CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Matt tried to look at the body on the table with detachment, but he found it impossible. He’d met Jana’s mother. He’d been inside Jana’s apartment. He’d seen her painting. A couple of days ago, she’d been a living, breathing young woman. She’d hoped and dreamed. She’d worked hard to fulfill those goals. She’d been tough too. She’d struggled with roadblocks, like her lack of money, a disabled mother, and a lazy, abusive boyfriend.
And now she was dead.
Matt shuffled a bootie-covered shoe on the tile as he stared down at Jana Rynski. She’d been a slight girl, barely bigger than a child. Did she even weigh a hundred pounds? The stapled Y-incision looked obscene on her narrow body, like something out of a horror flick. Although not visible, her organs, which had been removed one by one to be weighed and examined, were currently in a plastic bag, stuffed into the body cavity under the staples. Thankfully, Dr. Jones or her assistant had replaced the skullcap and scalp. Dr. Jones cared for her charges with the utmost respect, but the autopsy was by its very nature an insult to a body that had already been desecrated. Intellectually, he knew that Jana was no longer present in that shell. The flesh and blood that had once housed her were already beginning to decompose. But viewing the damage inflicted by her killer—and the necessary further violation of her body to catch him—gave Matt a nauseated ache in the center of his chest.
The ME gestured to the side of Jana’s head. “This is officially a homicide. She died of blunt force trauma, a hard blow to the head.” Dr. Jones motioned to a skull X-ray on the light board. “Her skull was cracked. Whatever was used had a sharp edge.” She returned to the body, parting the hair to show a long gash.
“The wound would have bled heavily?” Matt asked.
“Yes. Head wounds produce copious amounts of blood,” Dr. Jones confirmed.
“Time of death?” Bree asked.
“We had to break rigor to perform the autopsy,” Dr. Jones said. “I’m estimating she’s been dead eighteen to twenty-four hours.”
At ambient temperature, rigor mortis loosely followed a twelve-twelve-twelve pattern. Muscles contracted for the first twelve hours after death, remained stiff for the next twelve, then softened over the last twelve.
Bree glanced at the time on her phone. Six p.m. “She died between six o’clock last evening and midnight.”
“Correct,” Dr. Jones confirmed.
“Did she have any other injuries that could have bled heavily?” Bree asked.
“I saw no other life-threatening injuries,” Dr. Jones said. “But there’s significant swelling and bruising around the head injury.”
“She didn’t die right away,” Bree said.
“No, she didn’t. Bruises, swelling, and bleeding only occur while the heart is still beating. So she was alive for at least a day after sustaining the head injury.”
“So he broke into her apartment and tried to kidnap her. She resisted. Can you tell if he struck her in the head or if she fell and hit her head? Forensics didn’t find any sign that she hit her head while falling. No blood on the kitchen counter edges or furniture.”
“Considering the injury is on the left side of her head and the downward angle of the blow, being struck by a right-handed person taller than her seems likely.”
“Lividity seems ... random?” Bree gestured to a purple discoloration on the side of the body. “I don’t see a pattern.”
“I agree,” said Dr. Jones. “She was moved after death, likely a few times. She clearly spent some time on her back after death, but then she was moved.”
“She would have been transported to the farm, probably in the trunk of a vehicle, in a different position,” Matt said.
“And she spent some hours in the tree as well.” Dr. Jones sounded weary.
Matt scanned the body, his gaze stopping on Jana’s forearms, which were bruised. Her fingernails were also torn. “Defensive injuries.”
“Yes. She fought him.” The ME’s voice turned sad. “He killed her anyway.”
“Tissue under her nails?” Bree asked.
“We swabbed, but it doesn’t look promising.” Dr. Jones shook her head. “Her fingernails were freshly trimmed, and her body was washed, like the others.”
“Any evidence on the tarp?” Bree asked.
“Forensics took swabs, et cetera.” Dr. Jones’s mouth mashed into a straight line. “He’s not leaving much behind for us to work with.” She sighed hard. “There is one thing that stands out. She was pregnant.”
Matt froze. “Pregnant?”
Dr. Jones nodded.
“Like Ally.” Bree shifted back on her heels, as if the news had rocked her. “How far along?”
Dr. Jones frowned. “About seven or eight weeks.”
“She probably knew, but barely.” Bree crossed her arms over her waist. “Any sign of sexual assault?”
“No.” Dr. Jones lifted a hand in a stop gesture. “No vaginal tearing or bruising, and no semen. In fact, no sign that she had recent sexual intercourse at all.”
“Anything else?” Bree asked.
Dr. Jones shook her head. “I wish. Lab reports on swabs and tox screens are pending.”
“Thanks.” Bree led the way out of the autopsy suite.
Matt stripped off his PPE. Though neither of them had touched anything, they both thoroughly washed their hands before leaving. If he could have taken a decontamination shower, he would have. “Chevy didn’t kill her.”
“No. He was in custody last night.” Bree dried her hands on a paper towel and tossed it into a trash can. “Let’s see Rory and track down Howard Killian.”
The county forensics lab was in the same building as the medical examiner’s office. They made their way down the maze of corridors to the lab. Rory MacIniss worked on a laptop at a stainless-steel table. In his thirties, he was tall and thin, with a slightly adolescent face that belied his age.
Bree rapped her knuckles on the door, and Rory motioned for them to enter.
Like most municipal employees in rural departments, Rory wore multiple hats, but computer forensics was his first love. Bree handed him Grace’s phone in the evidence bag and explained the circumstances. “Of course check for prints, but we think she dropped the phone while fighting with her kidnapper.”
Rory nodded. “What specific information are you looking for?”
Bree’s shoulders rose and dropped. Frustration—and potentially a little desperation—edged her voice. “Recent texts and calls. Activity on her Uber account. Anything else that might help us find her. We also have this.” She handed over the thumb drive. “See if you can clean up an image of the man who kidnapped her. We have a partial picture of his vehicle. See if you can match the make and model.”
Rory examined the phone and drive. “You think the serial killer has her?”
“We do,” Bree said.
“Then this is my priority. I’ll get busy immediately.” He turned toward the laptop. “You’ll be available later tonight?”
“We’ll be available all night,” Matt said.
“Same.” Rory’s chin jerked down in a solemn nod. “I won’t leave until I have what you need.”
“Thank you,” Bree said. “Anything notable from the other crime scenes?”
“The black fibers embedded in Ally’s skin came from 4mm black Paracord,” Rory said. “Unfortunately, it’s very common. Sold online and in hardware stores all across the US. So, that’s not going to be much help. We found residue of dish soap on her skin, assuming that’s what he used to wash her. We’re working on determining the brand, but again, I doubt that will prove useful in locating him.”
“But if we find him,” Bree said, “every bit of evidence that ties him to the crimes will help put him in prison forever.”
“Let’s hope.” Rory’s gloved hand closed into a fist. “We’ve finally caught up with processing evidence. I’ll email the reports.”
“Thanks.” Bree turned toward the door.
Matt followed. There would be no sleep for any of them until they found Grace.
Bree practically jogged back to the vehicle. Matt drove to Walt Killian’s house. Howard’s brother lived in a new town house development near the interstate.
“It’s the end unit.” Matt motioned toward a faux stone–fronted unit with a glossy black door.
Bree kept her hand near her weapon as they flanked the door and knocked.
A man of about forty opened the door. He scanned Bree’s uniform and frowned. “Yes?”
Bree introduced them. “Are you Howard Killian’s brother?”
“I am. I’m Walt.” He leaned back, puffed out his chest, and folded his arms, his posture stiff.
“We’re looking for Howard,” she said.
“Haven’t seen him since I bailed him out.” He took a step backward.
“Do you know where he might have gone?” she asked.
“Nope. I bailed him out because he’s my brother, but we’re nothing alike. We don’t hang out together. That said, I won’t work against him.” He pushed the door.
Matt slapped a hand on the cold steel. “Grace is missing.”
Walt’s lips rolled in, as if he wanted to say something but was holding back.
“Did Howard say anything about wanting to talk to her or see her?” Bree asked.
“I already said I can’t help you.” He shut the door in their faces.
“Fuck.” Matt stepped back, the back of his neck heating. “What now?”
They turned back to the narrow driveway. A tall woman appeared from around the side of the building. She was about the same age as Walt. She wore jeans and a light sweater. “You’re looking for Howard?”
“We are,” Bree said, her hand moving to rest on her duty belt.
“I’m Bethany Killian, Walt’s wife.” She rubbed her biceps. “I heard you talking to my husband. Is Grace OK?”
“We don’t know,” Bree said. “We just want to find her.”
She rubbed one sock-clad foot on the opposite ankle. “My husband would like to give you information, but he has a strange sense of loyalty toward a brother who has never shown any back.” She propped her foot against her shin like a stork. “Howard hangs out at a bar on Tenth Street in Scarlet Falls. It’s called the Filling Station. The bartender there has called Walt a few times to collect Howard.”
“Do you know if Howard has any friends?”
“I have no idea. I actively avoid him as much as possible. But I met Grace once. I told her she could do better. I hope you find her.” She turned and disappeared around the side of the house, where Matt assumed there was a door.
“I feel like we’re chasing our tails,” he said. “That bar is a half hour from here.”
“I agree. I’ll send two deputies to the bar to ask about Howard.” She used her radio to issue the order while Matt started the engine. “We can’t waste time driving all over the county. I doubt Grace is at any public place.”
“We need to eat.” Matt put the vehicle into gear and turned toward his parents’ house. “We can stop at my parents’ house, check on the kids, and grab food. If I call ahead, it’ll be faster than going to a deli.”
“I can’t get Grace out of my head.” Bree rubbed her eyes. “I don’t want to find her dead body tomorrow.”
“I know. We’re doing everything we can. Every cop on duty in the region is looking for her and Killian. But we still need fuel.”
“OK.” Bree dropped her hands. “Assuming she was taken by the same predator that killed Jana and the other three women, we’ll continue to work their cases. If we find the killer, we should find Grace.”
“Best we can do.”
A few minutes later, Matt parked at his parents’ house. They climbed out of the SUV. Bree rushed to the back door as if she hadn’t seen the kids in a month. Matt opened the kitchen door and held it for Bree. She shoved her phone into the holder on her duty belt.
The room smelled of freshly baked bread. Matt’s mother stirred something in a pot on the stove, which was weird. His dad usually did the cooking.
“Where’s Dad?” Matt shed his jacket.
His mom frowned. “He went to see Cady. He didn’t like the way she sounded on the phone, and Todd is working. You know how he is.”
“I do.” Matt slung his jacket over the back of a chair. His dad might have retired from his family practice, but he still volunteered at clinics, covered for other physicians, and maintained his continuing education requirements to keep his license current. He would always be a doctor in his heart.
From under her no-nonsense cap of short gray hair, his mom appraised them with shrewd blue eyes. Her gaze landed on Bree. “You look pale. I’ll make you some tea to go. I imagine you’ve had more than enough coffee for one day.”
“Is that possible?” Matt asked.
His mother shook her spoon at him. “It is if you like your stomach lining.”
Matt shot Bree a look. The corner of her mouth twitched.
“Tea sounds nice.” Bree shed her own jacket. “Can I help?”
“No.” Anna waved her wooden spoon at the doorway that led to the den. “Go see the kids. I’ll pack this up for you. It’ll be ready in a few. I can tell you want to get back to work.”
Bree deposited her jacket on an empty chair. She and Matt stopped to wash their hands before stepping through the doorway. A short hall led to the tidy den, where Kayla and Luke, clad in a mix of pajamas and sweats, sat on a sectional couch watching TV.
“Aunt Bree!” Kayla emerged from under a fuzzy blanket like Godzilla and threw out her arms.
Bree sat next to her, hugged her close, and pressed a palm to her forehead. “No fever. How do you feel?”
“My nose is stuffy, and my head hurts a little, but I’m OK.” Except for chapped lips and a red nose, she looked and sounded fine.
“Luke?” Bree asked.
“Tired, but OK.” Luke patted his belly. “George has been cooking all day. I don’t like missing school, but I’ll admit, having a day off to veg out is kinda nice.”
Luke maintained top grades, held a part-time job, and played sports, in addition to pitching in with horse care. Most adults couldn’t handle his workload.
Kayla settled back into the cushions. “You hafta eat some, Aunt Bree. It’s soooo good.”
Matt inhaled deeply. The smells reminded him of being home sick when he was a kid. He felt too young for nostalgia, but there it was, a spongy feeling in the middle of his chest. He grabbed a leftover piece of bread from someone’s plate and pointed to Kayla with it. “My dad has been making the same soup and bread since I was your age.”
“That long?” Kayla’s eyes bulged. Her incredulous tone suggested Matt was a hundred years old.
He grinned. “Practically forever.”
“You’re so lucky,” she said in a wistful tone.
“I am.” Matt ate the bread. “Are you ready?” he asked Bree.
“Yes. Sorry, kids. We can’t stay. Just wanted to check on you.” She met Matt’s gaze, stress creasing the outer corners of her eyes.
Matt stood. He offered Bree a hand. She took it, and he hauled her off the couch. While she ducked into the bathroom, Matt headed for the kitchen.
His mom was loading cookies into a container. She nodded toward an insulated picnic bag. “There are roasted chicken sandwiches, along with two travel mugs of black tea and a couple of apples. Do you need anything else?”
“No. That’s perfect. Thanks, Mom.” Matt gave her a hug. “I know you weren’t thrilled when I returned to law enforcement, but I appreciate your support.”
“Well, you were shot in the line of duty, but it’s who you are. I respect that, even if it worries me.” She loaded the container of cookies into an insulated bag, then rested her head on his shoulder for a few seconds. She gave him a pointed look. “Drink the tea instead of coffee.”
“No promises. We might need high octane.”
She huffed. “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
The door opened, and Matt’s dad led his sister, Cady, into the house.
“Is everything OK?” Matt’s mom asked.
“Just adding another patient to the infirmary,” Dad said in a cheerful voice. “Todd isn’t home, and Cady is a bit dehydrated. I gave her the choice of here or the ER.”
“I’ll be fine. I wanted to stay home, but you know Dad.” Cady sank into a kitchen chair. Protests aside, she looked sicker than either Kayla or Luke. Cady’s face was dead white beneath her freckles, and her skin looked papery.
Matt’s mom’s mouth pursed with concern. “What can you drink?”
“I don’t know if I can keep anything down.” Cady spied cookies cooling on the rack and covered her mouth.
“She’ll have some electrolyte solution with plenty of ice.” Dad lifted a black duffel bag. “I’ll take your things upstairs and grab some meds for that nausea.”
After watching their dad practically skip from the room, Cady dropped her head to rest on her folded arms. “He’s never happier than when he has a bunch of sick people to take care of.”
“You are so right.” Mom laughed, but her eyes were worried as she poured blue liquid into an insulated cup of ice.
“You do look terrible,” Matt said.
Cady turned her head, so her cheek was pressing on her arms. She gave Matt a miserable look and shot him a middle finger when their mother’s back was turned.
“Very mature.” But Matt felt better knowing his sister was well enough to snipe with him.
Mom set the cup next to Cady’s face. “Small sips.”
“What are the kids doing?” Cady asked without lifting her head.
“Watching a Marvel movie,” Matt said. “Not sure which one.”
“Sounds good to me.” Cady shuffled out of the room, cup in hand, her steps weak and slow, a study in misery. Matt empathized. Nausea was the worst.
“I’ll bring you some crackers.” Mom frowned at Cady’s back after she disappeared.
“She doesn’t look good.” Matt stared at the doorway. He could hear the action-movie sounds wafting from the sickroom.
Mom patted his arm. “Your dad will keep a close eye on her. She’ll be OK.”
A minute later, Bree walked into the kitchen. “This flu is taking out the whole town.” She turned to Matt. “Ready?”
He picked up his jacket. Bree tugged hers on. Matt grabbed the bag of food, and they headed back outside, leaving the warmth of the house behind. A steady cold rain slid down the back of his neck and dripped down his spine.
“Where do you want to go first?” he asked.
Bree rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Let’s go out to the Abbott farm. Maybe Grace confided more in her mother than her father.” She had her phone in hand before they reached the patrol unit.
“We’ll eat on the way.” Matt dug into the bag and pulled out a sandwich. After peeling the plastic wrap halfway down the sandwich, he handed it to Bree.
She ate with one hand and drove with the other. They had no time to waste.
Grace Abbott was in the hands of a killer.