Marie Ferrarella - Cavanaugh Cold Case

Kristin bit back a comment about his choice of descriptive words. Instead, she forced herself to make a dispassionate comment. “Appears that way.”

Okay, so far he had that the women were most likely from somewhere in the immediate area—or at least this country rather than somewhere out of the country, and that all of them, except for one, were women. It was something, he granted, but still not very much to go on.

“Can you give me a rough estimate of when they were killed?” he asked.

She really wished he’d take a few steps back and stop crowding her. But since he apparently wasn’t moving, as casually as she could manage, she did.

“Well, it wasn’t all at the same time,” she told him. “My preliminary judgment would be that this happened between twenty and twenty-five years ago.”

“So this wasn’t a mass grave,” he speculated.

His wording made her think. “More like a grave of opportunity,” she said. “The guy would keep coming back to bury his latest victim because apparently no one had discovered his previous transgressions.”

The medical examiner’s conclusion interested him. He had no problem adjusting his own thinking to factor in good points. Ego had never been a problem with him. “What makes you so sure it’s the same guy?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “But judging from appearances—by that I mean the way he dismembered them—it looks that way,” she theorized. As if she suddenly realized what she was saying, Kristin stopped working and raised her eyes to his. “Are you through picking my brain, Detective?”

“I haven’t even gotten started,” he told her honestly, flashing a grin that held a great deal of promise, as well as sizzle.

Kristin found she had to struggle to ignore the unwanted effects he was having on her. How did she get rid of this man?

“That wasn’t really a question,” she told him. “Let me be more clear. You’re through picking my brain.”

“What’s the matter, Doc?” he asked her good-naturedly. “Haven’t you ever heard of teamwork?”

Her eyes narrowed to two blue lasers. “I have, Detective. Are you familiar with the concept of carrying someone?”

He cocked his head, as if that would somehow help him get into her thoughts, and asked her innocently, “Is that an offer?”

“That is an observation,” she informed him tersely. She was telling him that she was aware he was looking to her to do all the heavy thinking here and he was just absorbing her answers without contributing. “Obviously too subtle for you.”

His smile only grew more engaging. “I’m really not the subtle type.”

“Yes, I noticed,” she bit off. She didn’t know how to make it clearer than this. “Now, this might get you to first base or whatever base you’re aiming for with someone else, but I like to feel that I’m earning the money I’m being paid, so unless there’s something else you either want to ask me or share with me, please, leave,” she underscored.

Instead of going the way she would have expected any normal male to do, he stayed exactly where he was, as if she’d just given him a choice. “Well, the idea of sharing doesn’t sound bad to me,” he began.

She’d set herself up for that one, Kristin silently reprimanded herself. “Please, leave,” she repeated, and this time she made sure that there was nothing in her tone to leave any wiggle room for him to misinterpret her words.

Malloy inclined his head, as if he’d finally gotten what she was telling him. “Until the next time,” he told her as he began to take his leave.

“Heaven forbid,” Kristin muttered under her breath just loud enough to be heard.

Opening the door, Malloy wound up all but walking into the two CSI agents who had been in charge of digging up the area where all the body parts had ultimately been found.

Ryan O’Shea and Jake Reynolds were pushing a gurney with what looked to be a black body bag between them.

“Where do you want this, Doc?” O’Shea asked.

Kristin didn’t need to ask what they’d brought in. The sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach told her the answer to that one.

“More?” she groaned, temporarily forgetting about the annoying detective who had invaded her turf and was still in it.

O’Shea nodded. “It’s the gift that apparently just keeps on giving.”

“How much more giving?” she asked warily as she eyed the body bag.

“We found two more heads,” Reynolds told her, aligning the gurney with one of the exam tables and unzipping the bag.

Kristin closed her eyes for a moment, as if trying to center herself before she spoke. Opening her eyes again, she looked at the body bag. It didn’t look full, but it didn’t appear to be empty, either.

“Just the heads?” she asked.

O’Shea had the good grace to look a little apologetic. “And a handful of miscellaneous bones that might or might not belong to the heads.”

“In other words, just like the rest of it.”

“Exactly like the rest of it,” O’Shea told her, then added quickly in a far more positive voice, “The good news is that I think that’s it.”

“The bad news is that there are twelve of them.” Malloy offered up that observation. Three sets of eyes turned toward him as he continued, “Twelve people without their entire bodies, without names and without a clue why they were unlucky enough to join this exclusive boneyard.”

He studied the piles that were already out. Because of his upbringing, to him, bodies meant families. “And twelve families waiting for some word about one of their own who is never coming home again.”

Kristin glanced in his direction, wondering if the detective had just said all that for her benefit, or if Malloy Cavanaugh actually did have a sensitive side to him.

The next moment she decided that she was probably giving the man way too much credit. Someone who looked and acted the way that Malloy Cavanaugh did didn’t have to have a more sensitive side to him. From what she had heard about him, he did just fine with what genetics had given him to work with. There was no need for sensitivity to enter the picture.

She was partial to sensitivity, responding to that far more than the good looks the man was so generously endowed with. No matter how gorgeous a person might be, looks only went skin deep. Sensitivity went clear down to the bone.

“So you’re not digging any more?” Malloy asked the CSI agents.

“Nothing left to dig,” O’Shea replied. “Not unless we want our heads handed to us by that maniacal nursery owner, Harrison, because we’re burrowing under his greenhouses and destroying those butt-ugly plants that the guy’s got everywhere for no reason. We finished digging up the perimeter.”

“You do realize that there might be more bodies on the property,” Malloy pointed out, turning toward the men. “It’s probably less likely,” he allowed, “but there is still that possibility.”

“We realize, Detective,” Reynolds replied with a hint of annoyance. “We didn’t just start working crime scene investigations yesterday.”

“Good to know,” Malloy replied matter-of-factly. “So, what’s the plan?”

“Come morning,” O’Shea answered, “we’re going to use the GPR—the ground penetrating radar machine that X-rays what’s beneath the surface,” he explained for Malloy’s benefit, “so if there are any more bones buried somewhere on the property, we’ll know where to dig.”

Malloy looked at the two men, surprised. He knew from conversations around Andrew’s table that department funds were tight. “When did CSI get that?”

“It took a bit of juggling,” Sean Cavanaugh said, answering his nephew’s question as he walked into the morgue’s exam room, “but I managed to appropriate the funds for it six months ago.” He nodded at Kristin as he continued talking to Malloy. “The last annual fund-raiser we had, after the department finished funding its usual widows and orphans charities, the rest of the money was allotted for new materials for the crime scene investigation lab.” He looked rather pleased as he added, “I thought this was a good way to utilize the money. This way, manpower isn’t needlessly wasted.