The one time her expression had softened had been when she had spoken to Elena. Then, genuine concern and empathy had warmed her voice. Most cops, especially those with children, could not escape the emotions of an injured child. Whether she had a kid, or she had been hurt as a child, she’d had a real connection to Elena.
Shepard rounded the corner. She still wore the dark jacket over a fitted blouse, long black slacks, booted heels, and her badge clipped to her belt. Her olive skin had a faint glow of sun likely picked up while canvassing the neighborhood.
“Agent Ramsey,” she said. “Secured an identification yet?”
No small talk. Which in all honesty, he did appreciate. Talking about the weather, music, or whatever bullshit people filled the airways with at times like this never sat well with him. Shepard did not play politics. She simply did not care whose feelings got hurt. That was noble but shortsighted if she had any ambitions to rise through the ranks.
He understood strategy and looked upon office politics like a necessary evil. He was good at it. And for that, he was able to get whatever his team needed.
“We now have two identified,” he said. “The doctor has given us the use of his conference room. I can brief you, and then we can meet with him.”
“Perfect.” She moved away from him and opened the conference room door in her habitually expedient way. She flipped on the lights and crossed to a small refrigerator and plucked out two bottled waters. As he entered the room, she held one up for him, but when he declined with a shake of his head, she replaced it. She twisted off the top and was drinking greedily as she sat.
He took a seat and pulled the tablet from his briefcase. “I’ve been in contact with my agents at Quantico, who fast-tracked the identification of the prints.”
She removed a notebook and a pen from the backpack slung over her shoulder. “I suppose we’re lucky this killer opted to save fingers and not ears. And why ring fingers?”
“Other than the obvious symbolism of love and romance?” Ramsey asked.
“Left ring finger is supposed to be a direct line to the heart.”
“It’s not a random choice, Agent Shepard.”
“He’s arrogant or a fool. Otherwise why save such telling evidence?”
“He preserved mementos precisely because they can be easily identified.”
“Taunting the law?”
“I think so.”
“Jesus.” She shook her head, then finished off the bottle. “What do you have?”
He pulled up emails from Agent Andrea “Andy” Jamison, who worked on the ViCAP database. “These are from Andy Jamison at the bureau. She tracks monsters with her computer.”
“That’s efficient.”
“Andy is good at her job. When I told her that we have six severed fingers, she dug into her database and found one hit immediately.” The ViCAP system relied on local law enforcement to input the data from their local violent crimes.
“Does she have any cases involving missing ring fingers?”
“No cases submitted with that particular detail. If this killer moved from jurisdiction to jurisdiction, a cop might not find it odd enough to bother with a ViCAP application.”
Shepard frowned. “I get it. Especially if it’s a small locality with minimal staff.”
“Andy identified Cindy Patterson, age thirty-eight, as one of the victims who has an arrest record. Patterson was murdered December 2007. She vanished after a concert at the arena in Kansas City, Missouri. According to statements, her friends saw her leaving the venue about 11:00 p.m., and she was walking toward a parking garage. She insisted she was meeting her date and would be fine.”
“Did they ever ID the date?”
“No. None of her friends reported ever meeting the guy. He apparently was from out of town, and Cindy hooked up with him in a bar. Bottom line, she never made it to her car, which was found by police in the parking garage after she had been reported missing.”
Shepard tapped the side of the empty plastic bottle. “Was her body found?”
“Two days after Patterson vanished, the area was hit by a wicked ice storm that dropped two inches on the area. Over a quarter of a million homes and businesses were without power with downed trees everywhere.”
“Meaning the search didn’t really get off the ground.”
Ramsey heard the frustration in Shepard’s voice. “Delayed at best. Nothing really thawed out until the following spring, when her body was found thirty miles outside of the town. Remains were badly decomposed, but the medical examiner did get DNA from the teeth that eventually identified Patterson.”
“Were the police able to determine if the ring finger was missing? Out in the open, animal activity does a number on a body.”
“The remains were badly compromised. We might not have connected Cindy to this if not for her arrest record.”
“What was she arrested for?” Shepard asked.
He pulled up the mug shot. Cindy had been blond, with blue eyes and a long narrow face. Full lips turned down in a frown. “Drug dealing and fraud.”
“She wasn’t a Girl Scout, which meant she also wasn’t on anyone’s priority list.”
“Medical examiner was able to find the hyoid bone in the neck and determined it was broken.”
“Although strangulation isn’t quick or easy, it’s personal and doesn’t leave ballistics traces.”
“Cindy’s sister, Robin, stayed in contact with police and tried to keep the case active,” Ramsey said.
“But it’s impossible to compete with the growing caseloads and budget constraints.”
“Exactly.”
“We get to tell Robin Patterson her sister was murdered by a serial killer.” She rose and grabbed another water from the refrigerator. One quick twist and the bottle top opened. “Anyone else in Cindy’s life other than that mystery date who might have been a suspect?”
“She ran with a rough crowd according to her file.” And as Shepard sat down, he said, “There’s a second identification. Her name is Nina Hall, age thirty-nine.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky and see a connection between the two women.”
“That might be difficult. The victim was last seen in Portland, Oregon, in November 2009 leaving a popular nightspot called Sugar.”
“Our boy has a thing for musicians?”
“Maybe.” He pulled up her picture, revealing a blond woman with a round face, bright smile, and sparkling eyes.
“He likes blondes?” she queried.
“Perhaps. Two is enough to hint at a pattern, but not enough to confirm it. Nina Hall was the same age, height, and build as Cindy. And like Cindy, she vanished from a gathering of friends after midnight.”
“Was she found in a field?”
“No, in her own bathtub.” He swiped to a collection of crime scene photos. She leaned forward. Her eyes narrowed as she studied the woman lying in her tub, head tipped back, dull eyes peering out of drooping lids. Her left hand draped over the side sans the ring finger.
“There isn’t a tremendous amount of blood,” Shepard observed. She widened the image with the swipe of her fingers and enlarged the woman’s neck. “She was strangled. Her heart stopped beating, and when the finger was removed postmortem, only a small amount of blood was involved.”
“Correct. The single amputation struck the local homicide detective as odd, and he made a note in the file. He even called around to other jurisdictions in his state and asked if they’d seen a similar case. The general consensus was no, so he didn’t submit a case to ViCAP.”
“He was assuming this killer only operated in Oregon.”
“It’s flawed logic. But nothing to be done about it now.”
Drawing in a breath, she sat back. “Which leaves us with several women yet to be identified.”
A knock on the door had them both shifting attention from the tablet to the newest arrival, Dr. Josh Connor. Tall and lanky with a runner’s build, Connor was in his midthirties and had a pleasant face. Brown hair offset inquisitive green eyes.
Shepard rose and extended her hand. “Agent Melina Shepard. We met last year. I was working a child abduction case.”
The doctor wrapped long fingers around her hand, studying her face a beat. “I remember. Tough case. Father was involved.”
“He was convicted and sentenced to fifty years. Too bad it couldn’t have been longer.”
“That’s what hell is for,” Dr. Connor said.
“I’d rather not wait for hell,” Shepard said. “Justice in this world is far more satisfying.”
Ramsey agreed but kept his thoughts to himself.
Back in the autopsy suite, an overhead examination light shone down on a stainless steel table that butted up against a station equipped with a sink, a series of swing spouts, hoses, and electrical outlets. Lying on the counter was a sterilized blue pad and an open pack of autopsy equipment including scalpels, bone cutters, scissors, a basin, and a bone saw. A full complement to dismantle a body.
Normally, there was a sheet covering the body. Today, it was a disposable blue pad covering six wrinkled ring fingers lined up in a neat row.
Dr. Connor handed out latex gloves, and once he’d donned his pair, he pulled back the covering. The strong scent of formaldehyde lifted into the air. The fingers looked remarkably small.