Heather Graham - The Betrayed

Candy shuddered. “And with the village and all of Tarrytown bustling with our October visitors...that makes it even worse. I hope they find the murderer quickly.”

“Lieutenant Purbeck is running the investigation. At least, I think he is. An FBI man showed up, too,” Mo said.

“Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Candy said. She might be a ghost, but she loved watching as time went by, even though—as she’d often told Mo—time didn’t always go by so well. Wars went on; people just didn’t seem to learn. Candy and her beloved Daniel Parker liked walking the grounds along the river—and keeping up with history as it passed.

“Well, Mr. Highsmith was an important man,” Candy said knowingly.

“Yes, very,” Mo agreed.

“And this FBI man, he seems to be capable and good?” Candy asked.

Mo thought about her answer. Then she nodded. “He was serious and seemed to understand that...that Rollo knew what he was after when we found a body that wasn’t the right body,” she said. Actually, she’d liked the man immediately. She wondered if she’d been influenced by the fact he was very good-looking. Tall, dark, blue eyed, altogether striking. If he walked into a room, anyone—male or female—would notice, even if he was in a typical dark suit. He wore the suit damned well. She remembered feeling stunned when she’d fallen into his arms. Just for a split second, of course, but he had given her pause.

“He looks capable,” she said. He looks like he belongs on the cover of GQ, she thought.

Candy nodded. “So, the police are investigating and the federal government is involved. What happened is devastating—unimaginable!—but you have done what they asked you to do. Now let them handle it. I understand that you can’t forget it. To suggest such a thing would be ridiculous. But let them do their work, and you concentrate on yours. Maybe you should take a vacation, leave this place until they find the killer.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“And why not?”

“What if...?”

“What if what?” Candy asked.

“What if the killer isn’t finished?” Mo wondered aloud. The very possibility chilled her. “What if it wasn’t a political assassination? I—I can’t leave now. Rollo and I might be needed again and if we are, there’s always the hope that we’ll find the next victim still alive. Before he kills him—or her.”

* * *

“Here’s what I have to tell you,” Dr. Mortenson said, leaning against one of the gurneys at the morgue. “The two bodies, when put back together, are definitely two people. Not more, in other words. Thank God. We still haven’t ascertained the identity of the woman, but we’re running fingerprints and searching out dental records.”

“How did they die?” Aidan asked.

Mortenson frowned at him for a minute, as though to say, They were decapitated. Wasn’t that perfectly clear?

But he quickly understood. He sighed. “I wish I could tell you it was the clean sweep of a sword or one blow from a big ax. A quick death.”

Aidan’s heart sank. He suddenly knew exactly what that expression meant. “But it wasn’t that way?” he asked.

Behind him, Voorhaven sucked in his breath.

“A hatchet job?” Van Camp asked. His tone was rigid. Aidan liked Van Camp; he seemed to be a by-the-book detective, calm, collected, doing his job with dedication and competence. But he had retained empathy for victims.

He was probably better suited for this job than Aidan. Because, like it or not, Aidan knew he wasn’t really calm, collected and by the book. He wasn’t just empathetic—he was involved.

“Yes, but...thankfully, the victims were dead before their heads were removed.”

“How were they killed?” Aidan asked bluntly.

“Strangulation. Manual strangulation. That should help you. Of course, with the chop job—sorry about that—it’s difficult to get a complete picture. But I couldn’t find ligature marks and there was heavy bruising around the neck. Now, the trauma could’ve come from the, er, removal of the heads.”

He paused. “I worked in the city for years and saw just about every form of murder out there, although some sick bastard will always find a new twist. In my opinion, however, they were manually strangled, something that takes a significant amount of strength, especially considering the size of a man like Highsmith. The heads were removed afterward, probably for effect, for theatricality—but that kind of theorizing belongs to you investigators. I’m merely stating the obvious here.”

“Or what appears to be obvious,” Aidan murmured.

Mortenson hiked up two bushy white brows. “Yes, well, as I said, I leave theorizing to you gentlemen.” He walked to one of the gurneys in the room. Both bodies had, mercifully, been covered with sheets.

Now Mortenson rolled back the first.

Aidan winced inwardly. He didn’t want to see what was revealed. He had to.

Mortenson started with the female victim.

“Female, between the ages of twenty-eight and thirty-five. Approximately five foot seven in life, 135 pounds. In excellent shape and health, judging by the state of her heart and organs, muscles and bones. She was a blue-eyed blonde, no contacts, highlights in her hair. We’ve done a computer mock-up of what she looked like before the tissue and muscle damage to the face. We’re turning that over to the police now.”

Mortenson glanced at his clipboard and his notes, then pulled out several sheets, handing them to Aidan, Van Camp and Voorhaven.

Aidan studied the woman’s face. She had nice bone structure, large eyes, a small nose and a pert chin. But there was no life in the image; he wasn’t sure he would have recognized her even if he’d known her.

“What about her clothing?” Van Camp asked.

“Her personal effects are boxed and ready for you and the lab,” Mortenson said. “But due to the blood on the outfit and various fluids stiffening the fabric, I believe she was killed and then beheaded in the suit you saw on the body, under that big coat. I’ve rushed everything, and the lab has, too.”

“Thanks,” Aidan said.

“Now, as to Mr. Highsmith...” Mortenson began.

Aidan felt his muscles tighten. He steeled himself not to flinch, not to show emotion. He didn’t want to be hauled off the case.

Mortenson rolled the sheet back.

And there was Richard, the head placed where it should have been but showing not just the trauma of death, but of autopsy, too. He was almost unrecognizable.

Mortenson was all business, his gloved hands showing what his medical eye saw as he pointed out the bruising caused by the strangulation that had ended Highsmith’s life.

Aidan stared at the corpse on the gurney. Richard Highsmith looked like something created by a master of bizarre special effects.

Mortenson’s voice droned on and on, until finally the sheet was drawn back over Richard.

“I’ll keep you posted,” Dr. Mortenson said. “But I’m not sure what else I’ll be able to tell you.”

“Toxicology reports,” Aidan said. He was quiet for a minute. “The timing here seems to be virtually impossible. Richard was seen, then he disappeared—but he wasn’t put on the headless horseman until the very early hours of the morning. Whoever killed him must have gotten him out of the convention center and held him somewhere—dead or alive.”

“Well, we need to find the crime scenes, too,” Mortenson responded. “Both victims were dead when they were beheaded, but you’re still going to have blood somewhere.”

Aidan nodded, then indicated the bags of clothing and personal effects. “Wallet, cash, ID?” He already knew they were there; he’d checked before the medical examiner had taken Richard’s body from the vault.