Killer Instinct Read online

  She had long known that even though she was his superior now, Raynack considered her one of his more ignorant colleagues, and she suspected that it didn't help her case to be female.

  Raynack was a small man in stature, but his years with the department and his uncanny record of convictions gave him more clout than he may have had a right to. He was a close personal friend of Leamy's; they had been through much together over the years. While Boutine was her superior, Raynack was her elder and Leamy her commander, and it could all get very tacky and sticky quickly if Dr. Zach wished to make life hard for her. At the moment, from the look in his eye, he wanted her to shrivel up before him and die.

  “You, Doctor,” he said haltingly, as if he might choke before he got it out. “You go to dig up my mistakes, I hear.”

  There were no secrets in the department. ' 'Not a mistake, sir,” she began, but was cut off.

  “No? Are you saying you don't think it a bit extreme? Exhuming not one, but two of my postmortems?”

  “If you will let me explain.”

  “No, no. Doctor, you needn't explain. I understand Boutine is behind this. That is explanation enough. You've been charmed by Otto, quite understandable. So what do you do? Otto suggests that you awaken an old case—”

  “Those two deaths are connected to a murder in Wisconsin that occurred four days ago, Dr. Raynack, and Boutine may charm you, sir, but he does not charm me”

  “Everyone knows he is using you to claw together more power. The man is an egomaniac.”

  “Doctor, I think your judgment is clouded by personality issues—”

  “Personality issues is what the FBI is about, young woman, and if you are smart, you will learn this, and if not, you will be sucking up scum for the rest of your life.”

  “Do you have any interest in why I went to Iowa, Dr. Raynack? Or are you here just to lobby for your own personality? Christ,” she finished with a mutter.

  “I know what you went to Iowa for. To embarrass me, to send a signal to chief of operations that Boutine is right and that I should go.”

  “Christ, is everyone paranoid?” she asked, standing now and pacing her office. “This divisive attitude toward one another, Doctor, must go. We can't divvy up the damned department. It's all or nothing. We're all working for truth, or we're all working on building lies. What's it to be?”

  “Under your direction the divvying has already started, Dr. Coran,” he countered. “Forensics teams should be divvied up and placed under various other departments? As a scientist, my dear, you of all people should know what that might result in! Biased, coerced information supplied by our scientific divisions in order to fit cases they make! Pure science cannot work that way.”

  “I think you're wrong about Otto's motives and plans,” she said succinctly. “And frankly, I don't agree with you. We can't isolate ourselves with a microscope and ignore the facts—”

  “Facts! Boutine doesn't give a damn about facts.”

  “—the facts of a case, locked away in here!” She indicated the labs with a flourish of her hands. “Never smelling the blood.”

  “Ahhh, yes, the blood... Like this vampire killer that you two have cooked up for the publicity?”

  “We didn't create the psycho. Doctor!”

  “But you and the press will embellish him to grand, superhuman characteristics, so that when Boutine locates this pathetic sonofabitch in some hole out there he will be the hero, and you will have placed the pedestal under his feet.”

  “Are you at all interested in the evidence in this case?” she shouted.

  Politics and personalities, she thought with a rumbling fear welling up inside. Damn them all. Boutine included. Boutine had been smart enough and careful enough to have called it a confession when he told her to her face that he indeed was using her.

  Now Raynack, a man who could have her job if he played his cards carefully, was making sounds like there had been some improprieties taken by Boutine where Dr. Coran was concerned. It smacked of Bledsoe's thoughtless remarks on the shooting range, but Zach was no harmless Bledsoe. Raynack could make things uncomfortable.

  She tried to calm him down and she tried lies. “Dr. Raynack, it was your reports on the McDonell and Trent cases that initially stirred us up when we saw what had happened in Wekosha. You did fine work—”

  “Then why're you digging up the bodies to have another go at them?”

  “Something new surfaced. It had to be checked on the other two women, and there was only one way to do that.”

  He seemed somewhat mollified, falling into a chair, taking a deep breath. “Then Boutine recognizes my contribution to the case?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He thought about this for a moment. And for that moment she felt as if she were teetering on a tightrope between Boutine and Dr. Zach. Part of Raynack's concern was keeping the forensics arm of the FBI intact, and to keep it “pure,” apart from the political wrangling, to keep it as an “untouchable” and unapproachable temple, forbidden to the likes of the nonscientists and the novice. He had many times said there was no place in the “service” for the armchair forensics dick; that it was the equivalent of giving a loaded .45 to a three-year-old. He considered Boutine, despite his years of training and experience in the field, just such a novice in the exacting science that went on in the crime labs.

  Boutine, on the other hand, wanted the crime lab people more involved in what went on in the field and behind the closed doors of the brainstorming sessions held by the PPT.

  It seemed that Raynack was the more unreasonable and unbending of the two men; Raynack with his desire to keep some kind of monastic mystery around the day-to-day of the labs. They had all played that game for a long time, and even she was guilty of it, she knew. But as policy? The days of cloaking such devices as the gas chromatograph in mystery were long gone.

  So, too, perhaps, were the days of keeping people in her position in the dark about essential elements of on-scene evidence and information necessary to making a full analysis of the crime scene rather than making assumptions and long-distance guesswork do. By allowing her to work on the sum rather than the parts of the bomb, she might just have more insight than before. What harm in trying something new and bold? To hell with Zach and his but-we've-always-done-it-that-way mentality. It had no place in a modem crime lab.

  Maybe Raynack's way was best for his time, through the Eisenhower years, through the Nixon debacle and the Reagan fiasco, but now, today, the FBI must seek a better operational base, and it seemed to her that only Otto Boutine had the foresight to see this.

  “If we are through, Doctor,” she told him, “I do have a great deal to do.”

  He glanced over the scattered medical catalogues strewn about, some with dog-eared pages, others with markers sticking out. “You might at least extend me the courtesy of telling me just what it was that my reports... flagged.”

  “You had shown that the wound to the jugular in each case, from photos taken at the scene, was the work of a scalpel—sure and neat.”

  “Then the Wisconsin killer used a scalpel?”

  “Yes.”

  “A particular kind of scalpel, I suppose.”

  “Yes.” She wished to say as little as possible.

  “That's the reason for the catalogues, then?”

  “Searching for a match, a particular model, yes.”

  “Left-handed grip scalpel,” he said.

  “Sorry?” She was confused.

  “For doctors who're left-handed. As I recall, the slash was made from right to left across the throat. The work of a lefty.”

  In all the information she'd absorbed over the last three days and nights, she had seen this but she had paid little heed to it. At least, for now, Raynack was mollified. And before leaving, he even said that he was sorry for having stormed in the way he had.

  Jessica, who hated pettiness and whining and old-fashioned thinking, went back to scanning the catalogues for any sign of the instrument u
sed to kill three confirmed cases of murder.

  FOURTEEN

  Otto Boutine stood just outside the glass partition surrounding the lab, staring at her. She'd worked straight through lunch, and she'd for a time put him and the night before out of her mind. Apparently he meant to keep in touch with his people, and obviously he would continue with the 2 P.M. meeting regardless of all that was on his mind. She waved him in to learn that he was anxious for any new results on the exhumations or any of the 101 tests being run on samples taken. He seemed agitated, as if once more he had to prove himself to Leamy, the chief of operations. She led him back into her office, where he said, “I'm sorry about last night... really.”

  “No need to apologize for being human, Otto. Christ, as much as you've been through.”

  “I had no right to drag you down with me.”

  “Otto, really, I was glad that I could be there for you. Someday, you may be able to repay the kindness.”

  “No, I'll never be able to quite repay you.”

  “Now you're getting me mad with this silliness.”

  “Just accept my thanks, Jess.”

  “Consider it done.”

  After a few words about the wake and how he must leave by four, he got around to the questions on his mind. “What did the exhumations prove, if anything? I just saw Zach Raynack, and he was actually civil, said something about his part in unmasking the Wekosha vampire. What did you tell him?” She explained in some detail what the exhumations had shown, and she explained to him what she had said to Raynack, and why.

  He laughed. It was the first time she'd seen him smile in several days. His laugh was genuine and strong. “I take it all back, Jess, you do know how to be tactful when you want to be.”

  “I think he's calmed his brain at least to a simmer.”

  “Ahhh, Jess, you're doing so well for me here, and you're a good friend.”

  She blushed in response.

  “Maybe,” he continued, “after a decent interval, I mean, maybe we could see each other outside of our official cloaks.

  She smiled. “I'd like that, Otto.”

  “So, sounds like we've got something to continue our psychological autopsy with, and I think you're in for a few surprises. My people have put together a preliminary profile on our man. You're in for a treat.”

  She picked up all the information she needed, including a hospital tourniquet that Robertson had placed on her earlier, tightened and removed, after which he had photographed the slight discoloration about her throat. The control mechanism of the killer? Possibly. She also carried a trach tube with a razor-sharp, beveled cutting edge. “Show-and-tell time,” she said.

  J.T. met them at the conference room with a medical teaching tool, a see-through clinical model of a man's throat, some of the organ pieces spilling across the table when he placed it on the slick surface. Byrnes picked one up and shoved it back across at J.T. Ken Schultz examined the plastic voice box with curious fascination, asking J.T., “What gives with the dummy?”

  “A little reenactment of the murder according to Dr. Coran, I assume,” said Teresa O'Rourke. “This should be interesting.”

  And it was. The P.P. team were glued to their seats when Jessica lowered the lights and displayed on a screen the rudiments of a tracheotomy. The trach tube was displayed in a profile view, in relation to the cricoid cartilage and the trachea. The short film explained how a tracheotomy was performed. Then the lights came up and she directed their attention to the see-through bust on the table before them. She carefully placed a tourniquet around the unwieldy shape of the see-through plastic model and after tightening it, she held up a trach tube to her eyes for them to see clearly. She then quickly and surely plunged the tube into the transparent tube that represented the see-through man's jugular, just to the right of the trachea.

  The trach tube stuck and wobbled in the throat of the model, hanging there like a straw. “If there was blood passing through the jugular, it would shoot through this tube,” said Jessica. “We believe the tourniquet somewhat controlled the flow, but it would have to be a hell of a tourniquet to control it all. Still... this is how he did it, we believe.”

  “Using these exact tools?” asked O'Rourke.

  “Or something very similar.”

  The team sat below a pall of silence for a long moment. Byrnes, the heftier of the two men, said, “Looks kind of awkward. Can the tourniquet be held in place, or do you have to keep hold of it?''

  “This model requires a hand be on it,” said J.T., “but there are others that do not. These are calibrated and notched.”

  “We believe the killer used the most sophisticated equipment, and that he is very knowledgeable—”

  “—of anatomy, yes,” said O'Rourke. “Yes, he'd have to know exactly where the artery was located... precisely how deep to go with the cutting tube.”

  “Fits... all fits,” said Byrnes.

  Jessica showed them slides of the left-handed slash wound to the throat and pointed out the blown-up pattern that indicated that the killer had painted blood on the body after she was dead and after he had slit the throat. AH these steps he took after draining all the blood he could get from the corpse.

  The darkened room filled with a combined awe and a few groans.

  # # #

  He knew he needed more blood if he wished to continue doing blood baths. And the boss had sent him out to the Baptist Hospital in Zion, Illinois, on a special order, and there he met a mousy, bespectacled, brown-haired nurse who was left without a ride home. He gave her a ride in his van with the cooler in the back and the briefcase on the floor. He talked her into a nightcap, and before the night was over, he had capped off the night with some of her blood.

  Zion was a little close to home, but the opportunity was just too perfect. The woman lived alone at the end of a street where several houses were abandoned and up for sale. He knew that no one had seen him pull into her driveway. She was so anxious for company. It was all too easy to pass on.

  Her name was Renee. And now he had jars labeled Renee. Janel was gone forever, and so was Toni and so was Melanie.

  He was home safe now, enjoying Renee. It could be days before the shell of her was found; meanwhile he had captured her essence, her soul, in his jars, syphoned out with her blood through his instruments.

  He had once wanted to be a doctor, and when that dream ended, he had tried teaching for a while. The kids called him Teach, and he had allowed it. He taught biology but not for long. When he taught, he liked to use the real thing, and this upset some of the more immature of his students who preferred specimens to come in neatly wrapped, formaldehyde-soaked packages. He personally could not stand the stench of the stuff, but the odor of fresh blood—now, that was a different story.

  He bullied the boys into being macho enough to be cut for blood samples. They responded just as he expected them to. When he pushed a girl into the same kind of corner, someone came to her defense, and there was a bit of a nasty scene, and afterward he was called into the boss's office and the principal put him on notice.

  By the end of the term, he knew his contract would not be renewed. Just another person with power over his life putting it to him.

  He was in his late twenties, nearing thirty, and what did he have to show for it? He had been a failure at everything he did. It was just as his father had told him all his life, that everything he touched turned to shit. The old man hadn't been any help, a failure himself, dying of the hereditary disease that he had passed on to his son. He could only look to his grandfather's notebook and his collection of medical books for comfort. His father had been a fool, but his grandfather was a great man, a great doctor.

  Teach sat before an old Victrola record player, which had also been his grandfather's. It was spinning in lazy whorls the strings of a Mozart concerto, the record without a scratch, but still some static chipped up from the diamond stylus. Getting parts for the old player had become near impossible, but he had found a shop in a small t
own on Main Street in Wekosha, Wisconsin, that was wonderful. It was like walking back into the past. The shop had some vintage 78s which he had gotten at a steal. He had also picked up some singles at Pernell's Music Emporium in Wekosha. It had cost him a month's pay, but listening to the lovely strings now made it all worthwhile. It soothed his taut nerves, this simple hobby of his, his love of music of a far-gone world, the world of Strauss, of Mozart, and sometimes he'd play music from Benny Goodman and the big-band era. He believed he had been born in the wrong time. He detested the music he heard today blaring from the radio.

  The old Vic was sometimes used to listen to Hamlet, Lear and other Shakespearian plays, a collection of which he had gotten at a bargain rate in Paris, Illinois, where a Catholic monastic order had shut its doors and had sold off all of its library assets and holdings. He had gotten Olivier and Barrymore doing Shakespeare, along with a full production of A Midsummer Night's Dream by the Royal Victorian Symphony Theatre in London, England. These, along with his freezer filled with blood, were his most prized possessions, which he shared with no one.