Blood Vines

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Monday, February 22

9:20 A.M.

“Morning, Tanner,” Reed said, parking himself in the doorway of her cubicle. “How’s life?”

“Not bad. For a Monday.” She picked up her coffee cup. “Crime lab has the pacifier.”

“And?”

“Said there’s a slim chance they’ll be able to retrieve any DNA from it. Marginal at best, their words.”

“But a chance, nonetheless.”

“Exactly.”

Reed yawned. “Spent the weekend reviewing interview transcripts in the Dylan Sommer case. Specifically interviews of Alexandra Clarkson.” He crossed to her desk and dropped a manila folder on it. “Basically got nothing new. One social worker found her to be unusually ‘dissociative.’ ”

Tanner opened the folder and began scanning his notes. “But everyone else described her as a happy, talkative and well adjusted child.”

“True. Although, when asked if she knew where her brother was, she said he was ‘sleeping.’ ”

“Interesting.” She tapped the notes. “Kids are tough interviews. You can only push so hard.”

The VCI receptionist stuck her head in the door. “You two need to take a ride. Hilldale Winery. The B &B.”

“What’s up?”

“Someone mutilated a baby doll, left it strung up in the vines.”

Thirty minutes later, Reed and Tanner stood side by side at the scene. Neither spoke, just gazed at the baby doll. It was incredibly lifelike. So lifelike that when they’d approached, Reed had been certain it was a real baby.

Apparently, Mrs. Dale had been taking a group of her guests on the tractor tour, a woman had spotted the doll and screamed. And no wonder. In a weird way it was Baby Doe number two.

“I’ve seen some seriously twisted shit,” Tanner muttered, “but this beats it all.”

It did rank right up there, Reed thought, taking in the gruesome display. What should have been a beautiful child’s toy had been violated in a very ugly way. Strung up like a sacrificial lamb, arms and legs stretched wide and fastened with cord to the foliage wire. Its body had been sliced open and smeared with what appeared to be blood. Its eyes were wide open; the mouth had been violently punctured to form a hideous gaping hole.

Tanner coughed, clearly struggling to steady herself. “A response to Baby Doe?”

Reed nodded. “Some bored kids thinking they were being funny. Maybe.”

He moved his gaze slowly over the area. The doll had been strung up in easy view from the tractor paths that ran alongside the vineyard. The spot was located within eyeshot of the B &B and the main road.

The road wasn’t highly traveled, but it wasn’t remote. Placing the doll here would have presented problems for the perps. They had to have done it at night and been especially quiet.

“They didn’t hide it, that’s for sure.” Reed squatted in front of the find.

Tanner joined him. “Whoever left this wanted it found.”

“That’d be my bet. But why?”

“To get a reaction, of course.”

Baby Doe number two. The press could have a field day with that. Uneasiness settled in the pit of his gut. He looked at Tanner. “Think it was a sick joke?”

“Normally that’d be my guess.”

“But?”

“But this isn’t a doll somebody picked up at Walmart. “It’s an Ashton Drake collectible. They go for a bill and a half.”

“A hundred and fifty dollars? For a doll?”

“Yup.”

He frowned. “And how do you know so much about collectible dolls?”

“My sister’s kid. She’s gaga over ’em and there’s nothing my sister won’t spend on her. She’s spoiled her rotten. And I do mean rotten.”

“How old’s your niece? Maybe she’s our prankster?”

“Eight. Give her a few years.”

“Wow,” he murmured, expression deadpan, “such a doting aunt.”

“That’s what my sister says.” Tanner motioned to the desecrated doll. “My point is, that’s a lot of money for a doll you’re going to destroy in a prank.”

“Yet using this doll is what made it so effective.”

“Which means our pranksters thought it out.”

“Maybe. Or they’re selfish brats who don’t give a crap about how much their parents spent on something. Just plucked it off one of their shelves.”

“Which would mean a girl’s involved.” He retrieved a glove from his coat pocket, fitted it on and carefully examined the bloodied polyfill spilling out. “How about it, Tanner. Is it blood?”

“It’s not ketchup or paint, that’s for damn certain. But it could be theatrical. There are home recipes that look pretty authentic.”

“Let’s photograph and bag it. Find out if it’s blood.”

“And if it is, is it human?”

“Right,” he said, disgusted. “When kids pull these stunts, they don’t think about the manpower it takes to clean them up. I hope this is the work of some stupid kid so I get a chance to scare the shit out of him.”

“Hey.” Tanner wagged her finger at him. “Stop with the sexism. A female could be behind this, you know. Equal opportunity stupid fucks.”