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Now, as she flew toward Chicopee, she forced her mind to calmly catalogue the implications. At best she’d missed something, and she had to figure out what. At worst, she’d completely screwed up, and completely misunderstood what was happening.
No—the main logic still stood. The only connection between all the victims was Ossokov.
Had Ossokov been working with a partner, possibly Hauptmann or Flynn, but had some sort of falling out? Or had Jo’s questions during the interrogation planted more of a seed than she’d hoped, and rather than just leading them to whoever was killing on his behalf, he’d confronted them? Maybe he’d contacted them via burner and asked him to come to his workplace to talk in person. Maybe the confrontation got heated, and ultimately ended with Ossokov dead, maybe by accident? If so, it would make sense for the person to try to confuse the situation by using the same signature as the other killings.
Jo voice-commanded her phone to call Goran and Coyne.
“We’re en route,” Goran stated without preamble. “We left Arnett at home.”
“Good thinking.” She made a sharp turn. “Because I need you to bring in Rebecca Ossokov as soon as possible.”
“You think hismotherkilled him?”
“At this point I’m ruling out nothing. But no, I think it’s more likely she’s not involved but knows who is.”
“Got it. We’re on our way.”
She hung up, then screeched to a halt next to the dental office’s sidewalk. Set in an industrial area of Chicopee, Denton Dental was part of a complex of similar buildings that varied somewhat in shape, but not in style. All were modular squares and rectangles, primarily made of red brick with corrugated accents and some roll-up delivery bays. Most buildings had no signage and had to be identified by address—a task made harder because several buildings shared each lot and were differentiated only by lettered suites. Denton Dental was 525B, and was one of the few in the area to have a prominent sign.
The responding officer filled her in on the details of the scene, then directed her to where Marzillo and Peterson were suiting up. Marzillo acknowledged her with a curt jut of her chin.
“You should’ve let someone else take this,” Jo said. “When was the last time you slept?”
“I got a good, solid four hours.” Marzillo glanced over Jo’s face. “How much didyouget?”
“Point taken.” Jo suited up at breakneck pace, then stepped under the crime-scene tape and over to Ossokov.
“Behind the building, just like Murphy, and similar to Scott.” Jo glanced at the only car in the lot, about fifty feet away from the supine figure, and checked the license plate. “That’s the vehicle he borrowed to get himself back and forth to work. He may have been leaving after work, or may have called someone to meet him.”
Peterson moved closer to Ossokov, and visibly flinched. “Holy shit.”
Jo stepped to his side, and instantly understood—what was left above his shoulders was barely recognizable as a head. The arms were posed the same way as the previous victims, but in this case, the blindfold was simply draped over a misshapen pile of pulp and hair, with blood flowing into a large pool. Jo’s stomach clenched, and she willed her gag reflex not to kick in.
“Are we even sure this is Ossokov?” Peterson said.
Jo pointed to the poorly executed yin-yang symbol on Ossokov’s forearm. “I recognize the tattoo.”
Marzillo took a closer look. “Fairly distinctive shade of BIC pen.”
Jo ran a practiced eye over the rest of his body, squatting for a closer look at Ossokov’s right thigh. “What’s happening here? This blood pool is running toward the head, not away from it.”
Marzillo directed Peterson to photograph the body and blood pool. Once he’d finished, she bent down and carefully lifted the leg. “Gunshot wound. Based on the size of the entrance wound, I’m guessing we’re looking at a twenty-two.”
“No scorching around the hole,” Jo said.
“Nope. This was done from farther away.”
“So that’s new.” Jo carefully circled Ossokov. “I’m guessing there would have been no reason to shoot him after bashing his head in, so the gunshot came first?”
“Or maybe Ossokov broke away after an initial blow, and our killer shot him to stop him getting away?” Marzillo said.
Jo’s hand flipped up to the diamond at her throat. “Then why not just shoot him in the head once he was down and have done with it? Bashing in someone’s head this way is difficult and messy. They’d have been hit by a tremendous amount of back spatter.”
“Maybe he pulled out a gun to stop his attacker and accidentally shot himself? Or there was a struggle and the gun went off?” Peterson said.
“Something similar occurred to me on the way here. Also that maybe he figured out who was responsible for the killings and confronted them.” Jo motioned to what remained of Ossokov’s head. “But I don’t think so. Whatever happened, there was some rage behind it.”
“Maybe the killer went berserk when he wasn’t falling over himself with gratitude,” Peterson said.
