The Medical Examiner Arrives at the Site of a Killing
Julia Vargas approached Dr. Kincaid and Tessa. They listened to the agent give her report on the body before moving toward the crime scene tape. When they ducked under it, he followed.
Dr. Kincaid extended her hand to Martin Thompson and smiled as she introduced Tessa. “Dr. McGowan is a forensic pathologist. You’ll be seeing more of her.”
Martin shook her hand and only tossed a quick questioning glance at Sharp. “Welcome.”
If Tessa read Martin’s questioning gaze, she gave no sign of it. “Thanks.”
The older man’s normally banal expression actually softened, and he held her hand an extra beat. “Glad to have you on the team.”
“Good to be on it,” Tessa said.
Sharp caught a couple of young officers looking at Tessa. Their gazes weren’t curious, but lewd. They didn’t realize Tessa was his wife. A primitive impulse demanded he punch each guy in the face.
“Who found the body, Agent Vargas?” Tessa asked.
“An early-morning jogger. He said he didn’t touch her. Thought she might have been a mannequin at first. He called the cops right away, and we had a first responder here within five minutes to secure the scene.”
“May I touch the body, Martin?” Dr. Kincaid asked.
“Yes. I’ve collected every bit of evidence I can find, so the body is ready to remove,” Martin said.
Dr. Kincaid knelt and with a gloved hand touched the victim’s face, circling her finger around the red circle, a cartoon version of a blushing cheek.
“It’s a tattoo,” she said, hints of surprise in her tone. “And judging by its color and skin texture, it’s recent. I’d say she only finished healing days ago.”
“Have either of you ever seen anyone with this kind of tattooing?” Julia asked.
“I’ve seen facial tattoos within the gangs,” Dr. Kincaid said.
“Some of the cultures in Asia tattoo the females’ faces, but that’s dying out,” Tessa said.
“I’ve seen women who’ve had permanent makeup applied to their faces. Eyeliner, blush, even lip color,” Dr. Kincaid said. “Even had a woman on my table who had her boyfriend’s name inked on her forehead. But a doll face is a new one.”
“It’s fine workmanship,” Tessa said. Her expression telegraphed a mixture of fascination and sadness.
Tessa pushed up the sleeve of the oversize doll dress. “The white stippling tattoo work that’s on her face also extends from her fingertips to her wrists. Her eyes are expertly lined in a dark ink, and very precise freckles dot her cheeks.” She touched the victim’s mouth. “The red heart-shape tattoo here redefines the shape of her lips.”
“She’d have to be out cold, otherwise the work couldn’t have been done to her face,” Vargas said.
“The injection site isn’t infected, and there’s no bruising, suggesting whoever inserted a needle in her arm knew what they were doing,” Tessa said.
Sharp folded his arms, trying to envision the woman before this work was done, but he couldn’t see past the ink.
Tessa pulled the sleeve back over the victim’s arm. “Look at the detail around her eyes,” she said. “It’s hard enough to do with pen and ink, let alone with a tattoo needle.”
“Only a monster would do this to an unwilling woman,” Vargas said.
“I didn’t say the person who did this was sane,” Tessa said. “I was simply commenting on the skill.”
He watched as Tessa absently rested her hand on the victim’s arm as if assuring her it would be okay, and she was now in good hands. He suspected if he weren’t standing there, Tessa would have spoken to the victim, issuing words of reassurance.
He cleared his throat. “Dr. Kincaid, do you have any idea how she died?”
Dr. Kincaid checked the victim’s neck for signs of strangulation and tipped her body forward to look at her back. “Dr. McGowan, what’s your opinion?”
Frowning, Tessa studied the body. “There are no signs of trauma on the body. We’ll have to check her blood levels for signs of asphyxiation and drug overdose.”
“Why the frown, Dr. McGowan?” Vargas asked.
“Her shoulder blades and the back of her hands are discolored.”
“What does that suggest, Dr. McGowan?” Dr. Kincaid asked.
“After her heart stopped pumping, the blood settled in the lowest part of her body, which was her back.” She rolled down the knee socks and inspected the back of the victim’s calves. They were also bruised. “If she’d died here, her shoulder blades would not be discolored.”
“Correct,” Dr. Kincaid said.
“On her back,” Vargas said, shifting as if uncomfortable with the idea. “I don’t want to think what that suggests.”
“We’ll determine if there was sexual activity,” Dr. Kincaid said. “Though I might not be able to determine if it were pre- or postmortem.”
“Jesus,” Vargas muttered.
Dr. Kincaid ran her hands over the dead woman’s arm. “The skin is smooth, and there are no signs of hair on her arms or legs. She’s been waxed recently.”
“Do you think it’s murder?” Tessa asked.
“She didn’t die here,” Dr. Kincaid said. “But that doesn’t mean she was murdered. She could have overdosed.”
“The second party panicked,” Vargas said. “She could have been into some kind of weird shit, and it went sideways. Whoever she was partying with dumped her here.”
“She wasn’t dumped,” Sharp said. “She was carefully posed.”
“A final sign of respect?” Vargas asked.
Sharp shook his head. “Or a final statement from the killer. Right now, I don’t know. We’ll let the evidence lead us.”
“How long would it take to tattoo her face and arms?” Vargas asked.
“I can’t speak to how long the tattoo work took,” Dr. Kincaid said. “There are no signs that infection ever set in. That means the wounds would have to be washed, there would have been extensive bandaging of her face and arms, and the dressings would have to have been changed daily to avoid infection.”
“We’re looking for someone who could have gone missing a month ago?” Sharp asked.
“I’d say so,” Dr. Kincaid said.
“Thanks.”
Tessa studied the back hem of the victim’s doll dress. “This appears to be a bloodstain,” she said.
Martin nodded. “I saw that. Don’t know if it’s her blood, but it’s marked for DNA testing.”
Needing a moment, Sharp turned from the scene and walked back to his car. He dug his cigarettes out of his pocket as reached for the door handle. But as he shook loose a cigarette from the pack, he felt Tessa’s gaze on him. He let the packet fall back in his pocket. “What is it, Tessa?”
For a moment she didn’t speak, and then in a voice that was both tender and harsh, “You’re thinking about Kara.”
He flinched at the sound of his sister’s name. Their last big fight was over Kara. He’d been so angry when she’d tried to talk to him about letting his sister go. He’d blown up at her, dumping all his anger for his lost sister on her. Tessa had absorbed his pain to a point, and then she’d gotten angry. Two days later she was on a plane to Southeast Asia.
“So you’re psychic now?” he asked.
“I don’t need to read your mind.” An edge honed the words, telling him she would not tolerate his temper. “I know you. She’s never far away when you’re investigating a case.”
“Identification?” Sinclair knelt by the body and stared into the woman’s face half cloaked by her hair.
“No ID. No jewelry. And there are red marks on the side of her neck. Looks like he got her with a stun gun several times.” Paulie knelt down and examined the hair draping her forehead. He snapped more pictures and then gently moved the hair back. “Have a look at this.”
Sinclair squatted and glanced down. “She’s been tattooed with the word Witch.” The bold letters covered most of the delicate forehead skin, still puckered red and raw from the tattoo needle. “Shit.”
Rokov’s half-baked theory had been correct, but it gave him no pleasure. “She have any other tats or markings?”
“Not on the exposed areas. But there could be other body art under the clothes.”
“I can’t imagine anyone willingly doing this to themselves,” Sinclair said. “But we’ve seen all kinds of oddities.”
Rokov glanced around the room. The flowered wallpaper was peeling off in frayed strips, and the ceiling was soiled with a dozen watermarks. All the furniture had been stripped out, and a shadow imprint on the back wall suggested there’d been a bar at one point. A thick coating of dust covered the room. “Footprints?”
“Two distinct sets,” Paulie said. “The first I identified as Barrows. He was kind enough not to trample all over the floor, which left me with clear impressions of the second set.” Paulie pointed to the window. “The best impression is over by the window, and I’ve marked it with a cone. I’ve got an electrostatic dust print collector. It will pull an impression.”
“Rokov moved toward the footprints carefully to mirror Barrow’s path. “It looks like a size eleven or twelve.” He studied the grooved pattern. “Sneakers?”
“That’s my guess, but it will take time to narrow the brand.”
“The impressions are clear and defined. He walked carefully and with precision.”
Paulie shrugged. “You know I don’t make impulsive calls.”
“I’m not holding you to it,” Rokov said.
“That’s what they all say. I’ll have a report by tomorrow.”
Rokov studied the impression. “Inside back right heel looks worn. He’s favoring the foot.”
Paulie snapped more pictures. “Could be an injury or he could have had a wart at one time, and it changed the way he walks. Doesn’t mean he noticeably favors the foot now.”
“So he moved her here,” Rokov says. “Positions her, stakes her, and then moves to the window to stare at what?”
“The river. The full moon. It was a clear night last night. He stops to enjoy the full moon. Maybe he heard a sound.”
“If he’s got a thing about witches, the moon makes sense,” Rokov said. “The full moon has a lot of power in some circles. Stands to reason he’d be drawn to the moon.”
Sinclair rose. “We need to figure out who she is. I’ll head downstairs and put a call into Missing Persons and see what they have.”
“Good.” Rokov turned to Paulie. “Does she have defensive wounds? Did she fight for her life?”
“I’m going to bag her hands. Hopefully, the medical examiner will find something under her nails.”
Rokov knelt by the victim’s right hand and studied the crude stake that had pierced the flesh of her palm. It would have taken tremendous force to drive the wood through the flesh. He wondered if she’d known her attacker. Most murdered women knew their killers. Lovers. Husbands. Boyfriends. Love could turn vicious instantly.
“I wanted you to see her before I pulled the stakes. If I can pull them out now, I can roll her over.”
“Need a hand?” Rokov said.
“I got it.” Paulie slid on workman’s gloves over his surgical gloves and grabbed a hold of the stake. “The floor boards are rotted.” He pulled hard, and the stake wriggled free of the floor and the victim’s palm. Carefully, he moved to the other side and repeated. Then it was on to the feet. The last stake proved stubborn and it took assistance from Rokov to free it.
Paulie laid the stakes out and photographed them. Then very carefully, he turned the body on its side. The victim’s jacket was embossed with the word Magic.
Riley slid to the edge of the booth, pulled another business card from her back pocket, and pressed it into Sandy’s hand. “I can help you, Sandy.”
“I have your number.”
“Then give it to another girl who needs help.”
“Don’t worry about me,” she said, sliding from the booth. “Just find Cassie. She has a chance to get out. You lived on the streets, didn’t you?”
Riley dug a twenty out of her pocket, set it on the table, and placed her untouched coffee cup on top of it. “What makes you say that?”
“A vibe. Like you get what it’s like. No judgment in your eyes.”
“I been a cop for eight years. I’ve seen my share.”
“A lot of cops see.” She texted a message on her cell phone. “Few understand.”
“Lucky, I guess.”
“See you around, Lucky.”
Riley watched the girl push through the front door and cross the lot outside. She moved toward a dark truck, spoke to the driver, and climbed inside the cab.
Never in Riley’s career had she wanted to see two people behind bars or dead more than she did Darla and Jax. Jo-Jo might not ever testify against Jax, but he’d broken enough laws, including evading the police and possession of drugs in his car, to get him some time in prison. A prison sentence would give her the time to build a human trafficking case against him.
Outside, she walked toward the parking lot, watching as Bowman stepped away from his vehicle. He wore a dark sports coat over his white shirt and dark pants, but when a flap of wind caught the edges of the jacket she glimpsed the weapon at his side.
“What did she say?” he asked.
“There’s a motel about twenty miles east of here.”
“You want to check it out?”
“I do. If we don’t find Cassie, I’ll call Sharp.”
“Let’s go.”
The first forty-eight hours in a missing persons case were the most critical. Didn’t seem like a case could go cold so fast, but the best leads vanished with the ticking clock. She didn’t want to rely on Bowman, but she wanted to stack the odds in her favor. She didn’t want to lose this hand. “Okay.”
“I’ll be right behind you. If we get separated, wait for me.”
Across from her bed was a large gilded mirror; it’s streaked and faded silver backing hinted to its decades in an old hotel lobby. Below it, her secondhand dresser, painted a bright indigo, was covered with perfume bottles, makeup, and earrings. A rocking chair in the corner was draped with yesterday’s jeans and a white T-shirt. Beside it were ankle books kicked off midstep in her rush to get to a hot shower and wash away yesterday’s homicide scene.
Controlled chaos. Just as she’d left it when she went to bed Julia hustled to her closet and yanked on slim dark pants and a black T-shirt. She threaded a worn leather belt through the loops. The belt buckle had been her father’s and doubled as a knife. Fastening it, she shrugged on a jacket.
Her black hair curled around her face as she tugged it up into a ponytail. High-heel boots and a collection of beaded bracelets around her wrists made her look more like a rocker than a cop. She secured her service weapon, badge, and handcuffs to her belt. She tucked the cigarette pack in her pocket for good measure.
Julia had been with the Virginia State Police for eight years. As all agents did, she’d started as a trooper and worked the highway for six years before she landed an undercover gig in Virginia Beach. Turned out she had a knack for slipping into pretend lives and found working back alleys and smoky bars preferable to a cruiser. Six months ago, her arrest record had landed her a promotion to the criminal investigation team in Richmond.
Her single-cup coffee machine spat out a strong blend and, with travel mug in hand, she made her way down a back staircase leading to the alley where she’d parked her unmarked car. She drove east on Cary Street and then up Church Hill. She turned north toward Broad and spotted the blue lights flashing atop three city cruisers. She parked in front of the smoldering old town house. Rolling her head from side to side, she drained the last of her coffee. She stepped into the cold night air. Cursed.
Julia spotted Novak’s tall, broad-shouldered frame. He stood by his unmarked vehicle, feet braced and a cell phone pressed to his ear. He was one hell of a cop. One of the good guys. One day he’d figure out she hauled too much emotional baggage around and leave, and their late-night encounters would end. Too bad. Because if she could have liked a guy, it might have been him.
She stepped into his peripheral vision, and he turned, holding up a finger. She shifted from foot to foot, folding her arms over her chest, telling herself she wasn’t really that tired or cold.
He quickly finished his call.
“Julia.” His tone wrapped an unwanted familiarity around her name.
“Novak, this better be good.”
He tucked his phone into his breast pocket. “Nothing excites me more than meeting you at a crime scene in the middle of the night.”
The dry humor tempered some of her irritation. “So seduce me with sweet talk. Make me glad I’m not at home asleep in a warm bed.”
Detective Novak discovers the unexpected in Church Hill …
Flashing lights from the patrol cars and fire engines made it easy for City of Richmond detective Tobias Novak to find the Church Hill murder scene. He parallel parked at the end of the block, climbed out of his SUV into the bitter cold, and burrowed deeper into his overcoat as he made his way up the brick sidewalk past century-old row houses, some looking every bit their age.
It was his evening off and he was not happy about leaving behind a warm bed and the woman in it. Blame it on the lunar cycle or Halloween week, but the dispatcher had every on-duty detective already committed. He was needed.
A uniformed officer stood by the strip of yellow crime-scene tape tied to a wrought-iron fence encircling the small front yard. A “Rice Renovation” sign was planted in a bed of overgrown weeds. He’d seen the company’s signs around the old Church Hill and Fan District neighborhoods and knew similar companies were buying and remodeling these vacant old homes for empty nesters hungry to move back into the city.
The uniformed police officer was lean, muscular and in his early twenties. “Detective Novak,” the officer said as he raised the tape.
“What do we have?” Novak asked.
The officer shifted his feet and rubbed his hands together to chase away the night chill. “Neighbor across the street spotted a fire on the first floor and called it in. Crews put it out in fifteen minutes. It appears electrical, but they’re calling in the arson investigator. The house’s new owner was alerted. You received the call when they found the body in the basement.”
Novak blew warm air on his cold fingers. “Is the death related to the fire?”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“How can you tell?”
“You’ll have to see it for yourself, sir.”
Novak stared up at the peeling gray-white paint of the early twentieth-century row house. The wide front porch had rotted in several places, a section of the portico roof had collapsed, and two of the four floor-to-ceiling windows were broken. Six faded “No Trespassing” signs were nailed across the front of the house.
“Who’s inside now?” Novak asked.
“Another uniformed officer and the forensic technician has been on scene for nearly an hour.”
Across the street, a couple of dog walkers huddled close as they stared at the scene. At least there were no television crews yet, so he might have more time before this went public.
Novak climbed the front steps, crossed the rotted porch, and entered the foyer. He’d been in countless city houses like this before. Called shotgun houses, the homes were built with a staircase on the left, a long hallway leading to the back and two rooms on the right.
The front room was dark, filled with trash and several stained pieces of upholstered furniture. The pungent scent of smoke grew stronger as he moved closer to the adjoining room, which was blackened from smoke and flames. Jagged burn marks originated at an outlet and crawled up the wall. Water dripped from already peeling wallpaper.
Under the scent of charred wood lurked hints of mildew, dust and urine, but no sighs of human decay. The cold snap would have slowed decomposition, but there was still generally some smell of death.
Temporary lighting set up in the kitchen illuminated the hallway, which was filled with more rubbish and fallen ceiling plaster. In the kitchen, a set of dark cabinets dating back a half century hung over a filthy porcelain sink filled with trash. The black-and-white linoleum on the floor peeled and buckled in several spots.
Noise echoed up from the basement and pulled him toward the open door that led to a wooden set of rickety stairs. He climbed down into the basement.
The ceiling and ductwork were low and only inches higher than his ix-foot-three frame. In the far right corner, he found the uniformed officer and a forensic technician who was aiming her camera into a small room.
Novak moved toward the tech. In her mid-twenties, Natasha Warner was short and slender with dark hair pulled into a ponytail. He’d worked scenes with her before and knew she was sharp and ambitious and cut no corners. Novak fished latex gloves from his pocket and worked his large hands inside them.
“Officer Warner,” Novak said.
Natasha turned and lowered her camera from her angular face. “Detective Novak.”
Novak nodded before stepping past he rinto the small room. The air was dry, but there was no scent of rotting flesh. “Natasha, what do you have?”
Her gaze sparked with keen curiosity. “A woman who was locked in this room, which was probably a root cellar at one time. By the looks of her clothes, I’d say she’s been here around twenty-five years.”
“Twenty-five years?” Novak pulled dark-rimmed glasses from his pocket and slid them on as he accepted a flashlight from Natasha. “Were you born twenty-five years ago?”
Natasha glanced in her viewfinder. “Barely. You?”
“Very funny,” he said. The forensic technician looked like a kid. Natasha Warner couldn’t have been much older than his daughter. Frequent workouts kept Novak’s body trim but the glasses and the flecks of gray at his temples gave away his approaching forty-second birthday.
Lying on the floor were skeletal remains of a body appearing to be lying on its back, arm and leg bones outstretched. The mandible, or lower jaw, was slightly agape. The clothing was intact and amounted to what remained of a faded pair of jeans with yellow and white flowers embroidered on the pockets and a pale-blue blouse with a wide collar and cuffs. What had been the victim’s long red hair remained partially intact and still knotted into a braid that draped over her shoulder.
“You said female,” he said.
“Clothing is one clue, but the deciding factor is her brow ridge. It’s thin, indicating female.”
“She’s only bones.”
“In Virginia’s hot and humid climate, this kind of decomposition is expected. And she’s intact because she was in a sealed room. Animals would have scattered her bones if she had been outside.”
Novak studied the position of the arms and legs. “She looks posed.”
“Or she did it herself,” Natasha said. “I worked a suicide once that was like this. The woman took a couple handfuls of pills and then laid herself out on her bed.”
“Presenting herself to the Almighty?” Novak asked.
Natasha shrugged. “Her husband said they’d argued that morning an she promised to ‘show him.’ he said the suicide was an f-you message to him.”
The summary struck a sharp nerve. His late wife had killed herself. But she’d not chosen pills. That was too passive for Stephanie. No, she’d driven her car into a lake. The kicker had been that she’d strapped Bella, their one-year-old, into her car seat. Fortunately, someone had seen Stephanie’s car plunge into the water. Bella had been pulled out as Stephanie screamed and fought to be left alone. The lake had quickly sucked the car under, and by the time Stephanie had been pulled from the water, she was dead.
Two days later, a letter from Stephanie posted the day she died had arrived at their home. In it, she blamed him for her dark moods and miserable life. At the time, he’d been too damn angry to care why. She’d tried to kill Bella and that was unforgivable.
His father had moved in with them, helping with child care while Novak worked. From then on, his priorities had been simple. Raise Bella and catch bad guys. She’d been an easy kid. Smart. Funny. Strong. His father had passed two years ago, and when Bella had left for the University of Virginia last year, he’d thought he’d finally get a chance to enjoy a bachelor’s life. Instead, the house remained too empty. Too quiet. Until a few weeks ago, he’d pacified the restless silence with work.
Novak thought again about the woman he’d left in her warm bed. For the first time in a long while, he resented the job.
Novak watched as Natasha photographed and bagged the rope. “Dr. McGowan, be on the lookout for any marks on the bone that might suggest blunt force trauma or a knife wound.”
“Will do.”
He followed the pair to the stairs, and when Dr. McGowan moved to heft her end of the stretcher, he nudged her aside and took the weight. It was unwieldy more than heavy and slow going up the stairs. It took maneuvering to get the stretcher around the tight kitchen door corner. When they cleared it, he and the assistant carried the gurney out to the sidewalk.
“Thanks,” Dr. McGowan said. “I’ll never say no to a bit of brawn.”
“How well do you know Agent Vargas?”
Since Novak and Julia had started sleeping together, he had resisted the idea of learning more about Julia Vargas. He respected her privacy and halfheartedly believed she would eventually open up to him about herself. Now, asking about her didn’t feel as intrusive. She was part of his case, so it was business. And when it came to a case, all bets were off.
“She’s worked with my husband, Agent Sharp, on a couple of cases. She’s new to the criminal investigations unit. She’s dedicated. Did a couple of years’ worth of undercover work near Virginia Beach. We’ve been out for drinks once, so I can’t say I know her well.”
“Does she ever say much about herself?”
Dr. McGowan cocked her head. “If you want to ask her out, then do it.”
“It’s not like that. We found evidence connecting her to this body.”
“This body? She would have been a kid when the woman died.”
“I know.”
“What did you find?”
“A picture of her with her father in the victim’s wallet.”
Dr. McGowan brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “Did you ask her?”
“I did. She didn’t recognize the woman’s name or face.” And if she had, he wasn’t sure she’d have told him. She guarded her thoughts closely. “I thought you might know about her family.”
“Like I said, we went out the one time, but she never mentioned her family.”
“What’s she like in general?”
“When it comes to a case, Julia’s a straight shooter. She’ll tell you what she thinks. If she says she didn’t know the victim’s name, she didn’t know.”
“I’m not questioning her integrity. Have you heard about her father?”
“She doesn’t talk about family, but I know he was a cop. I was at the awards dinner when she went to pick up his award.”
“I was there as well. She didn’t stay long.”
“Can’t be easy. Not everyone was happy that Jim Vargas received recognition.”
The Medical Examiner Arrives at the Site of a Killing
“Identification?” Sinclair knelt by the body and stared into the woman’s face half cloaked by her hair.
Riley slid to the edge of the booth, pulled another business card from her back pocket, and pressed it into Sandy’s hand. “I can help you, Sandy.”
Across from her bed was a large gilded mirror; it’s streaked and faded silver backing hinted to its decades in an old hotel lobby. Below it, her secondhand dresser, painted a bright indigo, was covered with perfume bottles, makeup, and earrings. A rocking chair in the corner was draped with yesterday’s jeans and a white T-shirt. Beside it were ankle books kicked off midstep in her rush to get to a hot shower and wash away yesterday’s homicide scene.
