The Watcher (5 page)

This was an area where Kate anticipated spending many hours cross-referencing the homicides on their books against the cold case she’d found from her computer program, searching for another lead. First, she had the old cold case, and second, the latest homicide. A third related case in Bigler County would confirm her suspicions.

A bored-looking and overweight deputy named Charlie Wendt manned the check-out desk and maintained records and evidence. He tried to ferret out information from Kate, but she side-stepped his questions. She wanted to keep a low profile as long as possible.

Kate guessed Slater was killing time until the case conference on the Johnston murder. If the autopsy report came back in time, the meeting would be held at four o’clock in what was called the major incident room, a broad conference room at the east end of the second floor.

By the time they returned to the first floor, a room had been cleared for Kate’s use. Little more than a broom closet and a quarter the size of her office in Los Angeles, it was equipped with a computer, file cabinet and desk. The Johnston case file lay on the desk. That’s all she needed.

“I’ve heard of a forensic
psychologist,
but not a
psychiatrist.
What’s the difference?” Slater asked, leaning his tall frame against the door jamb to Kate’s office while she tested the size of her desk chair.

“Not much. A psychiatrist has a medical degree, plus I have the added specialty in forensic medicine. It’s not my favorite thing to do, but I could perform a basic autopsy, for example.”

“If I’d realized that, I’d have asked Wilson to let you in on the autopsy.”

“Wilson?”

“The medical examiner.” Slater looked at his wrist-watch.

“We should get the results today.”

Slater continued leaning against the door jamb, his arms folded against his broad chest, an enigmatic smile on his face. Somehow an overly friendly Slater didn’t fit the profile she’d cast for him, that of a no-nonsense, tough cop who didn’t mind a little intimidation to get answers.

“Was there something else, Lieutenant?” she asked, determined not to let him bully her. “Did you want to fill me in on any more of the Johnston case?”

“We’ll just wait for Wilson’s report,” Slater drawled. “So you’re not just a head doctor, huh? We’re fortunate to have you here, Doc.”

“Thanks,” she returned, waving toward the files and open briefcase she’d brought in from the squad room. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to – ” She let the suggestion hang there.

“Small department like ours,” he continued, ignoring the hint, “we’re lucky to get decent forensics at all.” He walked to the desk and peered down at the folders she removed from her briefcase. “Now we’ve got someone with a double major. That’s quite a windfall.”

Kate edged the folders closer to her. “You could say Lady Luck smiled on Bigler County.”

Slater smiled sardonically as she stared back, a polite expression on her face. She forced herself not to blink or lower her eyes.

“Yeah, Lady Luck.” He banged his hand several times on the door frame before walking away.

She watched him return to his desk, pick up his phone receiver, and dial a number from memory. She assumed it was the morgue. Apparently, he wouldn’t discuss the case with her until the autopsy report was in.

She hoped Detective Slater wasn’t going to throw up any roadblocks for her. Not now. Not only was the Johnston case her best lead, but instinct told her this place had spawned the creature she hunted. Somewhere lurking in the breath-taking beauty of northern California’s lakes and forests was the monster she’d spent half her life looking for.

She swore she’d find him.

#

As it turned out, the pathologist hadn’t finished the examination of Jennifer Johnston’s body by four o’clock, so the case conference was postponed. Slater grabbed a quick bite of dinner, and when he returned, he was surprised to see Kate Myers’ car still in the parking lot. He glanced at his wristwatch. A little after six. Long day for her, he thought.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he reached the entrance to Special Investigations just as Myers walked out the door. They nearly collided.

“Whoa, what’s the hurry?” he asked.

“The medical examiner just called. He’s finished with the autopsy.”

“He called you?” Slater asked, surprised.

Myers smiled sheepishly. “Everyone was gone, and I heard your phone ring, so I picked up.”

He wasn’t going to be territorial. “That’s good.” Wilson would’ve gotten him on his cell anyway. “Let’s take my truck. I’ll call Bauer and have him meet us there.”

She hesitated. Strange, when she’d been eager to run over to the morgue on her own, and she probably didn’t even know where the morgue was located.

“Come on, Myers. I won’t bite.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said.

Slater turned to block her way with his body, not hard to do because in spite of her height, she was slender and his bulk towered over her. “All right, Doc, what gives? You’re sent up here to give us country folks a hand, and you run off half-cocked on a case you know nothing about.”

Myers stared at a spot on his face, the place where he knew the five o’clock shadow of his beard was usually thick and bristly as a cactus. He involuntarily touched his hand to his jaw. “Or maybe you do,” he said thoughtfully.

“Can we talk about this later?” It sounded like a minor capitulation to Slater. “I think we need to hear the autopsy report first.” Her cool eyes met his. “Don’t you?” She jutted her chin out like a defiant teenager.
So much for capitulation.

“Right,” he said, pinning her with his eyes a moment longer. “But don’t think this is going away. If you’re on my team, I expect full disclosure. Is that clear?”

“Absolutely.” Myers smiled as though she’d won some sort of victory, and for a second, Slater had the feeling he’d been played. He turned on his heel, walking ahead of her to the parking lot.

What was she really doing here? Marconi said she was on loan from LAPD, but he didn’t believe that shit for a minute. If he didn’t get the full story straight from the woman herself, he’d weasel it out of the Sheriff. Right now, however, the autopsy report was a priority.

When they reached the truck, Bauer was already waiting. “Dr. Wilson called me,” he explained, looking from Slater to Myers and back to Slater again, his clear green eyes troubled. “Uh, should the three of us drive over together?”

“Sure, let’s take my truck,” Slater replied. “No sense in wasting gas.”

It was a foolish comment since the drive to the morgue was all of seven miles, but he thought he’d prefer Bauer around for the time being. Secrets made Slater uneasy and he knew he’d be tempted to press Myers. He’d ease off for the moment, but not for long.

Slater, Bauer, and Myers crammed into the front seat of Slater’s truck, a much-used Chevrolet with a standard transmission, the gears on the floor between the seats. A silent Myers sat in the middle between the two men, her arms crossed over her chest in an oddly defensive posture.

For once, Slater welcomed Bauer’s harmless chatter, letting the sound of his partner’s voice fill the empty space of the Chevy’s interior. Every time Slater shifted gears, his hand brushed against Myers’ leg. It was a very nice leg, bare and smooth and lightly tanned. He expected her to avoid the contact of his fingers against her flesh by leaning to her right, but she seemed too preoccupied to notice.

He decided he wouldn’t wait for Myers to come clean. He’d approach Marconi right away.

Chapter Five

Unlike the rest of the sheriff’s department, the county coroner’s office and the adjoining autopsy room were housed in the basement of Bigler Memorial Hospital. Freshly painted a sandstone color, the hospital sat amid a grove of pines. The corridors were sleek and quiet, and looked out through glass walls to the city beyond.

The morgue, however, was like any other death house Slater had been in. Shiny chrome and white porcelain, it smelled of formaldehyde and stank of blood and death. Slater was inured to the sight of dead bodies and corpses cut open for examination, but he’d never gotten used to the smell.

The three of them entered the autopsy room through a set of doors with opaque windows. To the left of the entry was the glass-enclosed coroner’s office. At the sight of them, the pathologist stepped from his office and led them to Jennifer Johnston’s body.

Patch Wilson was swathed in green scrubs and cap, with disposable booties covering his feet and surgical gloves his hands. Although samples had already been taken and contamination was unlikely, the others gloved up for their own safety.

The shell lying pitifully on the autopsy table reminded Slater that a vibrant, young woman’s life had been snuffed out too soon. Jennifer lay face up on one of three chrome tables, a white sheet pulled back and draped at her feet. Her flesh glistened wetly in the harsh glare of the overhead lights. The other tables were scrubbed and empty.

Though he knew it no longer mattered to her, Slater wanted to cover her nakedness. The girl’s damp hair was pulled back from her face and hung over the edge of the autopsy table. The body had been washed, and the peculiar incision that allowed access to internal organs crudely stitched together. With the removal of blood and debris, Slater could clearly see the additional bruising on the torso, arms, and legs. The jagged marks made by the weapon, bluish-purple around the entry points, gaped wide like angry mouths.

After introductions, Dr. Wilson gestured with a gloved hand toward the nude body. “The official cause of death is exsanguination,” he said. The coroner’s formal language made Slater think of a gracefully-aging literature professor. “However she did not bleed out at the lake site. The livor mortis indicates she died on her back, not her side. See the blood pooling here? The body was found on its side, inconsistent with gravitational pull.”

“The lake is the secondary crime scene, like we thought,” Slater clarified.

The pathologist nodded. “She was moved after the onset of lividity. The time of death most likely was twenty-four to thirty hours ago. The stiffening of rigor had developed and disappeared by the time her body was discovered.” Wilson’s voice remained impassive, although Slater knew from long acquaintance that the doctor was a man of kindness and empathy.

“There is corneal clouding,” Wilson said, “but the eyes were closed, so the time of death is at least twenty-four hours. The extremities submerged in the water slowed down putrefaction, but the soft tissue discoloration here in the lower abdominal area shows it had begun. Bacteriological breakdown had barely started, no skin blistering, marbling or swelling.”

“Can you give us a more exact time of death?” Slater asked.

Wilson frowned. “The girl was fed during her captivity. The food already passed into the digestive tract. Based on the stomach contents and liver temperature, I believe she died late Sunday night or early Monday morning, sometime between ten p.m. and four a.m. A partial toxicology report was rushed by Sacramento Department of Justice.” Wilson paused before continuing. “An interesting side note is that presumptive tests show traces of chloroform in her system.”

“Chloroform?” Bauer questioned, looking at Myers, whose eyes widened at the mention of chloroform.

“Precisely my thought, Detective Bauer. A rather old-fashioned drug for subduing a person, but cheap, effective, and relatively easy to acquire on the internet, or so I am told by younger colleagues. However, it takes a great deal of chloroform to subdue a person.”

“The killer would risk inhaling it himself,” Myers said.

“Correct,” Wilson confirmed, turning a curious glance toward her.

“So she bled out during the last day, but someone kept her alive and fed prior to that,” Slater summarized.

“Yes, fed but restrained at least part of the time,” the coroner answered. “See the ligature marks on her wrists and ankles?”

“Why would someone feed her if they were gonna kill her anyway?” Bauer asked.

“Precisely,” Wilson nodded. “In addition, I found extensive trauma to the body during the several days before she expired. See these marks.” The pathologist pointed to the bruising and then the knife wounds.

“Defensive wounds,” Slater concluded. “She fought back.”

Wilson nodded. “There are twenty-six stab wounds in all, but only a small number was inflicted pre-mortem.”

“What else, Patch?” Slater asked.

Even though the nickname, a contraction of his Italian middle name—Pachinelli—was at odds with the pathologist’s formal demeanor, Slater continued to use it. He knew the older man looked upon him as a surrogate son and suspected that the doctor enjoyed the familiarity.

While Wilson perused his clipboard notes, Slater slid a quick look at Bauer and Kate. His partner was pale, white lines etched around his mouth. He wasn’t surprised at Matt’s reaction, but when Slater saw Myers’ drawn face and the slick sheen of perspiration on her brow, he frowned.

Wilson concluded his recitation. “After Ms. Johnston was abducted, she was taken somewhere—I have no idea where—that’s your job—and beaten repeatedly.”

“Sexual assault?” Slater asked the question the others were thinking about.