Fractured (6 page)

“The arts, I get it. All those hungry people,” Jason said sardonically. “Yeah, they are kind of a pain in the—”

“We're wondering if maybe this victim could have been a student.” Ellie interjected the interruption smoothly, but she did level a swift warning glance his way. “The university has been very helpful, but can you think of anyone your husband mentioned specifically? A student that stood out to him maybe?”

That was one hell of a shot in the dark. They hadn't found any books in that musty house, but then again, his identification had been taken, so maybe the killer was meticulous about details.

“Not that I can think of.” The words were ice cold.

Mrs. Peterson was just as unhelpful as the first time they interviewed her and seemed relieved—even after she complained about them not instantly solving the crime—when they rose to leave.

Once they were back in the car, Jason started it and pulled away, before he muttered, “What a bitch.”

“I got the impression you feel that way, and maybe she did too. Keep in mind, she's still grieving.” Ellie said it evenly. “Whether she is pleasant or not—and I agree with you, she isn't—do you think she knows anything?”

He wished he could say he did. “No.”

“I don't either.”

Jason guided the car down the street, consciously loosening the muscles in his jaw. “She is just ticked off that life isn't going her way. I'm hardly an expert on relationships but when you say grieving, I disagree. She's grieving losing the status of being a tenured professor's wife. Grieving
for
him? I'm not that sure that is part of the equation.”

“God, you're jaded,” Ellie said, her profile illuminated with a hesitant winter sun.

“God, I'm realistic,” he countered, braking for a traffic light. “What next?”

“I hate to say this, but maybe a visit to the morgue. We'll get a report, but I think I'd like to talk to the ME face-to-face.”

“I hate to agree to the suggestion, but maybe we'd better.” He was actually pretty squeamish about the morgue. Crime scenes weren't a problem, blood didn't bother him, but stainless steel tables and the smell of antiseptic did.

“I want to get her impressions, not just what notes she makes on a piece of paper.”

She was right. A face-to-face worked better always. Professionals tended to not draw conclusions—they weren't supposed to anyway, but it was enlightening sometimes to hear their abstract thoughts.

Law enforcement was not an exact science.

But he really had no desire to see that faceless corpse again.

Luckily, when they arrived, they were told Dr. Hammet was in her office, not down in the part of the building Jason disliked so much. She greeted them with her usual cordial reserve, a dark-haired woman who had replaced the previous medical examiner under very unusual circumstances. Jason liked her professionalism because he always dealt much better with straightforward people. She wasn't into sugarcoating anything, and that made his job easier, if not less disturbing at times. He could never decide if it was worse to be the one to arrive first at the crime scene, or if what she did for a living was more macabre.

“Detectives,” she said, glancing up from the screen of her computer. “I was just finishing up the autopsy report on the victim from the other day. Good timing. I feel confident that is why you are here.”

“You have that right.” Jason was used to seeing her in scrubs or a white jacket, so her silk blouse and dark skirt were a little different, and there was an impressive array of diplomas on the walls, and even a lush banana plant by a window in the corner. Why he was surprised someone who dealt with death had a green thumb he had no idea, but he was.

Ellie said in her succinct way, “Is the report going to help us?”

Dr. Hammet shook her head. “I have no idea, but I did find something interesting.”

*   *   *

Ellie listened as
the doctor outlined the stomach contents of both victims.

“Some kind of cake with apples in it for Peterson and your second victim had eaten something like it.” Dr. Hammet shuffled through several pages of papers. “Here it is. I broke down all the compounds but you'd find that boring and probably not really all that pertinent, and I am not speculating the cake was laced with Rohypnol, the drug more commonly known as rufilin. So much more likely it was put into a drink, but I found the similarity interesting.”

She had to agree.

So did Santiago. He took the piece of paper from her hand, scowled at it, and then handed it back. “You're telling us they were given an effing date-rape drug by a cake-baking grandmother?”

The medical examiner was used to Ellie's partner by now and she merely lifted her brows. “It isn't a date-rape drug in a clinical sense. It is used to treat severe insomnia and sometimes anxiety. However, considering the amount both victims had ingested, I doubt they took it voluntarily. Had they been found in bed instead of in a parking lot or on a porch, maybe. As for the grandmother theory, Detective Santiago, it is unlikely an older woman had the strength to inflict those wounds even with a drugged victim. I was more thinking they might have eaten at the same restaurant or had the cake brought to them by someone, which would give you some connection besides the wounds. Both of them were first stabbed in the back. It looks to me like they staggered forward and turned around to defend themselves, like we all would, and at that point it got very ugly. Impaired and taken by surprise by the sheer volume of the attack, once they went down, they were assaulted by multiple wounds, the worst of it being to the face and neck. The chest wounds are postmortem. Those were not slashes. They were deep and careful, made with a different instrument.”

Santiago was hardly someone who was shaken easily, but he took a moment and then questioned, “Instrument? Doc, what the hell does that mean?”

Dr. Hammet smiled thinly. “It isn't an ordinary weapon. I think it might be filed down to the shape of a deadly point, but it doesn't exactly cut like a knife, it just punctures, which is probably why the postmortem incisions are done … it's silver. I found traces in the wounds.” She spread her hands. “The attacker doesn't trust he can kill with the instrument, and so he stabs the victims first and waits until they are dead before using the second source of the cross-like wounds.”

“That's a damned scary image,” her partner murmured, and Ellie had to agree. She asked, “So though I assume all of that is in the report, is there anything else that made you uneasy? Something that maybe didn't tick a box on your forms but still struck you?”

Dr. Hammet exhaled. “Look, I am not a detective. I only deal with the crimes in terms of the bodies they put on my table. But I'd say you have two killers working in tandem. One is a planner, and the other one is more than willing to do that kind of vicious damage to a human being. The planner is the brains, and the other one does the physical work of the actual attack. This is absolutely just my opinion, but alone I'd guess the attacker might be caught easily. They have to be covered in blood once they are finished. And the planner would never go through with it. It's like a bank robbery. One goes in with a gun to get the money, and the other one drives the getaway car. They have different skills.”

Ellie went to the window. Down below cars crawled along the avenue since it had really started to snow. White flakes floated past the glass. She didn't like that idea at all. “Two of them?”

“Different stab mark signatures. Bodies don't lie to you.”

“Just as long as they don't start talking.” Santiago walked over and grabbed Ellie's wrist. “Come on, let's go. I have an idea. Thanks, Doc.”

“Detective, please don't call me that,” Hammet requested, going back to her computer.

“I can try to remember, but don't expect much,” he said as he dragged Ellie out into the hall. He turned urgently, “Bear with me.”

She looked pointedly at where he had ahold of her arm. It was out of character since he almost never touched her. “I assume you'll let me come of my own free will.”

“Sorry.” He let go. “But the person we are going to see is probably still at home in bed. He kind of works the night shift. Once he's up and headed off to work, he's hard to catch.”

“Mind telling me who
he
is?”

As they left the building, her partner held the door for her, a particular courtesy he'd mentioned once was drilled into his head when he was in the military, not by the father that had kicked him out of the house on his eighteenth birthday. In a noncommittal tone he'd added that life on the streets had been sending him into a downward spiral, so he cleaned up and enlisted. Becoming an MP had helped him get a law enforcement job when he got out of the service.

That was the sum total she knew about his past.

Just in the short time they'd been in Hammet's office the car had accumulated an inch of snow and the leaden skies threatened more. It was the kind of wet heavy snow that promised great snowballs when she was a kid. The temperature had been rising all day as a new front blew in, but it was supposed to plummet again tomorrow.

A far cry from the sunny beach she'd left behind in Florida just a few days ago, but that had hardly been a joyous trip.

When Santiago slid into the car and started it, he informed her, “He is a dealer I busted a few times that has a specialty in drugs like Ecstasy and other substances, all of which are against the law in the state of Wisconsin and pretty much everywhere else. How the hell he's still alive is beyond my comprehension, but he is one fucking connected asshole. I doubt he ever takes names, but whoever is killing these guys is getting the drug somewhere. He's gotten promoted … he deals to the dealers now, but maybe he can tell us who to talk to.”

That was iffy, she thought as they pulled out of the parking lot onto a street full of slushy snow. “What makes you think he'll talk to us?”

“We went to high school together.” Santiago lifted his shoulders in a negligent shrug. “When I say I busted him a few times, I meant I could have busted him a
lot
of times. To narcotics he's a problem; to me he's a source.”

“Interesting way to look at it,” she muttered. Big fat flakes were falling on the windshield now so fast the wipers weren't quite doing the job. The gutters were filled with slush. When the temperature dropped, it was going to be treacherous.

Paulo Astin proved to live in a very nice part of town, which offended Ellie in every way possible considering what he did to be able to afford a high-rise condo with security, but undoubtedly he needed the protection.

She waited curiously to see if he would really go ahead and buzz them up, but Santiago seemed confident enough, and in the end, he was right, though it wasn't very reassuring when he commented in the elevator, “Make sure the safety is released on your weapon. Paulo will be polite, but his friends are not as predictable. I'm hoping he'll be alone.”

Now she was too. She glanced at her companion. “Sounds like this is a great idea.”

Santiago's eyes were a particular shade of vivid blue she'd never seen before. Something between sapphire and a summer sky on a clear day. They reflected casual amusement, as if they weren't about to visit a drug dealer, who just happened to be an old friend. He checked his weapon as if to emphasize he wasn't kidding. “I just said it was an idea. I never said great. Don't worry. Paulo will like you. He's partial to blondes.”

“Perfect.” She did the same thing with her Glock. “Remind me to get specifics next time you have a suggestion.”

“Will do.” His grin was cheeky, but faded quickly. “If we're careful, we should be fine. He likes to dance under the law and not draw attention. Smart guy.”

The hallway was polished and lit by sconces, lined by discreet doorways with embossed numbers. Jason obviously knew just where he was going, which she might question later, but for now, they were there and if there was a chance he could help with the case, then maybe it was worth it.

The moment Santiago rapped his knuckles on the door, it opened.

A man in a robe stood in the doorway, supporting the claim he might still be sleeping even though it was past noon, but Ellie was getting used to talking to people in their sleepwear on this particular day. He was dark-haired, with a fox-like face full of angles around a pointed nose, and eyes that reminded her of a doll, inexpressive and unblinking. His voice sounded like he'd swallowed a pail of gravel. “Jace, buddy. I'm kinda hopin' this is a social call, you know what I mean? Especially now.” He looked Ellie up and down. “Nice. Who's the friend?”

To say she and her partner were friends was stretching it. Ellie took out her badge. “I'm Detective MacIntosh, Mr. Astin. We were hoping maybe you could help us out on an investigation as an expert, if you will. Can we come in?”

“Expert? I like that. Pretty diplomatic. Never been called that before.” He stepped back. “Come on in. Babes are always welcome here even if they are cops. You should have called first. I would have picked up the place and put on some pants.”

Santiago walked into the condo in front of her, and she didn't mind that at all. His warning was exactly what was on her mind when she realized who and what might be behind that door. Luckily, it was clear and it appeared they were alone with Mr. Astin.

The main living area was all about chrome and glass and Astin had what she suspected was a pretty great view at night, but otherwise there was no personality at all. No pictures, no art, nothing but a place he could probably walk away from without any regret.

Good idea. In his line of work it was best to have an exit plan handy.

Jason said, after a swift pointed survey of the main room, “We alone?”

Astin moved over to a couch and sat down. “We need to be? I was just having coffee. You want some?”