Dr. Connor knitted his hands together. “As we all know, six examples of digitus medicinalis, or fourth fingers. They’re all from left hands.” He picked up the first finger and pointed the severed edge toward the light. “Note that the skin and bone are slightly pinched, but the actual bone is smooth. This suggests something sharp, perhaps bolt cutters, which compress and then slice. If the killer had used a different implement, such as a saw, it would have left a much different impression.”
“More jagged,” Shepard said.
“Exactly.” Dr. Connor held out the finger. “This kind of clean cut would also have required some strength. A weaker person would have worked the handle of the cutters repeatedly, leaving more tears and marks.”
“Our killer is a physically strong man,” Shepard said.
“I’d say so,” Dr. Connor said.
Ramsey inspected the severed digit. Over the years he had seen dozens of ways humans could mutilate and dismember each other. The only way to professionally process and then proceed was to remain distant from the fact it was a human.
The doctor placed the finger back in its original position on the table.
“Symbolically, the right hand is considered the physical hand and has greater visibility,” Ramsey said. “The left hand represents character and beliefs. Romantic promise. Chastity.”
“Isn’t there usually a sexual element with serial killers?” Shepard asked.
“In most cases, yes,” Ramsey replied. “And if not sexual, gratification is attained through the victim’s suffering or death.”
“This guy has a complex with the ladies,” she challenged. He could see her cheeks flush as if she were trying to control her temper. Most would not have noticed the subtle change, but he did. “What kind of sexual fantasy expresses itself this way?”
“It’s important not to prejudge,” Ramsey said. “If you get angry, it could cloud your judgment.”
“Funny, I find anger fuels me,” she said.
“Anger is easy,” Ramsey said carefully. “Dispassion takes practice.”
Shepard shoved out a sigh. “You’re saying if our killer quacks like a duck and walks like a duck, he might not be a duck?”
“If you mean he’s not sexually motivated, then yes.”
“Fair enough.” She shifted her attention back to the doctor. “Which two fingers belong to Cindy and Nina?”
“Cindy Patterson’s is the one I just showed you,” Dr. Connor said. “And Nina Hall’s is the one to the right of it.”
“And the other four?” she asked. “What can you tell me about them?”
“The next three appear to be a little more recent. Maybe in the last five or six years. And the last finger is very recent, as in the last couple of weeks.”
Shepard rocked back on her heels. “Could it be Christina Sanchez?” she asked. “According to Elena, her mother just died.”
“I don’t know,” Dr. Connor said.
“Hopefully we have a missing persons case on file. Were all the fingers removed postmortem?” Shepard asked.
“Yes,” Dr. Connor said.
Shepard reached for her cell phone. “Though two similar victims are not enough to establish a firm pattern, we can still reference their profiles. Given that set of guidelines, we’re looking for a deceased Caucasian female, potentially blond and in her late thirties.”
“Can’t speak to the hair color, but age sounds right,” Dr. Connor said. “I can tell you this office has had no female victims that were brought in with missing fingers for as long as I can remember.”
“If the victim hasn’t been brought here, then area cops don’t know about her either. Doesn’t mean there wasn’t a missing persons report filed.” As Shepard tapped the phone against her thigh, it chimed with a text. She glanced at the number and frowned. “Excuse me.” She opened the phone. Agent Shepard, this is Richard Barnard, Elena Sanchez’s caseworker. The hospital wants to release her by Wednesday to one of my foster families. Call me at your convenience.
She read the text aloud, straightening her shoulders and rolling her head from side to side. If he had not been paying attention, he would have missed a series of expressions implying distaste for social services. As a cop, she clearly understood foster care was a better alternative than BB. However, he believed she personally loathed the option.
“The girl needs to be with people who can care for her,” he said.
“I realize that.” She shoved her phone in her pocket and refocused on their case. “Anything else you can tell us about these women?” Shepard asked.
“Not at this time,” Dr. Connor said.
“You identified two. That’s a start,” she said. “We have two families to notify. Maybe when we talk to them, we’ll discover more information about the women.” She ripped off her gloves and tossed them in the trash can. “Thanks, Doc.” Without another word she walked out of the suite and into the hallway.
Dr. Connor shook his head. “She’s upset.”
“She’s not upset. She’s pissed.”
“How do you know?”
“Death notifications put cops in a foul mood.”
As Melina stared out the large glass window that overlooked the parking lot and the rolling land beyond it, she pulled in a couple of deep breaths. What she would not give for a few rounds in the ring right now. She just wanted to pound something.
The autopsy suite door opened behind her, and she heard Ramsey’s steady, methodical footsteps. If she had to wager, she would bet the guy had ice water in his veins. He studied everything with such an exquisite detachment that she found herself envying him.
“Were you ever in foster care?” he asked.
That one-two punch of a question brought her thoughts into sharp focus. “Where’d that come from?”
“I’ll take that as a yes?”
“It’s a none-of-your-damned-business kind of response.”
“A yes.”
She readied a couple of verbal jabs but caught herself. Agent Ramsey was the senior officer, and the last thing she needed was a pissing match with him. “I was only in for a couple of days, but that was enough.”
“How old were you?”
“I was five.”
“Almost the same age as Elena.”
“Yeah.”
“Where were your biological parents?”
He had the good sense not to refer to whomever had brought her into this world as Mom and Dad. Those titles she reserved exclusively for the Shepards.
“I have no idea. My mother left me on the side of a dirt road about twenty miles outside of Nashville in the middle of November.”
“Who found you?”
“Local sheriff.”
“What are the chances?”
“Pretty damn slim. But he found me.” She remembered the cold and the fear burrowing into her bones. She’d hated crying, even then, but she could not stop bawling as she’d stared up and down that dark road. And then there had been the sight of headlights. All in the space of a second, hope had collided with terror. What if it hadn’t been her mother coming back for her? Even then, she’d understood not to trust everyone.
She often looked back and wondered how she could have missed that monster who had given birth to her. But a child, alone and afraid, would have given anything to be back with the devil she knew.
“And he turned you over to foster care.”
“Yeah. What I didn’t realize was that he went home and told his wife about me, and the next day the two were at the courthouse petitioning the judge to release me into their custody. A day later, they picked me up.”
“Elena’s case touches a nerve.”
“You could say that.” She managed a slight grin. “But don’t worry. I’m dialed in. I’ll find BB, the killer obsessed with fingers, and the Key Killer, even if it means turning over every rock in Nashville.”
It was nine thirty when BB arrived at the East Nashville bar. She was glad for its stale, smoky air and the scent of booze. Her body ached as she angled her lean frame around the tables and sat in a back corner booth. A sigh leaked over her lips as she relaxed back against the worn red leather. She had been lying in her motel room for the last several hours and could no longer stand the four walls. They were starting to remind her of prison.
She raised her hand, motioning to the gray-haired, tatted bartender with a smile. She adjusted her silk top and reached for lipstick in her purse.
He looked her way as he finished wiping down the bar and then signaled a waitress to the table.
“What’ll it be?” the woman asked.
“Bourbon. Neat, sugar,” she said. “Your bartender is going to be pouring a lot tonight.”
“You got it.”
She glanced in a small compact mirror and smoothed on fresh pink lipstick. She had screwed up, but that did not mean she had to look the part. Smoothing her blond hair back with manicured fingers, she pressed her lips together.
Aching ribs told her the damn airbag had left her chest bruised and battered. She fished out a bottle of aspirin from her purse as the bartender set her bourbon in front of her. “Thanks, doll. Might as well get me another round.”