Tension rippled through Ramsey’s body as he braced. “Open it.”
Melina took a step back from the trunk and, out of habit, slid her hand to her weapon. She hated surprises.
The last time she had found a surprise in a car trunk, she was responding to a call from the Virginia State Police. A Staunton man had abducted his three children and was believed to be en route to Tennessee. When she received word that the car had been spotted, she caught up to the deputies just as they pulled the man out of the vehicle. They then opened the trunk and discovered the three children, ages two, three, and four. All three girls were badly dehydrated and had to be rushed to the hospital. The youngest did not survive. To this day, she could still smell the combined stench of urine, vomit, and cheese crackers.
The latch popped and the wide trunk lid slowly opened. The large interior was crammed full of an assortment of junk just like the car’s interior. There were a couple of large black roller suitcases, a small red cooler, a few garbage bags, and what looked like a large jar underneath a quilted blanket. A strong chemical smell emanated from the trunk and was enough to make her raise her hand to her nose.
“It smells like formaldehyde,” she said.
“I noticed it as soon as I opened the lid.” Sheriff Jones nodded to his forensic tech and asked him to start snapping pictures. “Once I took a look under the blanket, I called TBI.”
The sheriff gingerly lifted the quilt soaked in the chemical solution. The jar lid was not screwed on tightly. Someone had taken the jar lid off and not replaced it properly. The sheriff carried the damp blanket to a tarp.
“As soon as the deputy got a peek in the trunk, he hustled the child away from the car and halted the investigation. I got a good long look before I called TBI.”
In the right corner of the trunk was a large old pickle jar with the label still attached to the front and back. The top lid was green, and the glass was clear. At first, she thought what she saw floating inside the jar was some kind of pickled vegetable.
The sheriff grabbed the jar and, turning his face away from the contents, held it up for Melina and Ramsey. The sunlight caught the jar and reflected off the dusty glass, forcing her to refocus. When she did, she realized why she was here, as well as the FBI.
“May I?” Ramsey reached out for the jar.
“Be my guest,” Sheriff Jones said.
Ramsey tilted the pickle jar back until the dusty glass caught evening light that illuminated the interior. The murky liquid made it difficult to identify what was floating in the jar until he leaned it forward and one of the objects settled on the glass.
It wasn’t filled with pickles. Floating inside were human fingers.
“Jesus H. Christ!” Jackson said.
“Sheriff, have you asked the child about the jar?” Melina asked.
“Not the kind of topic I want to bring up with a kid. That’ll be your job,” Sheriff Jones said.
“Got it.”
The digits appeared to be all ring fingers, and they floated as Ramsey moved the jar from side to side. Several were shriveled with a pale, ghostly gray color and appeared to be from different individuals. Only one had nail polish on it, and it looked relatively fresh.
“Six,” Ramsey said. “Six fingers in the jar.”
“Six females? Six males? Both?” Melina asked.
“The fingers are small and appear to be female, but DNA testing will confirm that,” Ramsey said.
“Are they trophies?” Jackson asked.
“That’s exactly what they are,” Ramsey said. “Some killers collect their victims’ jewelry, underwear, driver’s licenses, or shoes. This individual keeps fingers.”
Her breath trickled through her clenched teeth. She stepped back and looked at the car’s California plates. “Sheriff, have you run these?”
“Of course. The car was reported stolen sixteen days ago from San Diego, California. I’ve put a call in to the local San Diego police and have asked them to locate the owner.”
“We need to get the fingers to the medical examiner’s office and have them determine if there are any usable prints,” Ramsey said. “We might get a hit in AFIS.”
Identifying the victims was a vital first step, but her priority was finding the driver and talking to the child.
“What’s your impression, Agent Shepard?” Ramsey asked.
His deep baritone voice sounded professorial. She straightened, tightening her grip on the stuffed animal at her side. “At this stage, I don’t know what to think.”
“Come on, you have thoughts and impressions. I can see it in your expression. Any thoughts about the driver, the child?”
“The child didn’t lack for snacks. The food isn’t nutritious, but standard fare for children. Snacks keep a child quiet.”
“True. But I sense the driver has genuine affection for the child,” Ramsey countered.
When she’d been about six, she had been famous for her meltdowns. Her mother had quickly started carrying Goldfish crackers and juice boxes. Even to this day, her mother knew a handful of Goldfish made her happy.
“This driver abandoned the child,” she said. Something her mother had never done. “The driver values self-preservation over the welfare of the girl.”
“Assuming the driver knew about the pickle jar’s contents, he or she is familiar with violent behavior.”
“Cuts fingers off people, but is careful to keep the child fed.”
“Some violent offenders can care about family and friends and draw a line between their two worlds,” Ramsey said.
Yeah, it was called compartmentalization. Keep a firm line between light and dark. Some killers could manage it for decades. For others, a simple trigger shattered the illusion and was usually their downfall. “But even for the most hardened, those worlds often collide eventually.”
“Yes, they do.”
She hoped for Elena’s sake the wall had been firmly in place until the accident. “The driver’s sense of self-preservation trumps any of the snacks and toys. Cheap food is easy to come by. Freedom is not.”
“Did anyone see the driver run away after they heard the crash?” Jackson asked.
“No,” Sheriff Jones said. “We’ll check with the residents and see who has private security footage.”
“You might get lucky,” Ramsey said.
“I’ll put a couple of deputies on it,” Sheriff Jones said.
She stared at the jar of digits floating in the viscous liquid but discovered she had no words. Many of the victims murdered by serial killers were faceless, nameless women who worked in the sex trade. They were women who had left home a long time ago, and if they went missing, family rarely noticed, nor did they care.
“I want to get to the hospital and speak to Elena,” Melina said.
“I’ll follow,” Ramsey said.
“If we all go, she’s sure to clam up.” Melina looked at Ramsey and Jackson. “You both can be a little overwhelming.”
Ramsey and Jackson looked at each other.
“I can be charming,” Ramsey said.
“I have two kids of my own,” Jackson said.
“No,” Melina said. “I’ll talk to the girl.”
Jackson released his breath, seeming to concede to her on this. “I’ll escort the fingers to the medical examiner’s office.”
“I want to see the child,” Ramsey said. “She’s our only witness right now.”
“All right, but let me do the talking,” she said.
He attempted a smile as if to prove he could soften his image. “Done.”
“Don’t do that,” she said.
“What?”
“Don’t smile at the kid. It will terrify her. Just be quiet.”
“What’s wrong with my smile?” he asked with genuine curiosity.
“You’re the detective. You figure it out.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Monday, August 24, 6:00 p.m.
Melina lost sight of Ramsey as each drove toward the hospital, but she was not concerned. He was a big boy and perfectly capable of finding the right address.
His presence unsettled her, which was a rare occurrence. Since her rookie days, she had dealt with her share of tough cops who expected her to prove her worth. Those days were long past—until Ramsey, who was in a different league of cop. He noticed more than the average bear, and there was a hint of ruthlessness that was keeping her on her toes.
For now, she was grateful for the time alone in the car. She needed to process the scene without enduring his scrutiny.
She arrived at the hospital and parked. As she crossed the hospital lot and strode toward the front doors, she spotted Ramsey approaching from her left flank. His long even strides ate up the distance quickly, and by the time she reached the front door, he was at her side.
“You made it,” she said.
He grinned and paused, allowing her to walk through the sliding doors first, but he was the first to reach the information desk and show his badge. She held up hers as he said, “FBI agent Jerrod Ramsey and TBI agent Melina Shepard. We’re here to see Elena Sanchez.”
The older woman with white curly hair wore a blue smock over her street clothes and sported a badge that read GINA, VOLUNTEER. Brown eyes widened as she checked her computer screen and then, squaring her shoulders, said, “Third floor. She’s on the pediatric wing.”