Picture Me Dead

No chance of finding flesh beneath the fingernails, though. The fingernails were gone. For that matter, there would be no identification through fingerprints—no flesh remained on a single finger or on the thumbs.

“And no one will recognize her from her face,” he murmured.

“Dental records are usually our best bet anyway, often,” Gannet said. “We’re lucky here, I think. I’m willing to bet the flesh was cut from the fingers, before the animals and the environment had a chance to do their work.” He looked at Jake for a moment, and he knew they were both thinking along the same line.

In the previous murders, the ears had been slashed, and the flesh had been cut from the fingers. Why bother destroying fingerprints, then leaving the head and teeth so that an identity could be culled from dental records?

Were they back to where they had started?

Or was there a copycat killer out there?

“Could be a copycat,” Gannet said, as if Jake had actually voiced his thoughts.

“Yeah,” Jake said.

Gannet stared down at the remains, sorrow in his face. Real emotion, but under complete control. That was another thing Jake liked about Gannet. He did his work well. And though he didn’t take every single case to heart so that he couldn’t sleep at night, he had never, in all his years of work, lost compassion for the victims, whether of accident or violence. “We’ll find out who she is,” he assured Jake.

“I need your findings on this as fast as possible,” Jake said.

Gannet nodded. “Naturally,” he said, a slight touch of sarcasm in his voice. Unfortunately, untimely deaths occurred with a certain frequency in the county. He looked up at Jake again. “Don’t worry. I intend to get right on this one.” He stared at Jake a moment longer. Maybe he knew Gannet too well, Jake thought.

During the last spate of similar murders, Jake had worked the case aggressively on behalf of the victims. Even after the suicide of the “confessed” killer. And even after Bordon’s incarceration.

For the victims.

And because he’d suspected that Bordon had been involved in another death, as well.

Another death…Nothing like this. But far too close to home. Nancy’s death.

Not too many others on the force had agreed with him on that one. They’d thought he was creating scenarios of Bordon’s guilt because he had to find a guilty party and couldn’t accept a verdict of accidental death in the case of a fellow cop.

Or even suicide, as some had suggested.

Suicide. Never. It was a theory to be rejected entirely. No one who’d known her could ever even begin to accept such a possibility.

“Are you going to be all right with this?” Gannet asked softly.

“You bet. I’m a professional, Gannet. And if we do need to make comparisons to past cases, there’s no one out there who knows both the facts and the theories better than I do.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Gannet said. Gloves on, he looked over the remains. Two assistants from the morgue had arrived to take the body when Gannet and the scene-of-crime investigators had finished their site inspection. Gannet nodded an acknowledgment to the others and quietly asked them to make sure they included the dirt and scrub around the body when they removed it from the site.

“Any idea on the actual cause of death?” Jake asked.

“Not natural,” Gannet said.

“Wow. I don’t have a medical degree, and I knew that.”

Gannet grimaced at him. “Knife…big knife. Maybe a machete.”

Jake looked at him in surprise. “There’s not enough flesh—”

“A few courses in forensics and you’d see this just fine.”

“I’ve had a few forensics courses,” Jake reminded him dryly.

“Maybe. But the condition of the corpse makes it hard to see the forest for the trees. Almost literally. Shift this foliage and filth around a little and you get a good look at the bone. Yeah, yeah, I know it’s covered with dirt. But see? If you look really closely…the scratch there? I have to do a full autopsy, but I’d bet we’re talking a very large blade. And you’d need a blade to do that to the ears…and the features. The animals have been at her, but still…those aren’t teeth marks. Definitely made by a blade. And, as we’ve both seen, the flesh was removed from the fingers. You’ve been at this a while, and you seem to know more than you let on most of the time, because you want me to make what you’re already pretty damned sure you do know, official. Yeah, animals have been at her. But the flesh from her fingers was cut off, not gnawed away, or simply decomposed.”

“Hell. This is more than déjà vu. We could definitely be talking the same—” Jake began.

“From what I see so far, yes, but don’t go taking anything as absolute yet. Let me get her down to the morgue. And don’t forget, Jake, what we both already know, as well. There can be copycats out there. There have been cases where murders have been researched and studied and duplicated almost perfectly. There are victims assumed to have been murdered by one serial killer who in reality were killed by someone else entirely.”

Jake arched a brow to him.

“Hey,” Gannet said with a grin. “You learn more about autopsies every year, and I learn about cop work.” He was quiet again for a moment, eyes on the victim. When he spoke again, his tone was serious and flat. “Like I said, I’ll get right on it. You can meet me at the morgue. Hey, I heard you’re moving your houseboat.”

“I moved it. Yesterday.”

Gannet was watching him carefully. “Well, I’m glad to hear that. A change of scenery is always good.”

“It’s still the same old boat,” Jake said dryly.

“Still…a new marina. You wake up to a different view.”

“Yeah.” He didn’t say more. He had the feeling that Gannet—like others around him—believed he’d shared more than a patrol car with Nancy, so, a change of pace now was a good thing. Even if it had been almost five years since Nancy’s death.

He could have said something, he supposed, could have come to his own defense, though he wasn’t being attacked, he knew.

And he had no need to excuse or defend himself to anyone. The inquest had cleared him—as far as that night went, anyway. The general and even logical consensus had been that Nancy, feeling desperate over the disintegration of her marriage and the pressures of her job, had just gone wild for a night. She’d met someone, done some drinking, popped a few pills…and found her way into the canal. But there was one factor he and Brian had in common—they’d both known Nancy well. The year after her death, even with the breakup of Bordon’s cult, had been a bitch for Jake. He’d been like a dog with a bone, determined to connect the two. He’d come close to crossing the line between investigation and harassment, and he’d been called on it. He’d resented his time with the police psychiatrist, though it was common practice for cops to receive such counseling after the death of a partner. He’d realized after a while that he would have to take a step back. Outwardly, he’d become a practical and methodical cop again, following the rules as closely as he could.

But he’d never changed his mind about the truth of the situation. Or his determination to see it come out one day.

“I’d like to live on the water,” Gannet said. “Maybe one day.”

“You should come by on a Sunday sometime. I keep a little motorboat, as well. Fishing is good for the soul.”

“Yeah, I’d like that.” Gannet grimaced. “Maybe my wife will let me come.”

“Bring her.”

“She’s not big on beer.”

“We’ll get her a bottle of wine.”

“I’ll take you up on it, one way or the other, soon enough,” Gannet assured him.

“Dr. Gannet, Detective Dilessio?”

Jake turned. Mandy Nightingale was back. “Are you ready to move the body and let me get the rest of the scene?”

“I’m good to go, Mandy,” Gannet said.

“Jake?” she inquired.

He nodded. “If Gannet’s ready, so am I.”

“Good. You should know then, Jake,” she said softly, “that they’re holding back a slew of reporters over there.”

“Want me to handle them?” Marty asked Jake.

Jake shook his head. “No, it’s all right. Get some of our men started on a door-to-door. I know the doors are pretty far apart around here, but someone might have seen something. I’ll take care of the press.”

“Are you sure? I saw your eyes. It’s all coming back, and you took the entire thing way too personally before—”

“Martin, I’m all right. We’re talking about something that happened five years ago. I’m a cop, this is my job. Just keep an eye on things here, Marty. We can’t let anything, not the most minute clue, slip away.”

Martin nodded. Jake walked from the scene and across the road, where the uniformed officers were holding the onslaught of reporters at bay.

“A murder, right? A young woman?” Jayne Gray, from one of the local stations, called to him.

“Jayne, I’m afraid there’s not too much we can say right now. We’ve got the body of a woman who has apparently been dead several weeks, even a few months. We’ve yet to determine anything else as fact, but as soon as the M.E.’s office has further information, I know they’ll share it. And when that happens, you know that a police spokesperson will be telling you all that they can. There’s nothing else you can learn here right now, folks.”

“But, Detective Dilessio, there must be more you can give us.” Bryan Jay, an obnoxious, heavy-set man from the local paper, called out. “It’s a murder, right? You’ve found the victim of a murder, in the mud, off the side of the road.”

He was tempted to give Jay a real wise-ass reply. Hell, no. She decided to drop herself off there, lie down and die.

“Mr. Jay, give the medical examiner time to do his work,” Jake said firmly.

“Right,” Jay replied dryly. “Come on, Jake, give us something.”

“I’ve already explained that we have the body of a woman, Mr. Jay.”

“Think we have a single crime here, or do we have a serial killer on the loose? Isn’t this the way the first victim was found in those serial killings years ago? Are there any mutilations?”

Leave it to Jay to home in on an uncomfortable suspicion of his own, Jake thought.

“Unfortunately, this is a big city. We have a lot of murders every year.”

“Still, this seems awfully similar to me. The kid who supposedly did the killing back then is dead though, right?”

“A man who claimed to have committed the murders committed suicide, yes.”

“But the case was never officially closed, right?”

“No, Mr. Jay, it was not.”

“The police cracked down on the local cults back then. Papa Pierre, alias Peter Bordon, was a suspect, right? But he’s been locked up for years now, right?”

Jake heard the blood rushing in his ears. He gritted his teeth, desperately fighting the temptation to step forward and bash Bryan Jay in his smug, jowly face.

“Come on, Jake!” another woman called out.

He knew her, too. Crime beat from a Broward paper. She’d moved fast to get down here, he thought.

“Peter Bordon is in prison in the center of the state. As anyone on the crime beat is surely aware, he was never tried for or convicted of murder,” he said.

“That’s right. Neither was the crazy guy who killed himself in jail. Harry Tennant. He was just a homeless junkie, huh? He claimed to have been the murderer, but then, lots of sickos like to claim they’re responsible for sensational murders.”

“Due to Mr. Tennant’s death, we weren’t able to investigate his story, Mr. Jay.”

“Looks like he wasn’t a killer, though, huh? You guys didn’t follow up, and it looks like the murderer is out there and at it again,” Jay said.

“Mr. Jay, I’m sorry, we’re trying to deal in fact, not supposition. There’s nothing else I can give you right now,” Jake said firmly. He forced himself to speak a level tone. “We live in a great country, and I respect the press beyond all measure. I will not, however, stand here and spout off a bunch of theories when I haven’t got any facts. Journalism deals in facts, right? As soon as we’ve got something to give you, we will. Thanks, and that’s all for right now. We like to let you do your work, and we’re damned appreciative when you let us do ours.”

He turned and walked away. First thing on his list was a long talk with the jogger who had found the body—before the press got to her. Then he had to work this like a regular case. Swallow the haunting images and bitterness of the past.

The forensics experts would study soil samples and any microscopic clue that the crime scene investigators could bring in. Gannet would do the autopsy. They had good people working on the case; they would have more to go on as the reports came in. He depended on his associates. He knew that they could practically pull rabbits out of hats. Still, they weren’t magicians, and they couldn’t work miracles.

As to the obvious…

A woman had been murdered. Brutally.

She had been dead for at least several weeks, maybe several months.

Her ears had been slashed, as if it had been a ritualistic killing.

He knew damned well that he had to be careful; he couldn’t assume that her death was a continuation of a killing spree from the past. Every possibility had to be explored.

“Copycat!” Bryan Jay shouted out as he walked away. “There could be a copycat killer out there as well, right?”

He refused to respond.

Copycat…

Yeah, copycat…

Maybe. And maybe not.

As he once again approached the murder scene, he saw that Marty, Doc Gannet and Mandy Nightingale were talking together.

Marty glanced his way, and he knew. They were talking about him. Worrying about him.

Well, there was no need.

He was fine.

This time, he damned well meant to catch the real killer.

CHAPTER 4

First thing Monday morning, Ashley was busy digging through the stacks of newspaper Nick had bundled neatly at the back door, ready to go out with the recycling. She was startled when she heard her uncle behind her. “Ashley, what are you doing?”

She jumped, sorry that she had woken him in her frenzy. The stacks were no longer neat. She had tried first for Saturday’s paper, thinking the accident would surely have been written up in the local section. But she hadn’t been able to find it.

She grimaced. “Hey, sorry I woke you. We saw an accident on our way up to Orlando. I was trying to find out what happened. Did you hear anything?”

Nick scratched the overnight growth of stubble on his chin. At fifty-two, he was a great-looking man, with lots of character sketched into the lines of his face. He didn’t look particularly young—a lifetime in the sun and wind had seen to that. But his bone structure was excellent, and all time had done was weather in an appeal that hinted at an intriguing life lived to the fullest. The gray streaks coming into his sandy hair fit well with the original coloring, and he had cool blue eyes that seemed to hold an ancient wisdom.

Wisdom be damned. At that moment, he shrugged, shook his head and yawned. He was wearing a bathrobe over pajama pants and knotted the robe as he made his way to the coffee brewer, reached for the pot and found it empty. He stared at her blankly. She always made coffee.

“Sorry, I’m afraid this accident has been haunting me,” she said, reaching behind him for a filter in the cabinet while he poured water into the carafe.

“No, no…it’s all right. I am capable of making coffee, you know,” he said, his tone a bit indignant. Of course, that was Nick. He was an independent man. He’d raised her. And he could damn well take care of himself. Nick was impatient with anyone who couldn’t manage the basics of getting by on their own.

“You really didn’t hear anything about an accident?” she asked him.

“Hey, it’s Miami. There are lots of accidents. In fact, it’s a strange day where there isn’t a pile-up on one of the highways,” he reminded her.

“Do you know where the local section from Saturday is? There ought to be a blurb or something. I mean, a man was killed. At least, I’m pretty sure he was dead.”

“Um…yeah, I’ll get it for you. It’s in the bedroom.”

“I can go.”

“Sharon is in the shower, I think,” he murmured.

“Oh. Well, I can wait until you have your first cup of coffee. It’s just been bugging me all weekend.”

“You didn’t have fun?”

“Of course I had fun.”

“Thinking about a dead man on the highway the whole time?” he queried. “You want some toast or something.”

“No, thanks, I’m not hungry.”

“You’re going off to a full day at the academy. You should eat.”

“I had something ghastly late last night at a rest stop,” she told him. “That will do me until lunch.”

“Something ghastly?”

“I think it was supposed to be a hamburger.”

“Ah, so you young ladies crawled in really late. Of course, I figured it had to be late, since we keep the place open ’til twelve on Sundays and I didn’t turn in until after one.”

“Three,” Ashley admitted.

“Great,” he said, mildly sarcastic. “You’ve had lots of sleep, and you probably have a full day ahead.”

“Every day is a full day,” Ashley admitted. “But I’m young. I’m sure I can deal with lack of sleep at this point in my life.”

Nick arched a brow, trying to decide if her response was in respect to the fact that he wasn’t quite so young anymore and decided he wasn’t going to wait any longer for coffee. He pulled the carafe out from beneath the dripping coffee and slid in a large mug in its place. He was quick—only a few drops missed the mug and hit the heating unit below.

“I’m pouring you a cup anyway, because you may be young—and implying that I’m old—but you sure as hell look as if you’re going to need it. Did you sleep at all on that trip?”

She laughed. “I would never dream of implying that you’re old. You’re in your prime. And, yes, honestly, we did get some sleep. We went to a show on Friday night, then went to one of the dance clubs, got in late and slept until three the next afternoon. We didn’t stay out so late the next night and still slept until twelve, which put Karen into a panic, because she didn’t want to get charged for an extra night. So I’m actually in pretty good shape—even if your comment implied that I’m looking haggard.”

He sipped his coffee, leaned on an elbow and grinned. “Most of the good cops I know look haggard. Goes with the territory.”

“So you think I’m going to be a good cop?”

“You’d better be. And I’ll get that paper for you. Good almost-cops don’t show up at the academy late. Hop in the shower and get dressed. I’ll find the local news from Saturday for you.”

She nodded, drained the coffee he’d poured for her, and headed off for her room and a shower.

Nick’s had been there forever. In one of those strange twists of fate, her uncle had bought the place from another Nicholas, an old-time seafarer who had bought the house and restaurant on the beach in the nineteen-twenties, when the Greater Miami area was still in its small-town infancy. Times had changed since then, and the land value had risen quite high. But Nick’s remained the same. It was largely built out of Dade County pine, wood that was now rare and valuable. A dock led straight to the restaurant from the marina, where many people kept pleasure craft and some maintained houseboats. The long bar and restaurant area were at the front, facing the marina. The more intimate family kitchen and an expansive living room for the main house could be accessed from both the restaurant kitchen and the office, which sat behind the bar. Nick’s bedroom suite was above the living room, while Ashley had her own wing on the ground floor. She could get to it through the living room or through a small private entrance to the right of the restaurant. Like the rest of the place, it appealed to her. There was a rustic feel to the entire setup, but just the same, Nick was a stickler for cleanliness, codes and organization, so though it all had a comfortable, homey feel, it was also well-kept and aesthetically pleasing—at least to anyone fond of the sea and nautical decor. Above the entrance from the living room to her wing, the teeth and jaws from a great white shark had been mounted, and a nineteenth century ship’s bell sat encased in a show cabinet beside it. The wall itself was lined with photographs—as well as mounted fish—and she loved them. There were many of her parents, some of her mom and Nick when they’d been growing up, some of her with her folks. One of her favorites was her with her dad in his uniform, and another was of her with both her mother and her father on the day she’d caught her first big snapper in a children’s tournament.

Of course, such an old place had its downfalls. Like hot water in the shower. She remembered that Nick had said Sharon was in the shower the minute she stepped under the lukewarm water. No matter, it made her hurry. Afterward she briskly toweled herself dry. There was nothing wrong with their air-conditioning system. Nick had maintained it well, knowing that his lunch crowd didn’t want to come in from a blistering morning in the hot sun and not find a spot of sweet cool solace.

Dressed and ready in fifteen minutes, she hurried back out to the kitchen. She was surprised to see that Nick, too, had already managed a quick—and probably downright chilly—shower. He was in cutoffs and a polo shirt, leaning over the kitchen counter, a grim look on his face as he scanned the newspaper in front of him. Sharon was standing beside him, gravely regarding the newspaper, as well. Her uncle’s girlfriend of nearly a year was an incredibly attractive woman. Petite, no more than five foot two, and that was in shoes with at least a wedge of heel, she was also slender. She loved a rigorous workout, though, and her efforts showed in the elegance of her compact figure. She was probably a few years younger than Nick—in fact, she could almost pass for thirty—and often seemed too elegant and refined for the dockside bar where she spent so many nights. She could be a tiger in pursuit of a business deal or in regard to her newest passion: politics. But she was pleasant to Ashley at every turn, showing a real interest in her life. She wore her hair in a natural style that just brushed her shoulders. It was almost platinum, which went well with her huge blue eyes. She was an arresting woman, assertive rather than aggressive, intelligent, and a great deal of fun, as well. She was up for any adventure, which made her a good companion for Nick.

“Hey, you all found an article on the accident?” Ashley said.

Nick looked up, startled. He caught her eyes and nodded, that serious look still drawing his face.

“Morning, dear, and we’re so sorry,” Sharon said, those great blue eyes of hers on Ashley then, full of compassion.

“Sorry? What is it?” she asked.

“It took some doing to find the article—there was a storm on Saturday night, and there were two fatal accidents, as well as that pedestrian being struck on the highway. But there is an article in the local section. The body you passed, Ashley,” Nick said. “It’s a kid you went to school with. He’s not dead, though. In a coma, suffered lots of internal injuries, and the doctors are offering his family little hope.”

“What? Who?” she asked, frowning as she looked from one to the other of them, then walked to the counter herself, anxious to see the story in black and white.

“Stuart Fresia,” Nick said.

“Stuart?”

“I understand he was a good friend of yours,” Sharon said.

Ashley was startled as she took the paper, quickly gazing over the words and finding them hard to comprehend.

Stuart.

Not just a kid she had gone to school with, an old friend. Granted, she hadn’t seen him lately, not in a few years. But he’d been a smart kid, the kind to turn into a smart adult. He’d been one of those people able to tread the lines between popularity, peer pressure and academics. He’d always talked about law school. He’d known how to go out, sneak a few drinks when they’d gotten hold of some beer, and never get wasted. He’d smoked cigarettes—and a cigar on occasion—but never become entangled in drugs. She’d envied him sometimes. While it seemed that she lived vicariously through the heartache of divorce—and sometimes remarriage and divorce and remarriage again—with the parents of a number of her friends, she’d gone home with Stuart many times to find two people who still loved one another, and their son, more than anything else in life.