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I’m my own boss, and I’m a responsible one. I did get clearance from my department psychologist on the way here. She wanted me to come in, but after I explained the importance of this case, she reluctantly cleared me. This case is my priority.
“No. It’s fine.” I roll my shoulders back and flick my bangs out of my eyes. Suck down another crisp, fall-laced breath that doesn’t reek of the vic.
Though having Sadie here would benefit the case—there are areas where she excels beyond Carson, and even Quinn—it’s better if she’s not. I’ve become too dependent even on Sadie. Besides, her being at Lark and Gannet, asking the tough questions, means no one else has to.
I have to push through. If I give in now, if I let fear drive me, then I’m doing exactly what those bastards want.
That was their intent when they dressed the vic in my lab coat.
“Instruct the unis away from the vic,” I tell Carson, grateful he’s the on-scene detective in Quinn’s absence. He listens well without questioning or reading too much into my every statement.
As he clears CSU and the uniforms away from the scene, I bring out my recorder and steady my voice as I recite the date and time. “Victim is a Caucasian female between the age of twenty and twenty-five.” I pause the device and scrutinize her hips to be more certain. They’re narrow and from what I can see, hold no definitive proof to whether she’s given birth in her lifetime.
The age is an educated guess based on that fact, but with what I have to work with…it’s the best I can do until I can examine her further.
“Cause of death appears to be—” Torture. Extreme, sadistic torture. “Maltreatment. Varying depths of lacerations to the outer longitudinal layer indicate the offender used a blade, possibly four-to-six inches, to remove the dermis from the victim’s body. Significant perimortem blood loss suggests the victim was still alive during the removal of her skin.”
I hit Pause and wipe my forehead with the sleeve of my jacket. Carson sends me a concerned glance, then adjusts his coat, flipping the collar up against the wind.
I clear my throat and kneel next to the victim. This is about how close I got before the attack took my breath. I haven’t needed camphor ointment since
I was in training, and I feel pathetic as I dig through my kit to find an old tub of Vics VapoRub that I keep around for the interns. I remove a glove and dab a bit of the cool, minty salve beneath my nose.
With my gloved hand, I peel back the white lab coat—the coat I was wearing yesterday when I was taken from my lab. I know it’s mine before I even check the inseam, because there’s a chocolate stain on the pocket from where I brushed my hand.
“I don’t want to freak you out,” Carson says, pulling my attention away from the vic. “But she kind of looks like you, Avery. I mean, in general. Blond hair. Close to your height and similar in build. And she’s wearing the same kind of coat you do. Did she work in the crime lab…or do you think it could be a message?”
This is not a message. It’s a threat.
The sight beneath the coat makes Carson curse, and I can only stare. Unsure of what I’m feeling. Numb, edgy, nauseated. Definitely nauseated. I’ve examined countless bodies, some in worse states than this. But not many. As a doctor, I have little sympathy; only aware I need to find the evidence to uncover her death. As a human being—the part of me I lock away so it’s not touched by this kind of horror—is absolutely horrified.
“I’m not sure yet,” I answer. “I don’t think she was employed in the lab or the building. But I can’t say that positively. Only that I’ve never laid eyes on her before.”
And I have tried to place her. I remember that woman being hauled into the dank, greenly fluorescent-lit room by the masked man with a gun. Her knotted dark hair and sullen eyes. Her tearstained makeup smeared across her face. Was this victim—this woman—in the next room? Was she one of the women being doped and experimented on? Now that the masked man—if he was in fact the boss—has the perfected drug, did he do away with his test subjects since he no longer needs them?
My stomach bottoms out. I thought I was being brave when I tried to save that woman from being injected. When I took her place and was injected with the serum, instead. I didn’t think; I reacted. And it never occurred to me that by correcting the drug, I was issuing a death sentence to others…
“Avery.” Carson’s concerned voice breaks through my flaring panic, and I shake myself out of my morbid thoughts.
I press Record. “The victim’s breasts were excoriated from her body, probably with the same bladed instrument used to flay the dermis. The jagged, grooved pattern carved into the muscle and nicks to the breastbone indicate the offender applied a saw-like motion to amputate the breasts from the torso.” I squeeze the device, aware of the trembling in my hand. “Other contusions mar the victim’s face, but the face was left otherwise in tact, unscathed. Below the naval, patches of skin and muscle were abraded from the bones. Mutilated genitalia and other injuries inflicted upon the pubic region could indicate sexual trauma. Need further analysis to confirm.”
“Time of death?” Carson prompts.
“Oh—” I restart the recorder. “Core body temperature was ninety-two point eight degrees upon initial examination. Estimated time of death is determined to be between three to five hours prior.” I glance at my phone. “Between six and nine a.m. Approximately,” I amend.
Subconsciously, I may have avoided calculating the time of death formula. The vic died not long ago…and her beastly, extensive injuries took hours to achieve. She suffered. She suffered excruciating torture like no human ever should.
I begin collecting samples, bagging any noticeable trace, as Carson crouches near. “So the lab coat. And the skin flaying. None of this really matches the previous vics. Could be to hide the fact they wanted to remove the mark or brand on the thigh; make this look like a different perp.” He gestures toward the vic’s leg, his features strained at the gruesome sight. “Any way to determine if she did in fact have a brand?”
“There may be,” I say, but I don’t need to examine the surrounding muscle tissue for evidence of a brand. The evidence that this was done by the same suspect who killed the first two vics…and who hurt me…doesn’t need to be found within the victim.
She’s wrapped in it.
I want Quinn’s input on that, however, before I confirm with anyone else on the team.
“You have any insight into what the perp was thinking when they did this?”
I blow out a long breath. “I’m not a behaviorist, Carson. Sorry. I can only give you the facts as to her death, and the likeliness of the murder weapon.”
