She turned to him, eyes narrowed. “He’s fine, he’s good.”
“Well, now, I hope so. This can’t be easy for him, either. Frankly, the fellow ought to fly back to California and stay there, what with another girl in your circle being dead. But then, I don’t suppose he will. Not with you back in town as well.”
“Gramps, he stayed to work, not because of me.”
“Do you really believe that? Well, we’ll see. I’ll be glad to talk with the fellow tonight. I always liked that boy.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “He’s a good friend.”
“More than a friend?”
“I don’t know. There’s a lot of past between us.”
“Maybe you should talk about that past,” Gramps suggested.
Startled, she looked at him. He always knew too much. She wondered just what he did know.
He smiled at her, not expecting an answer. Once more he lifted his glass to her. “I won’t be going quite yet, lass, so don’t go mourning me until I tell you it’s time to mourn. I’ll be around awhile, making sure you’re safe before I go.”
“Thanks.”
She clicked her glass to his, and downed the Guinness.
“Well?”
Sean liked Gillespie, really liked her, but she seemed to have a habit of being dramatic.
They were at the morgue, and in a small room she had thrown open a plastic bag containing a pile of bones. Burned bones.
“Well?” she repeated.
He looked at her. “Burned bones,” he told her.
“But you can still tell things from them, right? When you study them, you can tell me something about the person in life?”
He nodded. “I can. I can tell you what you probably already know.”
“Indulge me,” she said. “Bones shrink when they’re burned, right?”
“Right. But taking that into perspective, I can still tell you if this was a man or a woman and give you an approximate age. And since the skull seems to be in pretty good shape, I’ll bet you a forensic artist can give you something of a picture of the face.”
“I’ll leave you with them,” she said sweetly.
She did, closing the door.
She had left him gloves, instruments, chemicals, materials, anything she thought he might need.
He was hesitant at first, but then he pulled on a pair of gloves and began carefully arranging the human skeleton. Time slipped away as a body came into being from the bones. He still found the work fascinating. He’d started off with one of the world’s greatest professors, a man who routinely gave them tests, simple at first, with large pieces of bone. Was it human or not? The bone pieces got smaller and smaller. They did work in the field—bones purposely left in a building scheduled for demolition, and then the students went in to find the pieces after destruction and fire. To this day, Sean remained amazed by what bones, the most permanent feature of the human body, could tell. Bone in itself couldn’t offer something so unique as DNA, but with new technology, even burned teeth could be tested to discover what kind of trace elements remained to prove what kind of dental work had been done. He didn’t have that kind of capability here, but the fragments could be sent to the Smithsonian. Proof positive couldn’t be offered for identification that way, but dental records could be compared for compatible results.
Gillespie hadn’t given him any particulars, but he assumed that she thought the body had been burned to keep the police from identifying the victim.
This girl had been a victim.
The pelvic bone was in relatively good shape, enough to tell him immediately that the bones had belonged to a young woman. Despite the fact that the bones had been burned—before the body had decomposed, as the residue of burning body fat proved—they could still be read. The epiphysis had joined completely with the thigh bone, showing that she had finished growing, yet it was a recent union, making her a young adult. The skull, in relatively good shape despite the fragmented teeth, also proved her age through the tiny fissures still visible. Mid-twenties. He was sure that Gillespie had been able to read these obvious signs, and he grew more curious as to why she had brought him in.
While going through the vertebrae, he found marks suggesting that she’d been killed with a sharp object, such as a long knife or scalpel. He also found nicks on the ribs, suggesting that she had been repeatedly stabbed. What damage had been done to tissue he couldn’t say, but the bones themselves told a very sad story. He was studying one of the vertebrae when Gillespie returned.
He looked at her. “I can’t prove anything, of course, and this is pure theory, but I imagine you’ve got the same theory. She was killed by the same person who killed your other victim—and perhaps killed Eleanor Metz as well.”
Gillespie opened a file she’d been holding and slipped on a pair of reading glasses. “Sariah Applebee, female, twenty-five years of age, five foot six, one hundred and twenty-five pounds… let’s see, what’s pertinent… she wore a size seven shoe. Could these bones have fit such a woman?”
“Yes, but they might fit descriptions of other women as well. You can send the bones and the teeth—”
“Yes, but I still won’t have proof positive. I don’t think that I can go much further than we’ve gone toward a total identification— unless we get the killer to confess.”
“A study of the teeth fragments could agree or not agree with Sariah Applebee’s dental records.”
“They could. And if you suggest it, I will send the teeth to the lab. But for now… will you talk with someone for me?”
He frowned, shrugging. “Who?”
She smiled. “My husband. You’ll understand in a minute.”
He followed Gillespie down the institutional morgue hallway to her office. There was an older gentleman seated behind her desk. He was about sixty, with sharp blue eyes and steel gray hair. He smiled at Sean and Gillespie.
“My ex-husband, Lieutenant Trent, homicide. Joseph, this is Mr. Sean Black.”
Joseph Trent rose, reaching out to shake Sean’s hand. “Nice to meet you,” Sean said, and looked at Dr. Gillespie, frowning. “I kept my own name when I was married,” she explained. “I’d gone through medical school with it, and then, of course, Joe and I were divorced… he couldn’t live with my corpses.”
“She couldn’t live with my corpses,” Joseph Trent corrected.
“One would think you’d both be happy as larks, sharing corpses,” Sean suggested politely.
They both smiled, then Trent explained. “My dear angst-ridden ex-wife has been convinced for some time before this last murder that we had a serial killer on our hands, but it’s been difficult to get any real federal help when we’ve nothing but some old bones to go by and no real fear in the community.”
“Well, I think you’ve got some real fear going since the Metz killing,” Sean said.
They glanced at one another. “I admit,” Trent said, “I was scoffing at Kate’s suggestion that I didn’t know my business, but I understand you’ve worked with some real experts, that you studied with some of the finest professors, and have consulted the FBI in certain cases. At first, you see, I told Kate that she had too great a fondness for fiction. She was trying to create a mystery when we were quite busy enough in homicide already. So, you see, she dragged you in on this to prove that her opinions were right. Can you prove her right?”
“I can’t prove her opinion, but I do agree with it.”
“Now, Joseph,” Kate Gillespie said patiently, “you know as well as I do that for a killer to have gone so far over the edge, he must have started somewhere.”
“Usually,” Joseph said firmly. He looked at Sean. “There was the case of that young female marine who was abducted while she was out jogging and horribly murdered and mutilated. Her killer turned out to be a married man, and to the best that anyone has managed to discover, he didn’t even beat his wife.”
“Few killers beat their wives—they kill other women,” Kate said with a sigh. “Please r
emind my husband—who has been through all kinds of behavioral classes!—that violence can be far more addictive than drugs or alcohol, and that the capacity for it can grow within the human psyche at a terrifying rate.”
“He doesn’t need to remind me, dear,” Joseph Trent said. He sighed. “I believe what you’re telling me, that—that among our other murders, and we do have other murders— we’ve had a specific sexual serial killer down here for several years now. A careful, organized killer.”
“But I think he’s growing less careful, more unhinged,” Kate said. “Don’t you think, Sean? Eleanor Metz’s body was found before it had decomposed.”
He hesitated, then agreed. “The fact that her body was so poorly hidden might be indicative of a carelessness… because he is either growing too confident in himself—or because he was afraid of being caught in the act. But I would say, yes, as his confidence continues to grow, he’ll be more careless. And he’ll probably grow to need bigger thrills.”
“More killings, each more violent and angry,” Gillespie said.
Joseph Trent rose. “Well, dear, we are on it. Honestly. But I still have to be careful; we don’t want a panic.” He started out the door, then paused, setting a hand on Sean’s shoulder. “Actually, I’d like to keep our discussion quiet. From everyone. Including your friend, my associate Detective Garcia.”
Sean frowned. “Ricky brought me in here.”
“Of course. But just tell him Kate is interested in helping you with research.” He glanced at his ex-wife. “He’ll buy that.” With a smile, he left them.
Gillespie smiled broadly at him and took a bottle of brandy from a desk drawer. She didn’t have glasses. She took a swig and handed it to him.
Politely, he took a swallow as well.
“There is someone evil out there,” she said firmly. “Thanks!”
He nodded. “Thank you.”
“For making you study more bones when you’ve got rich and famous as a writer?”
He grinned. “I still like old bones. But no—thanks for believing in me enough to want my opinion.”
She drank from the bottle again and handed it back.
“Still, you’re a lot richer. The brandy is on me. If I do prove my point and the cops get this guy, the champagne is on you. And it had best be good.”
“So we’re partners, huh?”
Gillespie arched a brow. “What does that mean?”
“I need a favor from you.”
“All right.”
“Come with me.”
“Are you taking me somewhere dark and dangerous and scary?”
“Dr. Gillespie, you are the M.E. at the morgue—just what do you consider spooky?”
She shrugged. “Dark, spider-webbed mansions in gothic novels, I suppose. But where are you taking me?”
“Just to my car, and just for a moment.” Intrigued, she came with him. He opened the passenger-side door, and she wrinkled her nose—the cat was already getting rank. He hadn’t realized he’d be at the morgue so long.
“You’re not driving around with a corpse, are you?”
“Cat corpse.”
“Oh?”
“I need a cause of death,” he told her.
She frowned, watching him. “I imagine you think you have your cause of death already.”
“Indulge me,” he told her.
She grinned, slipped on a thin pair of gloves from her pocket, and reached into the bag for the cat. She looked at him. “Neck snapped.”
“Could a car have done it?”
“No, a person did it.” She frowned, watching him. “I’m sorry to say it, but lots of people get angry and kill animals, especially stray cats. It’s terrible and they should all be arrested, but… where did you find this cat?”
“In a friend’s trash pile.”
“Probably has some nasty neighbors.”
“Maybe.”
“You think there’s more?”
“I think that maybe… I don’t know. Maybe I’m suffering from paranoia…”
“Maybe,” Gillespie said shrewdly, “you feel that you should keep a close eye on your friend?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“I’ll get rid of the cat for you,” Gillespie volunteered.
15
Jan’s party was a tremendous success from the minute it started.
Lori came early, having promised Jan that she would help setting up the food. Brad, too, arrived before the other guests and instructed the kids in setting up banquet tables on the patio while Lori and Jan made dips, cut veggies, and arranged pepperoni, salami, and trays of cheese.
Lori’s parents and Gramps arrived with the Jacksons and Hunts, all still friends involved with one another through their country club. Jan’s mom had made lasagna, Lori’s mother contributed a shepherd’s pie, and Brad’s mom, the daughter of a pastry chef, had brought fabulous desserts. Within a matter of minutes there was a fair amount of confusion in the kitchen and beyond. More of Tina’s friends from school came, Jeff Olin arrived, then Michael Black, then Andrew and Josh, Ricky, Ted, Sue, and finally, late, after their party had gotten going with kids racing in and out of the pool, squealing everywhere, Sean arrived.
He obviously hadn’t been prepared for Brendan and Tina spreading the word that the Michael Shayne would be there, but as he entered the patio and was nearly knocked over by the throng of teenagers, he quickly rebounded and handled the situation with humor and courtesy.
Lori watched him, torn. She could see the teenage girls forming instant crushes on him while they chatted. He smiled back, polite, talked, handed out autographs.
“I think I’m going to save him,” Jan said, watching. Their old group was sitting together at one of the plastic-covered banquet tables. The grown-ups had gravitated together, and the kids were all excitedly arranged around Sean.
“Why save him?” Brad demanded. “Let him bask in the adoration.”
“He can deal with it,” Michael said, a soft note of pride in his voice.
“He always was a hunk,” Sue said. “When you think back to what we did to him—” She broke off, looking around, uneasy, because a number of the older parents who had jerked their children away from Sean after the scandal were present here tonight. Sue’s dad had died, and her mother had Alzheimer’s, but Ricky’s parents were there as well as Ted’s mother and the Jacksons, Hunts, and Kellys. And she was sitting across the table from Jeff Olin and next to Michael Black.
“We didn’t do anything to him,” Jeff said. He reached out and set a hand on top of Sue’s. “And it’s all right. I never thought that Sean had anything to do with it. He and Mandy had their problems, but they solved them like normal people.” He grinned. “They yelled a lot.”
“It’s still strange to realize that Mandy is really gone, much less Eleanor,” Michael said.
“I still miss her,” Jeff said. He lifted his bottle of Miller Lite. “Jan, thanks. This was a hell of an idea.”
“I still think we should save Sean,” Jan said.
“He doesn’t look like he needs saving to me,” Ricky commented. “Who is that cute little thing with the sexy curves? That girl can’t be thirteen, is she, Jan?”
“You’d better not be talking about my daughter,” Brad growled.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I know your daughter.”
“That’s Jennie Larson, and no, she’s my neighbor’s daughter, ahead of Tina in school. She’s sixteen,” Jan told him.
“She thinks she’s twenty,” Sue said.
“Sour grapes?” Josh teased.
“No, she just knows that she’s attractive, and she’s experimenting,” Lori said, smiling.
“Ah… so you were out to torment older men in your younger days as well!” Ricky accused her.
She shook her head, laughing. “No, I thought that thirty-somethings were decaying when I was that young. I was out to torment kids my own age.”
“Honesty!” Jeff applauded.
“Well, I’ll tell you
. That little cutie is one hot ticket,” Ted commented.
“Well, didn’t we all think we were something back then?” Andrew asked.
Josh laughed. “We were. We were the ‘Bold and the Beautiful’ of our high school.”
Sean was managing to extract himself from the throng of kids. A couple of the girls raced by the table with Tina. “Oh! Isn’t he just gorgeous!” one of them said.
“Drop dead gorgeous!” the other agreed.
“Oh, God,” Sue said softly. She looked around at them all, her eyes wide. “Ellie used to call guys that. When she met someone she really liked…”
Big tears started to form in her eyes. “Sue!” Jan wailed.
“I’m sorry, I can’t help it.”
“Look at those girls over there! All talking away, spilling everything! Females will just talk, talk, talk!” Michael said, trying to distract Sue.
It worked. Sue looked. She turned back, grinning. “Well, at least when we age, we wrinkle, but we do learn a little discretion.”
“Discretion has its place,” Josh Kelly said sagely. Then he grinned at Sean as he finally joined the group. “Hail the conquering hero! Want a beer, you hunk you?”
Sean laughed, joining them at the table, accepting the beer. “It still throws me.”
“You’re surprised that people get all excited that you’ve written a book?”
He shook his head, grinned, swigged the beer. “No, no one got excited when I had just written a book. I wound up in People because of a movie deal. Millions of people see a movie, and I assure you, it’s seldom that millions of people read a book, any book. I worked for a long time, wrote for a long time. Nobody noticed—then I had an offer for the big screen. The movie deals did it. Now people think that I actually have something to do with the movies.”
“What a pity. Women throwing themselves all over you!” Jeff moaned, clapping him on the back.
“It can be,” Sean informed him. “You haven’t seen some of the women. They can be downright terrifying.”
“Oh, hardy-har!” Jan told him. “But you know what? Come to think of it, I don’t have an autographed book. I need one. How will I ever prove that you’re a friend when I’m throwing around names to sell real estate if I don’t even have an autograph?”