Memory Zero (42 page)

The body lay on one of the white sofas. As long as you didn’t look below the waist, it would be easy to think Harry had merely died in his sleep. His arms were crossed, his face peaceful. There was no terror, no hint that he’d known he was about to die so brutally.

“Cause of death?” Gabriel asked, despite the fact that it was obvious. No man could lose both his penis and testes and survive the resulting shock and blood loss unless he had medical help
really
fast.

“Same as the others—blood loss. There’s an ashtray full of cigarette butts on the dining table, too.”

“Same brand as before?” Gabriel squatted to inspect the gaping wound. The blood staining the leather no longer smelled fresh, and the wound itself was beginning to blacken.

“Yes. We’ve scanned for prints, but our killer was wearing gloves again. All we got was a latex smudge.”

“Hmm. There’s one difference, at least. Our killer has shown no real precision with his knifework here. He’s basically just hacked it all away.”

Stephan snorted softly. “I suppose it’s a hell of a lot easier to part a man from his penis than it is a woman from her womb and ovaries.”

“True. But all three victims were obviously unconscious before the murderer operated, so why take care with the women and not with young Harry here? There are several deep nicks on his right inner thigh.”

“Maybe our murderer gets a perverted pleasure from gutting women and wants it to last longer.”

Gabriel frowned. Something in that statement didn’t sit right. The murderer had been meticulous in every detail so far, so why would he change anything just because this victim was male? The sheer number of cigarette butts at every scene very much suggested that the murderer had sat back and watched the blood pour from his victims. And that, in turn, perhaps suggested that he enjoyed the death more than he did the cutting.

Gabriel rose and then hesitated. On the back of the sofa, near Harry’s right hip, a hair glinted softly in the light. It wasn’t one of Harry’s. His hair was red, the same as the hair of the other two victims. This was blond and long, with a dark root.

He dug a glove out of his pocket and carefully picked up the hair. “Got a bag?”

Stephan dug one from the crime kit on the table. “Maybe he did have a girlfriend.”

“This could still be male. Long hair is fashionable in the rave scene at the moment. I’ll run a check on Harry’s acquaintances and see what I can find.”

Gabriel secured the bag in the crime kit and turned back to the sofa, certain there was something still to be found. In the previous two murders, the killer had been careful not to leave anything behind. No hair, no prints, nothing that might give him away.

But this time he’d been less than precise with his cutting. So maybe, just maybe, he’d been less than precise with his cleanup. Gabriel studied the position of the body for a long moment, then walked around to the back of the sofa. Blood had soaked through, contrasting starkly with the white, embroidered material. Oddly enough, the thick carpet showed signs of a recent vacuuming.

He frowned and studied the crisscrossed suction patterns on the carpet. Only the small section between the sofa and what looked to be the bathroom had been touched. Near the bathroom door, a faint footprint marred the lush white expanse.

“How many people have been in the apartment since the body was discovered?” he asked, squatting near the print.

“The usual—the two State officers who attended the original call, the building super who let them in, and us. Forensics is still on the way. Why? What have you found?”

“A print.” He glanced up at the CSM. “Record image and location of print.”

The black sphere responded immediately, zipping across the room to hover inches from his head. “Image recorded,” a metallic voice stated.

“Resume original position.” He knelt to study the print. As he did, he noticed a slight stain near the door. Liquid of some sort had been spilled near the doorframe. He touched it lightly; the carpet fibers were dry and stiff, almost as if they had been glued together. He sniffed his fingers. The faint but unpleasant mix of urine and rotten eggs had him screwing up his nose in distaste.

“Jadrone,” he muttered, coughing to ease the sudden sting in the back of his throat.

“What the hell was Harry doing taking something like Jadrone? Frank’s family is human, not shifter.”

“Which means maybe our killer is some kind of shifter.” It would certainly explain why no one had noticed any strangers hanging about in the two previous murders—particularly if their killer was a multi-shifter. Multis weren’t the norm, but they weren’t exactly rare, either.
That
title went to shifter-changer hybrids.

In either case, Gabriel doubted that the killer would be taking the stuff himself. Jadrone was designed to ease the inevitable bone and muscle ailments that afflicted most shifters late in life, but it also had an unpleasant side effect: after several months of continual use, it blurred the ability to tell truth from fantasy. And their killer was too practical, too careful, to be on some Jadrone-inspired trip.

So why in hell was there Jadrone on the floor?

“The government took Jadrone off the market a year ago,” Stephan said. “It shouldn’t be too hard to track through records and find out who’s still taking it.”

Gabriel smiled grimly. It might not be too hard, but
it was a task he had no intention of taking on. Sam could. It would keep her out of his way a while longer. Her anger and frustration had been all too evident in her smoke-shrouded blue eyes tonight. A few more pushes, a few more inane tasks, and she’d be asking for a transfer. All he had to do was convince Stephan it was for the best.

He rose and continued on into the bathroom. The stark whiteness was practically blinding—it had to be hell on the eyes when the sun was shining. A slight breeze stirred the hairs at the back of his neck. He glanced at the ceiling to make sure it wasn’t the air-conditioning and then turned. A hole had been cut into the thick glass wall.

“Monitor, record bathroom evidence.” As had been the case in the two previous murders, this hole was barely big enough to fit his fist through, and the edges were razor sharp, suggesting they’d been cut with a laser.

“Any thoughts on these holes?” Stephan asked from the doorway.

Gabriel shrugged, then stepped out of the CSM’s way. “Escape route, maybe?”

“If the killer’s using Jadrone, he can’t be a shapechanger.”

“No.” Jadrone was as deadly to shapechangers as it was helpful to shapeshifters. No one knew why—though Karl, a good friend of Gabriel’s and one of Australia’s top herbal scientists, thought it might have something to do with body chemistry. “Nothing’s making much sense in this case.”

“Well, it had better. If the killer keeps to his current schedule, you have precisely twelve hours before he strikes again.”

Twelve hours to find someone as elusive as a ghost. What could be simpler? “It would be a damn sight easier if we could find some sort of pattern. Other than being the same age and having red hair, the victims have nothing in common.”

“The answers are there. All you have to do is find them.” Stephan hesitated, then smiled grimly. “And I want Agent Ryan brought in on this one.”

Gabriel stared at his brother, wondering why he was so determined to see him and Sam teamed up. “No.”

“That’s a direct order, Stern.”

And it was one he had no intention of ever obeying—if only because Sam had red-gold hair, the same as the three victims. She might not be twenty-five, but he wasn’t about to risk her safety. Not with his track record.

“Are you listening, Stern?”

“I’m all ears, sir.”

Anger flared briefly in Stephan’s blue eyes. “Good. Report to me hourly.”

Stephan turned and walked away. Gabriel stared after him for a long moment, then glanced up at the CSM. “Position of autopsy team?”

“Entering the building now.”

“Good. Resume original monitoring position.” Gabriel followed the monitor back out to the living room. The answer was here somewhere. He could feel its presence, like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch. He stared blankly at the corpse for a long moment and then turned.

Why had the killer vacuumed? And why just the section behind the sofa?

Frowning, he crouched down, studying the vacuum marks intently. Something had to have been spilled or
dropped here. Why else vacuum? He shifted slightly and caught sight of something glittering deep in the white pile. He carefully plucked it out—a shard of glass. Then he ran his fingers through the carpet. A plate-sized section near his feet felt damp. He sniffed his fingers again. Ginger and lemon, mixed with something spicy he couldn’t define. Its touch burned across his skin.

He knew the scent. Heat, the latest rage in perfumes and one designed solely for female use. The manufacturers claimed it made the wearer irresistible to men—a claim that had proven so true that the government was considering putting the perfume on the illegal substances list. Oddly enough, when used by a male, Heat lived up to its name in an entirely different way, burning where it touched.

Harry had no wife, no girlfriend. No reason to buy Heat.

So the killer was female, not male.