blue jeans and an old flannel shirt, so it must be his day off, which gives me time to make things right between us. We stand for a moment in awkward silence, regarding each other. I’m mesmerized by the blueness of his eyes. His hair’s uncombed and his shirt’s missing a button, but those details only make him seem more genuine to me. For once, a man I don’t have to be wary of.