At the Stroke of Madness (23 page)

M
aggie waited, gloved hands at her sides, while Dr. Stolz unzipped the body bag. She was used to participating in autopsies. Her forensic and medical background had prepared her for doing everything from helping place the body block to taking fluid samples to weighing organs. But she knew when not to participate, too, and this was one of those times. Dr. Stolz had made that clear. So she waited, alongside Sheriff Henry Watermeier, still angry with him for blindsiding her, but anxious to have this trip over and done with.

She was trying to be patient despite her anger and her urge to help. She wanted to help clean the woman’s chest wound so they could see the incision, the puncture marks, the rips and tears. There had to be multiple ones to have caused such an eruption.

Stolz must have sensed her restlessness when he said, “The chest wound is not the cause of death. Not as far as I can tell from my preliminary exam.” He began parting the long tangled hair, his gloved fingers carefully splitting dried, bloody clumps to reveal a large crescent-shaped wound to the side of the corpse’s head. “I’m betting this is what knocked her lights out for good.”

“There was an awful lot of blood in the chest area,” Maggie said, trying not to contradict the doctor. “Are you sure she wasn’t just knocked unconscious?”

Stolz looked at Sheriff Watermeier and pursed his thin lips as if showing him that he was purposely refraining from what he’d like to say. Then he began sponging the woman’s chest, cleaning the wound, the mess. “If he started cutting her immediately after he killed her, there would still be a boatload of blood. Especially here in the chest where there’s some major gushers. And he cut deep. May have even punctured the heart.”

“Wait a minute. Deep wounds sound like fatal wounds,” Watermeier said, which drew a scowl from Stolz.

“Not stab wounds.” The medical examiner lifted skin he had just cleaned. “She’s cut open. Nothing pretty about this handiwork, though. At least not as precise and detailed as with Mr. Earlman.”

“What did he remove?” Watermeier asked before Maggie got the chance.

“I’ll show you.” Dr. Stolz began opening the wound with one hand and with the other flushed the wound with the sprayer hose attached to the side of the stainless steel table. “My first guess would have been the heart, maybe a lung. You know, stuff like the usual crazies take. But this one sort of defies anything I’ve ever seen.”

With the wound now washed clean, Stolz pressed the mangled skin to the side and moved back for Watermeier and Maggie to take a closer look.

Watermeier stared, scratching his head, puzzled and not recognizing the scarred tissue. But Maggie knew immediately. And without getting out the photo Gwen had given her, Maggie also knew that this was not Joan Begley.

“I don’t understand,” Watermeier finally said, looking from Maggie to Stolz and realizing he was the only one in the dark.

“This woman must have been a breast cancer survivor,” Stolz explained. “The killer took her breast implants.”

Maggie had already prepared herself, had already planned what she would say to Gwen when she called with the news that her patient had been murdered. She should have felt relief. But for some reason she felt beginning panic instead. If Joan Begley wasn’t dead, where the hell was she?

M
aggie waited, gloved hands at her sides, while Dr. Stolz unzipped the body bag. She was used to participating in autopsies. Her forensic and medical background had prepared her for doing everything from helping place the body block to taking fluid samples to weighing organs. But she knew when not to participate, too, and this was one of those times. Dr. Stolz had made that clear. So she waited, alongside Sheriff Henry Watermeier, still angry with him for blindsiding her, but anxious to have this trip over and done with.

She was trying to be patient despite her anger and her urge to help. She wanted to help clean the woman’s chest wound so they could see the incision, the puncture marks, the rips and tears. There had to be multiple ones to have caused such an eruption.

Stolz must have sensed her restlessness when he said, “The chest wound is not the cause of death. Not as far as I can tell from my preliminary exam.” He began parting the long tangled hair, his gloved fingers carefully splitting dried, bloody clumps to reveal a large crescent-shaped wound to the side of the corpse’s head. “I’m betting this is what knocked her lights out for good.”

“There was an awful lot of blood in the chest area,” Maggie said, trying not to contradict the doctor. “Are you sure she wasn’t just knocked unconscious?”

Stolz looked at Sheriff Watermeier and pursed his thin lips as if showing him that he was purposely refraining from what he’d like to say. Then he began sponging the woman’s chest, cleaning the wound, the mess. “If he started cutting her immediately after he killed her, there would still be a boatload of blood. Especially here in the chest where there’s some major gushers. And he cut deep. May have even punctured the heart.”

“Wait a minute. Deep wounds sound like fatal wounds,” Watermeier said, which drew a scowl from Stolz.

“Not stab wounds.” The medical examiner lifted skin he had just cleaned. “She’s cut open. Nothing pretty about this handiwork, though. At least not as precise and detailed as with Mr. Earlman.”

“What did he remove?” Watermeier asked before Maggie got the chance.

“I’ll show you.” Dr. Stolz began opening the wound with one hand and with the other flushed the wound with the sprayer hose attached to the side of the stainless steel table. “My first guess would have been the heart, maybe a lung. You know, stuff like the usual crazies take. But this one sort of defies anything I’ve ever seen.”

With the wound now washed clean, Stolz pressed the mangled skin to the side and moved back for Watermeier and Maggie to take a closer look.

Watermeier stared, scratching his head, puzzled and not recognizing the scarred tissue. But Maggie knew immediately. And without getting out the photo Gwen had given her, Maggie also knew that this was not Joan Begley.

“I don’t understand,” Watermeier finally said, looking from Maggie to Stolz and realizing he was the only one in the dark.

“This woman must have been a breast cancer survivor,” Stolz explained. “The killer took her breast implants.”

Maggie had already prepared herself, had already planned what she would say to Gwen when she called with the news that her patient had been murdered. She should have felt relief. But for some reason she felt beginning panic instead. If Joan Begley wasn’t dead, where the hell was she?

J
oan Begley woke to the sound of doves cooing. Or at least that was what it sounded like through the spiderweb in her brain. Her eyes felt matted at the lashes, stuck down with webs. Her mouth was cotton dry. But the cooing reminded her of summer mornings, waking up at Granny’s dairy farm outside of Wallingford, Connecticut. A distant humming lulled her in and out of sleep. The breeze over her head felt and smelled like dew-laced grass, the fresh air wafting in from the meadow. Along with the breeze and the cooing came a feeling of contentment.

A click startled her awake. A click and then a low rumble of a motor coming to life. She sat up, her eyes flying open, her arms straining. It was the leather wrist restraints that renewed the panic, that brought her back to reality. Or rather brought her back to her nightmare.

She stared down at the restraints clamping her to the bed rails, and for a brief moment she thought she might be in a hospital. Had he taken her to a hospital? The room was dimly lit, darkness filled the huge windows. She looked around the area and could see walls made of sturdy timber, rafters of the same, more windows with thick glass, none of which were open. The breeze she had dreamed of was only the ventilation fan above the bed, the hum of a chest freezer in the corner. It looked like she was in a cabin or converted shed. As frightened as she was she had to admit this place had a warm and almost cozy feeling, despite the smell of disinfectant laced with, of all things, the scent of lilac.

Where in the world had he taken her? And why?

She looked around again, her vision still blurred, distorting the items on the shelves, elongating and swirling them like something out of a van Gogh painting. Maybe she was hallucinating. Yes, maybe this was all a dream, a nightmare.

She tried to think through the cobwebs in her brain. She needed to stay calm. No good would come from panic. And she didn’t seem to have any energy left. She couldn’t allow the panic to take control of her again, to exhaust her. Last night…or was it days ago? How could she be sure? He had drugged her. Asked in his polite tone that she drink a bottle of some concoction.

“It won’t hurt,” he had promised her in that little-boy voice that she had once found endearing. “It tastes like cough syrup.”

But when she refused, she remembered how he grabbed her, shoving her into a headlock. She had been surprised by his strength, by his frenzy, by his…his madness. He had forced the liquid down her throat despite her clawing at him, despite her kicking and coughing and gagging. Yes, he had become a madman, totally out of control. Someone she didn’t recognize, and certainly not the Sonny she thought she had gotten to know.

She began to cry, thinking about it. Why had he done this? Why had he brought her here? What did he intend to do with her? If she screamed would anyone hear her?

She looked around the room again. The door was certainly bolted even if she could escape her restraints. Now she noticed that there were leather bindings attaching her ankles to the bed rails, as well. She couldn’t focus on that. She wouldn’t panic. She would talk to him. Yes, they would talk. Where was he? Had he left her? What in the world did he intend to do with her? She knew he hadn’t sexually assaulted her. If that wasn’t what he wanted, then what was it?

As if trying to find the answer, she began examining the room. There were shelves with jars of all sizes, crocks with metal-clasp lids, plastic containers, bottles and gallon glass containers. Close to her bed was a table with a lighted aquarium, illuminated jellyfish floating along the surface. On the other side was another table with what looked like bowls made of bits and pieces of shells.

There were pictures on the wall. Black-and-white photos of a boy and his parents. She couldn’t tell if the boy was Sonny. This was definitely someone’s work space or hideaway. There was no need to feel frightened, she tried to convince herself. She could talk to Sonny. Yes, talk and see what he wanted from her.

She lay back down, feeling better. The pillows were so soft. He had gone to some trouble to make her comfortable, despite whatever drug he had forced down her. But even the drug had simply made her sleepy. No headache, no hangover. She would just wait. Eventually he would come in and they would talk. She could feel herself relaxing. That was when she saw the shelf above her head.

She bolted up in bed, straining against the leather and twisting to get a better view, making herself look despite a fresh panic and the urge to flee. On the shelf above her were three skulls, hollow eye sockets staring out at her.

Oh, dear God! Why? What was this place?

She tried to focus on what was in the jars across the room, but it was too far to see anything more than blobs. Then she stared at the jellyfish in the aquarium next to the bed. They were transparent, illuminated from the backlighting, floating on the surface. There was nothing else in the aquarium. No little rocks at the bottom, none of the colorful greenery. She pulled herself closer for a better look. Did jellyfish always float on the surface like that?

Then in the light she noticed that both jellyfish had numbers imprinted on their surfaces. A string of numbers like a serial number, some sort of identification.

“Oh, my God!” Suddenly, she recognized them from a visit she had made to a plastic surgeon. These weren’t jellyfish at all. They were breast implants.

J
oan Begley woke to the sound of doves cooing. Or at least that was what it sounded like through the spiderweb in her brain. Her eyes felt matted at the lashes, stuck down with webs. Her mouth was cotton dry. But the cooing reminded her of summer mornings, waking up at Granny’s dairy farm outside of Wallingford, Connecticut. A distant humming lulled her in and out of sleep. The breeze over her head felt and smelled like dew-laced grass, the fresh air wafting in from the meadow. Along with the breeze and the cooing came a feeling of contentment.

A click startled her awake. A click and then a low rumble of a motor coming to life. She sat up, her eyes flying open, her arms straining. It was the leather wrist restraints that renewed the panic, that brought her back to reality. Or rather brought her back to her nightmare.

She stared down at the restraints clamping her to the bed rails, and for a brief moment she thought she might be in a hospital. Had he taken her to a hospital? The room was dimly lit, darkness filled the huge windows. She looked around the area and could see walls made of sturdy timber, rafters of the same, more windows with thick glass, none of which were open. The breeze she had dreamed of was only the ventilation fan above the bed, the hum of a chest freezer in the corner. It looked like she was in a cabin or converted shed. As frightened as she was she had to admit this place had a warm and almost cozy feeling, despite the smell of disinfectant laced with, of all things, the scent of lilac.

Where in the world had he taken her? And why?

She looked around again, her vision still blurred, distorting the items on the shelves, elongating and swirling them like something out of a van Gogh painting. Maybe she was hallucinating. Yes, maybe this was all a dream, a nightmare.

She tried to think through the cobwebs in her brain. She needed to stay calm. No good would come from panic. And she didn’t seem to have any energy left. She couldn’t allow the panic to take control of her again, to exhaust her. Last night…or was it days ago? How could she be sure? He had drugged her. Asked in his polite tone that she drink a bottle of some concoction.

“It won’t hurt,” he had promised her in that little-boy voice that she had once found endearing. “It tastes like cough syrup.”

But when she refused, she remembered how he grabbed her, shoving her into a headlock. She had been surprised by his strength, by his frenzy, by his…his madness. He had forced the liquid down her throat despite her clawing at him, despite her kicking and coughing and gagging. Yes, he had become a madman, totally out of control. Someone she didn’t recognize, and certainly not the Sonny she thought she had gotten to know.

She began to cry, thinking about it. Why had he done this? Why had he brought her here? What did he intend to do with her? If she screamed would anyone hear her?

She looked around the room again. The door was certainly bolted even if she could escape her restraints. Now she noticed that there were leather bindings attaching her ankles to the bed rails, as well. She couldn’t focus on that. She wouldn’t panic. She would talk to him. Yes, they would talk. Where was he? Had he left her? What in the world did he intend to do with her? She knew he hadn’t sexually assaulted her. If that wasn’t what he wanted, then what was it?

As if trying to find the answer, she began examining the room. There were shelves with jars of all sizes, crocks with metal-clasp lids, plastic containers, bottles and gallon glass containers. Close to her bed was a table with a lighted aquarium, illuminated jellyfish floating along the surface. On the other side was another table with what looked like bowls made of bits and pieces of shells.

There were pictures on the wall. Black-and-white photos of a boy and his parents. She couldn’t tell if the boy was Sonny. This was definitely someone’s work space or hideaway. There was no need to feel frightened, she tried to convince herself. She could talk to Sonny. Yes, talk and see what he wanted from her.

She lay back down, feeling better. The pillows were so soft. He had gone to some trouble to make her comfortable, despite whatever drug he had forced down her. But even the drug had simply made her sleepy. No headache, no hangover. She would just wait. Eventually he would come in and they would talk. She could feel herself relaxing. That was when she saw the shelf above her head.

She bolted up in bed, straining against the leather and twisting to get a better view, making herself look despite a fresh panic and the urge to flee. On the shelf above her were three skulls, hollow eye sockets staring out at her.

Oh, dear God! Why? What was this place?

She tried to focus on what was in the jars across the room, but it was too far to see anything more than blobs. Then she stared at the jellyfish in the aquarium next to the bed. They were transparent, illuminated from the backlighting, floating on the surface. There was nothing else in the aquarium. No little rocks at the bottom, none of the colorful greenery. She pulled herself closer for a better look. Did jellyfish always float on the surface like that?

Then in the light she noticed that both jellyfish had numbers imprinted on their surfaces. A string of numbers like a serial number, some sort of identification.

“Oh, my God!” Suddenly, she recognized them from a visit she had made to a plastic surgeon. These weren’t jellyfish at all. They were breast implants.