Blind Instinct

FOUR

In the back of her mind all the way to Dulles International Airport in Fairfax, Virginia, Jessica had worried about J. T. and her having dropped Tattoo Man's case in his lap.

Concern over Tattoo Man faded quickly, however, when she looked out on the runway at Dulles International to see the final preparations for takeoff of their nonstop to London.

With Scotland Yard paying the freight this time, Eriq Santiva displayed even greater pleasure at the combining of his FBI personnel with that of the famous Scotland Yard. The only downside: no ride on the Concorde. Perhaps on her return, Sharpe had promised, but not today since the Concorde only flew into JFK, in New York, and they would be departing from Fairfax.

They'd been the last to board the plane, which had indeed been held up for Dr. Jessica Coran, by order of the FBI and Scotland Yard on behalf of Her Majesty the Queen. It was enough to make Jessica blush at their boarding when the stewardess had said, “Dr. Coran, I presume?”

Once settled in their seats on the commercial flight, Inspector Sharpe wasted no time, asking her even before she had the opportunity to order a drink, “Shall I fill you in further on the three crime scenes that we have thus far?”

She loved his mastery of language, the little touches that made his culture bubble forth with each word, not to mention his melodic voice and lovely accent.

“Yes, I would like to see all that you have on each case, actually. Another look at the crime-scene photos and any forensic reports coming out of each case.”

“Good, then be my guest.” Sharpe snapped open his thin, black briefcase and produced several files. Each was marked with a victim's name scrawled in large, red marker across its label: O'Donahue, Katherine; Coibby, Lawrence; Burton, Theodore. No strange-sounding, exotic names with origins from faraway places, nothing to die for, she thought, simply homespun, middle-of-the-road, run-of-the-mill names that appeared as scattered as the victims themselves. Jessica read of a schoolteacher in retirement; a British used-car salesman with a mortgage, alimony, and child support to pay; and finally a stockbroker turned radio personality who'd strayed from his Jewish roots to embrace Catholicism, all in that order.

The victims appeared to share nothing in common save that they were all British subjects, the Irish schoolmarm having adopted Britain as her home in her youth, someplace called Bury St. Edmunds.

One of the crime-scene photos in O'Donahue's file gave Jessica a start. She hadn't seen it before. She helplessly stared at the tire marks, which were quite visible, like large tattoos across her back and shoulders where the skin had absorbed the impact of the automobile going over her. The tread marks shimmered beneath the lights in a perfect pattern, reminding her of Tattoo Man back in her lab at Quantico. “Did the killer run her over before or after crucifying her?”

“Neither.” Sharpe explained the sad origin of the tread marks.

The plane sped down the runway, lifting like an ancient bird of prey, ponderous at first but suddenly light and airy, free of all restraint.

Settling in, Jessica released her seat belt to relax more comfortably, and said to Sharpe, 'Tell me more about how you found the first victim: when, where, and the condition of the body at the time.”

“That'd be the schoolteacher, O'Donahue. In her early to mid-fifties. Not your typical serial-killer bait, I'd say.”

“No, although it's not unheard of.”

“Well, as I said, we found her run over by the fool that discovered the body, tire marks over her back. She'd been dumped facedown near the Thames on the Victoria Gardens Embankment, along a dirty stretch of levy along the parkway below a bridge.”

Copperwaite, who'd begun to listen in earnest, added, “We can take you to the scene if you like.”

“Yes, I would like to have a look… give it the once-over.”

“We suspect that body and perpetrator were en route to the Thames,” suggested Sharpe. “That the killer fully intended to dump it into the river when he was frightened off.”

“Points to the possibility it may've been his first-ever kill. Since he was so easily frightened off, you might look for a younger person,” she countered.

“Good thought.” Sharpe sat back heavily in his chair to consider this.

Copperwaite, from the other side of Sharpe, added as an afterthought, “We find a great deal floating in the Thames.”

“Her hands and feet had been spiked with three-quarter-inch thick nails. Like bloody railway spikes, but not quite. Still, large enough to make you wince.” Sharpe's matter-of-fact tone did battle with the content of his words. He paused for her benefit, fearing she might become alarmed.

“Go on,” she dictated.

“We didn't know what to make of it at the time, of course, and only later were we made absolutely certain-”

“Certain of what?” she impatiently prodded him.

“-certain that the holes in hands and feet had been part of a crucifixion murder, you see. Accepting the fact at the time, I tell you, we wanted to deny it.”

“I see, of course. Were the others similarly disposed of, the killer using water?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Do you think there's significance in that? Because I do.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Tell me about the other discoveries.”

“Very well, as you like…” Sharpe launched into a typical police description of the scene, the body, the surrounding area-a small lake in a park frequented by families on a daily basis where children saw the body floating like a balloon toy in Coibby's case.

Copperwaite interjected here and there, adding a bit of detail and color, the two detectives complimenting one another in rounding out the description of how Lawrence Coibby's body-victim number two-had been discovered.

“Any defensive marks on hands, forearms? Any blood or tissue, not his own, found under his nails?”

“Like the woman, no sign of any violence done to the body save the slight cut to the side, the spikes driven into palms and feet,” replied Sharpe. “No fight put up whatsoever.”

Copperwaite added, “Nor the third victim. Perfectly untouched save for the crucifixion marks. And don't forget the needle marks, Sharpie-Inspector Sharpe.”

“Then there were drugs found in the system?” she pressed.

'Trace elements of a barbiturate,” replied Sharpe. “M.E.'s report is…” He paused, shuffled papers about the file, and finally pointed to a line on the M.E.'s protocol sheet-a form that appeared up-to-date and quaint at the same time, Jessica thought. She read the logo: Coroner for the Crown.“ 'Brevital,' “ Jessica read aloud“ That mean anything to you?” asked Sharpe, sensing her reaction to the word. She let out a breath of air and shrugged. “Methohexital, used in sedating patients… barbiturate, short-acting.”

“Short-acting?” asked Copperwaite, his youthful eyes alight with eager interest.

“As opposed to long-acting. In other words, your victims, injected with Brevital, would have dozed just long enough for the killer-”

“Or killers,” corrected Sharpe.

“-to hoist the prone victims' bodies onto whatever makeshift cross he-or they-concocted for the sacrificial lambs.”

“Just enough to put them under, then?”

“Exactly. And each victim must've awakened when the killer drove home the stakes at the palms and feet, most likely having already been secured by some other means. Rope, hemp, rawhide perhaps? Yes, the body would need lashing to the cross in addition to the stakes.”

Copperwaite ground his teeth at the image.

Jessica added, “That would be my guesstimate, but don't quote me.” She paused, all of them allowing the image to sink in. “Rope bums at both wrists and about the feet, right? To take the weight,” pursued Jessica.

“Precisely,” Sharpe said at once.

“The body weight on the victims,” Jessica began. “Can you give me a ballpark figure?”

“Ballpark figure?” asked Copperwaite, confused by her language.

“She means an estimated guess, Stuart. How about a precise number, Doctor?”

“That'll do.”

“You see, I've had the same thoughts,” returned Sharpe. “The men each weighed over 190 stones, while the woman weighed 155 of your American pounds.”

Jessica smiled at the use of the word “stones.”

“So, the ropes were enough to hold the body in place, so the stakes could be driven in. Certainly sounds like the work of more than one man, possibly a deadly pair, given the deadweight of the drugged victims.”

“Once again, our thought also,” replied Sharpe with a narrowed gaze. “Given how long we've had to study the cases, your deductions are positively… preternatural. Are you sure you're not a psychic to boot?”

While Jessica answered with a thoughtful smile, Copperwaite added, “Unless this bugger is bigger than Arnold Schwarzenegger, he'd have to be two men.”

Everyone sat back, allowing the gravity of this fact to sink in. It was hard to envision not one but two men, working in tandem, crucifying random, innocent people. The why of it hung in the air thick and choking.

Jessica had brought along some light reading for the long plane trip, her volume of Medical and Legal Procedures Related to Death written some years earlier by her now deceased mentor Dr. Asa Holcraft. She'd long been wanting to reread Dr. Holcraft's work to, in a sense, be in his presence once again. She needed his firm grounding, if for no other reason than the sheer monstrosity this crucifixion evil represented.

Jessica had never known a finer scientific mind than that of Asa Holcraft. She now quickly scanned Holcraft's words for any information relative to crucifixion deaths-half knowing she'd find nothing specific to crucifixion. Still, a quick glance at the enormous index was in order. This only confirmed what she knew: His huge opus didn't touch on death by crucifixion. The topic simply didn't appear in any of the forensics books she owned-and she owned them all. Save for a paragraph here or there, Jessica had found no help in the literature of forensic medicine.

She was working on here…Even an electronic search of the World Wide Web had turned up more reams of religious-oriented material dealing with the death of Jesus Christ than anything else, and nothing substantive regarding the medical intricacies of dying in such a manner. Death of this manner being so extremely rare, no studies or treatises had ever been done on it.

She shared this information, or lack thereof, with Sharpe and Copperwaite. Her news met a pair of glum frowns. Sharpe said, “Not surprising, really.”

She halfheartedly searched Holcraft for his remarks on asphyxia, as he remained the foremost authority on asphyxia deaths. She located the pages and placed a bookmark there.

She looked up at Richard Sharpe and asked, “Why don't you describe the scene of the third discovery, the body which ostensibly sent you scurrying in earnest to the FBI for profiling assistance.”

“That would be Burtie Burton, Theodore Burton. Rather well-known chap at one time-known for his views, for his late-night radio talk program a year or so back. A rare breed indeed, both a stockbroker and a rebel-rouser as some call- called him. Rather enjoyed his program myself. Man made a lot of sense as well as money. Tore into our Tories mostly, roughed them up a bit

before he got into trouble with the BBC.”

Jessica imagined someone saying in such mild tones how Howard Stem upset Middle America, and she momentarily wondered at the British in general-their history of social gentility and blood beneath the carpet. She likewise wondered aloud for the benefit of the men, “I wonder if the man's profession, radio talk show host, had anything remotely to do with his dying so dreaded a death-after a used-car salesman and a teacher. What might that connection be? On the surface of it, perhaps the victims have nothing whatever in common. I'm sure you've dug for connections.”

“Pile on the agony,” muttered Sharpe.

“What?” asked Jessica.

Copperwaite translated, saying, “Old English for don't spare the gory details, Doctor.”

“I mean ifjffff that's so, then we're really scrambled as you Americans say,” Sharpe announced. “With nothing tying the victims together.”

“All I'm saying is that perhaps the selection of victims has been absolutely random. If the killer or killers 'saw the mark of Christ' on the foreheads of each of their victims, that might well be what the victims had in common-everything but nothing.”

Sharpe fell silent. Copperwaite sensed his partner wanted silence for a time. Finally, Sharpe began telling Jessica more about victim number three: Theodore Burton.

“It was a few days after number two-Coibby-that Burtie Burton's body came to our attention. He'd gone missing, but people who knew him said that he'd do that, you know, disappear for weeks at a time-”

“Go on holiday without the slightest provocation or warning to others. Queer fellow, really,” added Copperwaite. “And we knew the bloody moment we came on scene that it was him, but it was rather shocking to discover he was yet another victim of the Crucifier.”

“The 'Crucifier'? Is that what you're calling the killer?”

“Press picked it up somehow,” Sharpe apologetically replied.

“All Burton's wounds were the same, then?” she asked.

“Identical. Actually Stuart saw it immediately, before I wanted to believe it. We looked at the hands, and then to the feet of the naked body. Poor chap lay outstretched before us, and there once again-for the third time-we found the telltale marks of a murder by crucifixion.”

As Sharpe continued to describe the murdered victim and the scene, Jessica allowed her imagination to flow, picturing the exact moment, trying to climb into Sharpe's world, to know the exact words and gestures exchanged between Copperwaite and the more experienced Richard Sharpe. In a waking dream, she saw Sharpe at the murder scene and heard him there, but his voice was muffled. She somehow found herself in a cold, cavernous well, the clamminess and absolute stillness like a coffin, when she realized that she lay inside the body of one of the crucifixion victims.

She felt memories bombard her, memories of her own near execution so many years before at the hand of a maniac named Matisak. She saw dark, featureless faces looking on, watching in gleeful exhaltation as one man held her against a huge wooden cross and another began to drive nails into her palms, finishing with her feet. Suddenly they let go, and her weight became her worst enemy. Gaining breath became an impossible labor.

All things around her became a blur as she struggled like a pinned butterfly, the struggle useless. All around her she felt the coldness closing in, and only when she blacked out did she feel any comfort. But she didn't black out; rather she woke to the voices of two Scotland Yard detectives seated beside her.

“And rather tidy, for a serial killer, wouldn't you say, Stuart? Concerns himself with washing the wounds.”

“Washing the wounds, yes?”

“So to speak, what with disposing of the bodies in water. Wouldn't you say?”

“That just makes him all the more oddly weird, if that's his intention.”

“His or theirs, either way, we're bloody sure to spend out that budget given us for calling international help. In any case, to whom do we turn now? How best to spend our money on this situation, Stuart? You know if we don't spend it, they'll find another use for the funds elsewhere.”

“Interpol, the French, yes… If anybody's had any experience with something so gruesome as this, it'd have to be the French, French law enforcement, right?”

“Coran will do, Coppers. I've read her casebooks. And if the bulletins can be believed, and they generally don't go in for hyperbole, she's just the sort we need on this case.”

“You're sure it's not just another way to piss off the boss, Sharpie?”

“That, too, of course,” joked Sharpe.

“Then we've done well to get her this far.”

“She has a great investigative mind. She'll do as Sherlock to my Holmes, what? Whatever the cost to the division, these dreadful murders can't continue…”

“I suspect Boulte will see the wisdom of it in the end,” suggested Copperwaite. “Else the gentlemen of the Times' 11 have us all for breakfast, my friend, but if they see we've taken the extreme step of calling Coran on board, why then…”

“Now you're thinking like a bureaucrat, Coppers.”

Jessica only half heard their conversation. Long hours in the lab, the excitement of the evening, and a bout with insomnia had taken their toll. She fell asleep beside Sharpe.

Two figments of Jessica's imagination now gathered fog-laden air into their “land of nod” lungs. The sun had as yet to show itself, and the darkness clutched their shoulders where they knelt over Jessica's body, her dream self, which had been laid out at a kind of watery crossroads here-below a trellis train-track bridge, a sign reading Grosvenor Bridge, someone saying it wasn't far to Battersea Park from here. Jessica's body, snatched now from the water, lay in a dirty sand beach that saw little to no traffic save for young teens in search of a place to drink, shoot up, and neck.

“I wager we know what the M.E.'s going to say. It'll be like the rest,” moaned Copperwaite's dream personae.

Sharpe's soothing voice took hold again, lulling her back to dream, a silly dream actually, in which they examined her dead body, dead by the hand of the Crucifier.

“We can't overlook anything, Stuart. Suppose this isn't a fourth victim but a first, a copycat killing? Toxicology tests have to be made to rule out every contingency.”

“Wretched business… So, what do we do? Wait for results until a fifth victim bobs up at yet another body of water somewhere?”

“We're in a rather awkward position, which often dictates a man do nothing. But I rather fancy we must act and act now.”

“How so?”

“We go find this Dr. Coran, and we bring her back to England with us. We begin with her superiors.”

“We've a problem with that, Sharpie.”

“Oh? And what's that?”

“Dr. Jessica Coran is already here. This is her body, Richard! Don't you recognize her?”

Suddenly, Jessica started at the full sight of her face at their feet, and she instantly felt the weight of Holcraft's book on her lap back here in the plane, in the real world. Her dream was instantly replaced when she opened her eyes and focused on the pages opened to asphyxia deaths.

Jessica couldn't recall having opened the book to these pages, only marking them for later reading. But she also realized that she had been lulled into sleep by the sound of wind over a wing at her ear; an airplane-induced sleep on one side, Richard Sharpe's voice on the other.

She felt awful, having fallen asleep to the sound of Sharpe's tale. She'd been battling and failing miserably, with an ongoing case of insomnia using every cure known to modem science.

Now she wondered how much of her dream of Copperwaite and Sharpe had come of their words and how much her imagination. Either way, they had a most fascinating case on their hands, and she hoped to play a major role in its resolution.

“So, Doctor, you're back with us,” Sharpe said matter-of-factly.

“Please, accept my sincerest apology. I haven't had much sleep lately, and the plane hum and your voices conspired to lull me to sleep. I do feel awful.”

“Not at all.”

She wondered how much she had injured his pride. He pretended that nothing of consequence had happened, while she wondered what he and Copperwaite had said of her while she'd dozed.

“Coihby's and Burton's bodies were snatched from the water,” Copperwaite ventured.

Sharpe glared at his partner.

“That's where Richard left off with you,” Copperwaite explained himself.

Sharpe frowned and gave in. “Katherine O'Donahue was meant to be left in water. We surmised that the killer was interrupted, frightened off, really, before he could complete the job, you understand.”

She nodded. “I see.”

“That's when the bridgeman hit the body.”

“Poor chap thought he had killed the woman,” Copperwaite added with a bit of a snicker.

Sharpe finished with, “New Scotland Yard forensics has determined that our first victim had the same toxic level of barbiturates, and that she was long dead before the Jetta ever touched her.”

Fatigue bom of insomnia stalked Jessica.

She had once kiddingly told her psychic friend and fellow FBI agent, Dr. Kim Desinor, “I fear that I am insomnia-stalked”

Kim, quick to remind Jessica of their work together in New Orleans some years back, had replied, “Better stalked by insomnia than some human monstrosity like Mad Matthew Matisak.”

True enough, Jessica now thought. Still, as a result of her insomnia, at times when she least expected, the fatigue washed floodlike over her, and Jessica found her mind and body shutting down with her tired eyes.

It-the fatigue that wouldn't be denied-came on her again like some pixie-dust-laden gnome. The jet engines, the monotony of aircraft against air current, the battering of the hull created the same lulling sound as a ship at sea… It all conspired like shadowy alchemy to make it impossible to keep her eyes open. “I'm going to sleep on it now, gentlemen, if you don't mind,” she announced in a slurred tone before placing Holcraft's volume aside altogether and closing her eyes again. She nodded off to visions of crucifixions and tattoos.