Absolute Instinct (Instinct thriller series) Page 17

  DARWIN Reynolds had stood out in the hall, awaiting Jessica, assuming she'd want a ride to the crime lab. He patiently now awaited her last-minute primping, as he stared out over his growing metropolis. The midweek traffic jammed West Allis Boulevard for downtown Milwaukee, the skyscrapers of the business district standing sentinel to the influx of the Wednesday morning rush hour. He turned now, gritted his teeth and shrugged apologetically. “I'm sorry, Dr. Coran about earlier, if I caused you any embarrassment or a moment's awkwardness with your husband.”

  She called back as she tied back her hair. “Richard is not my husband, not yet anyway.”

  “Sorry again,” he said almost as if to himself, grimacing. “I'm just naturally clumsy.” He went to the tray and grabbed a doughnut and poured himself another cup of steaming coffee. “I really wouldn't—wouldn't—want anyone to get the wrong impression, and most certainly not your man or my wife, trust me.”

  “Really? Well, it may be too late for that.” She wasn't about to let him off the mat.

  Reynolds poured her coffee, shaking his head. He handed the black liquid to her. “I'll see what I can do to arrange for the jet.”

  “Why aren't you gone and taking care of that?” she asked. “I can get a cab or walk to the morgue from here, Darwin.”

  “Ahhh... I just... well, are you sure?”

  “Sure, yes.”

  “All right, then. I'll catch up with you there.” Feeling her ire, sensing her coolness, Reynolds took his doughnut and coffee out the door.

  Jessica frowned after him, sat down and uncovered the hot plate of hash browns and scrambled eggs he'd ordered for her. “Carbs're going to kill that kid,” she muttered, “if I don't first.”

  After reviewing the preliminary autopsy report, a thumbnail sketch of the final autopsy on Joyce Olsen—put off thanks to her having to focus on Oregon's Sarah Towne and Millbrook's Louisa Childe—Jessica realized that Ira Sands must know that it provided nothing new. Reynolds had somehow managed to get this early-stage report out of Sands sometime the night before, during that period when he had disappeared and suddenly appeared with last evening's room-service cart, she guessed.

  She wondered if he were hiding something, some more personal stake in all this. Had he known one of the victims? Did he know Towne personally? Perhaps before becoming FBI? Had Towne somehow reached out to Darwin from behind prison walls for one man's sympathy or letters threatening blackmail?

  Perhaps, perhaps not. Perhaps her unflattering suspicious nature, part of her job and makeup, was at work overtime. None of it made much sense except to excuse him on the grounds of having become a crusader, and yet she had learned long ago to trust her fears, to accept fear as a gift, a gift of innate intelligence that sounded certain bells within, and the ringing of said bells saved her life on more than one occasion. Not that she feared Darwin, but she wondered at the depth of his motives in all this. Then she chided herself, recalling the depth of her own feelings and motivation in many cases she had worked as a younger woman, and she realized why she liked X. Darwin Reynolds so much. His enthusiasm was contagious. So much so that even Richard must have felt it over the phone. And that enthusiasm re-minded her why she did what she did, reminded her who she was, what the culmination of years of FBI work meant to her.

  “Guess I could use some of that kid's zeal about now.” She sipped at the hot coffee. Still a tweaking, annoying doubt hung in the air, suspicion lurking in the corners of her mind, some twinge of intuition that questioned Darwin's reasoning and actions. She caught a glimpse of herself in the hotel mirror, her long auburn hair tied in the businesswoman's bun. It normally trailed to her shoulders these days, playfully ribboning a frame for her emerald eyes, and she knew she looked good in the virgin-white of the hotel terry-cloth robe. Did Darwin have designs on her?

  No... just a wrong instinct this time, she assured herself. The guy is desperate to help an innocent man, believes in Towne's innocence. Likely has allowed the case to consume him... obviously so. Likely hasn't slept a full night's sleep since beginning his quest to save Towne.

  Jessica quickly finished breakfast, finished dressing, located her shoes and medical bag, and walked the few blocks to the morgue. When she arrived, she found Ira Sands already at work, having clocked several hours on the autopsy the day before, and being a thorough scientist like herself, taking enough time to be rested and coming back at it. He'd become obsessed in his effort to run down any miniscule medical lead in the Olsen matter. Perhaps to show her up... perhaps to beat out the most famous M.E. in America, so that he could tell the tale at the next annual meeting of the AMEA—the American Medical Examiners Association.

  Jessica suited up and joined Sands for the second go-round.

  Seeing the Olsen woman's body again shook Jessica to her core. Again the stark horror of the crime clawed at Jessica's own spine. It slithered upward and curled around her brain stem on its way to her innermost psyche.

  With Sands closely watching her reaction, she shook off the paralyzing feeling and went to work. Several hours later, she and Sands finally gave up the ghost. There was nothing further that Joyce Olsen could tell them. Nothing further that Jessica and Ira could do beyond feeling absolute frustration. As in the Minnesota case, they had scant little to go on. The toxicology reports had come back absolutely negative. Serum and blood tests demonstrated there was no one's blood or saliva present other than the victim's. No evidence of rape, no DNA evidence, no fingerprints, no bite marks on the body. The only thing they could say for certain was that she, like the other two victims, had been struck by a blow to the head with a hammer.

  Using the mop, which tested negative for prints, the killer had even robbed them of bloody shoe prints. The two M.E.'s hated to call any murder a perfect crime. To do so meant admitting failure. Still, this one had all the markings of a flawless crime.

  She shared with Sands the one bit of good news about Richard's scavenger hunt through the Millbrook evidence lockup, morgue and cemetery, and the hope that Richard's investigation there held out.

  “You're telling me our mastermind cut off the wrong fucking fingers?” Ira Sands's laughter filled the silent autopsy room. “That's rich. That does give us hope.”

  “Still,” cautioned Jessica, “the DNA found in the exhumation is more likely to free a death-row inmate than to capture a murderer.”

  “Unless someone's charged with the crime and his DNA is in the system and we gain a match.”

  “A lot of ifs. Look, I have to get out of here, now,” she confided and marched off for the lockers.

  Jessica felt a gnawing, clawing, claustrophobia creeping in, one she recognized as the frustration and stress monster her shrink had so often warned her to get as far from as possible when she felt the onset. “Go out and feed your inner child immediately. Go to a zoo, a museum, a park to watch the dogs frolic and kids laugh, anything but your grim reality, your fiicked-up work ethic, and your current case files.”

  “But I'm twenty-four-seven an M.E.,” she'd argued at first.

  “Then you gotta reclaim that time. No one else can do it for you, not even Richard.”

  So she knew now, after the night she had spent and the day's autopsy, that she must release the little kid inside. “Gotta at the very least get the fuck out of the lab,” she swore aloud as she pushed through the doors leading into the locker room area for female medical personnel. She tore off her protective wear, showered and dressed a second time today. Grabbing her things, she went past Sands's office.

  “Join me for coffee?” Ira held up a pot and a cup, a smile stretching his mustache.

  “No thanks, Ira,” she responded to the offer. “I really have to get myself some air, get out of the building, you know. The kind of day you've had, Dr. Sands, you should play hooky with me.”

  “A tempting, tempting offer, Jessica. Ahhh, yes, space and air... things I am denied for the time being. Go, yes! Go for the rest of us, and when you return, tell us what is out there in the land of
the free, but no... can't break away just now. Too many people would have my scalp, but I quite understand the impulse, my dear. Go... go for both of us, Dr. Coran.”

  “As quickly as possible, but you must come along, Dr. Sands. We've had not a moment to simply catch our breaths and talk,” she persisted, but there appeared no budging the man. He seemed in a marathon of his own making.

  SHE easily found the local Caribou coffee house, where she sat in an enormous overstuffed chair by the window looking out on the avenue. She felt a need to control the sheer amount of aggravated, discouraged and stymied anger rising up in her as a result of this mad phantom who sketched his victims before killing them. And after a time of silent meditation and forced relaxation, she felt annoyed with Darwin Reynolds. To a far less degree than she did toward the “Butcher of West Allis,” as one paper's headline called the spine thief, but annoyed with Darwin nonetheless. She had time to think about the tall, handsome, broad-shouldered man who had popped up at times when she didn't need to hear from him. But now, when she wanted to hear news of their departure time, where the hell was he? She wanted to get out of Milwaukee, to put some distance between herself and the failed investigation, and the growing cancer of what appeared from the get-go as an un-solvable crime, a futile investigation—one that would never go away but remain on the open books forever.

  Although fearing it a fantasy, perhaps some distance from the Olsen case might give her more perspective, the logic or illogic rather being that the farther she was from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, the more insightful, intuitive and clearheaded she'd become.

  She struggled to clear her mind now, but try as she might, Jessica couldn't get the case out of her head. She tried concentrating on thoughts of Richard, tried thinking of their plans for the house, and for their bright future. She thought about her stable of horses back in Quantico, Virginia. She missed so much. She also fantasized a great fear as well, that some madman who made soups and stews of murdered women's bones lurked about Millbrook, Minnesota, and learning of the newly arrived FBI agent with a British accent and mild manner, hatched a plan of assassination borne of fear. She struggled to kill such thoughts at their inception. It was like living with the 9/11 fears of a terrorist on every street corner—simply an impossible ordeal for anyone. She forced herself to think instead of that sixteen-year-old furnished apartment of hers and how she'd had to give up all those comforting old furnishings so that she and Richard could find common furnishings they both could live with.

  She stirred her coffee, listened to the light strain of New-Age music here, and gave her mind over to a great deal of decorating in the newly acquired old ranch house and stable that remained undone, given their competing schedules.

  She next began to people watch both inside the shop and through the window, when her eyes lit on a large banner advertising a major new exhibit at the Hamilton Museum's Fine Arts Center. The exhibit featured some artist she had never heard of, a fellow by the name of Keith Orion, who billed himself as the “Professor of Shock Art.”

  “Sounds more like a rock star than a painter, wouldn't you say?”

  She saw Darwin's enormous shadow creep over her table, knowing it was him even before he'd spoken a word. Still, her look of surprise must have registered, as he hurled explanations at her.

  “Sands told me at the morgue you'd gone out for air and coffee. Caribou is the only coffee shop on the block. I am, after all, a detective.”

  “Obviously a regular bloodhound. I thought you said you'd call.” “I did.”

  “You didn't.”

  “I mean I said that I would, but since I had to come over to the morgue anyway... and I assumed you'd be there.” He sat across from her on an ancient-looking recently reupholstered paisley-patterned ottoman.

  “Have we got clearance to use that FBI jet?”

  “We do, but not until three-thirty.”

  “But our meeting with the governor's at six, right? That's cutting things close, isn't it?”

  “It's the best I could do. A commercial flight won't get us there any sooner,” he said, fingering the sandwich and desert menu.

  The waitress came and he ordered a chicken salad sandwich and coffee. Alone again, he broke the silence. “Hey, I want to apologize again for this morning. I certainly don't want to cause trouble for you and yours.”

  “No need to apologize, no problem.”

  They sat in silence for an awkward moment. “So, since we have time to kill, why don't we walk across to the arts center and have a look at the new exhibit?” he suggested. “I live here and I never get to the museums.”

  She considered this a moment, looked into his eyes and said, “No, I don't think so.”

  “Come on, this is my town. Let me show you the finer side.”

  She shook her head and then stared into his eyes again. “Reynolds, Detective Reynolds, our relationship has to remain on a—”

  “—a professional level, I know that, but like I said, we've got two hours to kill. Trust me, Jessica, while I do find you attractive and intelligent, I have an Italian wife and three little girls.”

  “Really? Photographs, let's see em.”

  He pulled forth charming pictures of three girls ranging in age from four to seven. “Keep me hopping.”

  “I'll bet.” She noticed he showed no photo of the wife.

  “Children will keep you running on the one hand, grounded on the other, and all four of my girlfriends would bust my balls if I so much as looked at another woman.”

  This made her laugh, and he joined in. “Sounds like you've got your hands full.”

  “Oh, I do, I do!” H/s infectious smile is the irresistible part of him, that and his eyes, she thought, but she said, “What would she do to you if she knew you slept in my room the other night?” asked Jessica. “This Italian woman of yours?”

  “Let's just say she wouldn't be as understanding as your friend Richard. Now that that's out of the way, how about we go see the Orion exhibit?”

  “As soon as you finish your sandwich and coffee. I'll just go freshen up, Darwin. I like your name, Darwin.”

  “Given to me by my adoptive parents,” he replied. “My adoptive parents were great people who happened to be black like me. I had a good childhood once I got hooked up with them. Prior to that... not so good.”

  She dared not ask about the not so good, at least not here and now.

  “So you like 'Darwin?” he asked.

  “Yeah, interesting choice your parents made.”

  “You mean it beats 'Thomas,' ” he joked. “I'll put a stop to the proposed name change proceedings.” Something jammed with sadness flitted across his eyes. The big black man sitting before her dropped his gaze. She thought she might see a tear fall into his coffee if she watched long enough.

  She changed the subject. “I think an art museum opening would be just the thing to feed my child. It's a ritual I must go through so I have something positive to report to my therapist.”

  “I hear you.”

  “I suppose we both could use a break from this case.”

  He nodded, looking up again at her, having regained himself, in control. “I'm with you.”

  “But nature calls first. Be right back.”

  He waved her off, dabbing at his eye with a napkin.

  Inside the restroom, she stared at herself in the mirror for the second time today and said, “You damn sure still know how to make a fucking fool of yourself, Doctor Jessica 'Sensitive' Coran.”

  But for the life of her, she could not decipher what had made Reynolds tear up.

  ELEVEN

  The body snatchers they have come

  And made a snatch at me... Don't go to weep upon my grave.

  And think that there I be; They haven't left an atom there Of my anatomy!

  —THOMAS HOOD

  ON the train to Chicago, Giles slept sitting up. He hadn't had much sleep since killing Lucinda, and fatigue now washed over him in waves. Drowsy, his eyes glazed over and his m
ind went numb with the steady sound and vibration underfoot of the train as it wended its way along the tracks toward downtown Chicago. As the train picked up speed and stormed toward the Windy City, he replayed the way things had unfolded, how he had killed Lucinda, his own benefactress.

  He had thought her knocked unconscious with the hammer blow, but when he'd relaxed his vigilance, believing her completely subdued, she'd pulled free and rushed to his workbench, frantically searching for a weapon among his tools, knocking over an array of knives and sculpting tools. She screamed amid the panting, but she couldn't get enough breath to do a good scream justice. In fact, it sounded like the scream of a woman in the throes of love. Maybe she did love him. She swiped at him, grimacing, hissing catlike, an animal ferocity that screamed her desire to live in her eyes.

  He backed momentarily away, studying her contorted features. They were like those of a young nurse he'd seen once in a photograph hidden away among his foster mother's things, a photo of Mother at about Lucinda's current age. “You're not doing yourself any good this way, Loose. Only prolonging the inevitable.”

  As he backed off, she came at him, the raised sharp end of the triangled spade coming at his eyes. A dodge and a grab, and he had her arm in a viselike grip, all the while she screamed, “I'm not going to die like this! Like some victim in a goddamn horror movie! Damn you, Giles, may God damn you!”

  His weakened arm could not hold her as she pulled free and brought the glinting spade down at his chest, but he grabbed her arm and locked it, wresting the weapon from her grasp and tossing it aside. She found the air and screamed at the top of her lungs for help.

  She felt the stun to her temples as he brought a fist to her head. Lucinda Wellingham fell to the floor a second time amid the rubble of art supplies and tools there. It had all happened so fast, Giles could hardly recall the exact linear thread of events, but he recalled how she fought for her life. Desperate, dazed, she again managed to wrap a hand around the pointed spade, the one he used for special line effects— perfectly aged skin, like parchment, on the late-forties figures of the women depicted in his sculptures, likenesses of Louisa Childe, Sarah Towne and Joyce Olsen in his final plastering on of the last layer of “skin”—the epidermal layer. They all looked, after a fashion, like Mother, even Lucinda's general features matched Nurse Gahran from the photos of Mother when she was Lucinda's age. Mother and Loose... Mother was loose, Loose was a mother.