Die for Me

Chapter Seven

Dutton, Georgia, Monday, January 15, 1:15

P.M.

Daniel sat on his parents’ bed. For an hour he’d stared at the floor, telling himself to pull back the floorboard he knew concealed his father’s safe. He hadn’t checked it yesterday. He didn’t want Frank to know about the safe, much less its contents.

He wasn’t sure what he’d find inside today. He knew he didn’t want to know. But he’d put it off long enough. This was the safe his father thought no one else in the family knew about. Not his wife, and certainly not any of his children.

But Daniel knew. In a family like his, it had paid to be the one to know where the secrets were hidden. And where the guns were kept. His father had many gun cabinets and many safes, but this was his only gun safe. This is where he kept the weapons Daniel suspected had their serial numbers filed off. Certainly they were unregistered.

Arthur’s unregistered guns had nothing to do with why they might have gone to Philadelphia or where they went when they got there, but Daniel hadn’t been able to find any clues anywhere else he’d looked. So here he sat. Just do it.

He pulled away the wood and looked at the safe. He’d found the combination oh-so-cleverly concealed in his father’s Rolodex as a birthday of a long-dead aunt. Daniel remembered the aunt and her actual birthday, as it had been close to his own.

He dialed the combination and was rewarded with a click. He was in.

But the guns weren’t. The only contents of the safe were a check register and a memory stick for a computer. The check register wasn’t from the bank the Vartanians had used for generations. Even before he opened it, Daniel knew what he’d find.

There were a steady progression of withdrawals, all written in his father’s hand. Every transaction was written “to cash” in the amount of five thousand dollars.

It was most certainly blackmail. But Daniel was un-surprised.

He wondered which part of Arthur’s past had come back to haunt them all. He wondered what was on the memory stick that his father hadn’t wanted anyone else to see. He wondered when the next flight left for Philadelphia.

Monday, January 15, 1:40

P.M.

Sophie ripped at the Velcro that held the armor together. “Ted, for the third time, I don’t know why they want to talk with me,” she snapped. Ted Albright’s grandfather was an archeological legend, but somehow not one of those brilliant genes had been passed down to Ted. “This is a history museum. Perhaps they have a history question. Can you stop with the third degree and get this off me? It weighs a freaking ton.”

Ted lifted the heavy breastplate over her head. “They could have asked me.”

Like you’d know Napoleon from Lincoln. Outwardly she gathered her composure and calmly replied. “Ted, I’ll talk to them and see what they want, okay?”

“Okay.” He helped her remove the greaves from her shins and she sat down to yank off the boots that covered her own shoes. Vito “The Rat” Ciccotelli was waiting outside. That she wanted to see him less than Ted Albright said it all. That they’d seen her in period garb made it even worse. It was humiliating.

“Next time you schedule a knight tour, make sure Theo is here. That armor really does weigh a ton.” She stood up and stretched. “And it’s hot under there.”

“For someone who claims to love authenticity, you complain a helluva lot,” Ted grumbled. “Some historian you are.”

Sophie bit back what would have been a nasty retort. “I’ll be back after lunch, Ted.”

“Don’t take too long,” he called after her. “You’re a Viking at three.”

“You can take your Viking and…” she muttered, then rolled her eyes when she saw Patty Ann leaning across the front desk, flirting shamelessly with the two detectives.

She had to admit they were two fine-looking men. Both tall and broad shouldered, handsome by anyone’s standards. With his sandy red hair and earnest face, Nick Lawrence had a country-boy kind of appeal, but Vito Ciccotelli was… Admit it, Sophie. You know you’re thinking it. She let out a weary sigh. Fine. He’s hot, okay? He’s hot and he’s a rat, just like all the others.

She stopped next to the desk. “Gentlemen. How can I help you today?”

Nick flashed her a look of relief. “Dr. Johannsen.”

Patty Ann’s look was decidedly more threatening as she arched an overplucked eyebrow. “They’re detectives, Sophie,” she said and Sophie swallowed her sigh. Patty Ann had apparently decided to be British today. The proper blue suit now made more sense. “Homicide detectives,” she added menacingly. “They want to question you.”

Nick shook his head. “We’d just like to talk with you, Dr. Johannsen.”

Because he wasn’t a rat, she gave him a smile. “I was about to get lunch. I can give you thirty minutes.”

Vito held the door open for her. He hadn’t said a word, but that probing gaze of his hadn’t left her face either. She gave him a glance that she hoped was as menacing as Patty Ann’s had been to her. He frowned, so she considered herself successful.

The air outside felt wonderful against her skin. “If we could make this quick, I’d appreciate it. Ted has another tour scheduled and I have to get dressed.” She stopped at the end of the sidewalk. “So shoot.”

Vito looked up and down the street. It was midday, and both car and foot traffic was heavy. “Can we go someplace a bit more private?” The frown on his face had made it into his voice. “We don’t want to be overheard.”

“How about my car?” Nick asked smoothly and led the way, then held open the front passenger door. “Wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea by making you sit in the back,” he said with an easy smile, then quickly slid in the back seat. She watched Vito aim a dirty glare Nick’s way before taking the driver’s seat next to her. Nick simply raised a brow in response and Sophie knew she was being manipulated.

Annoyed, she grabbed the door handle. “Gentlemen, I don’t have time for games.”

Vito clasped her shoulder, his hand gentle but firm as he held her in place. “This is no game,” he said grimly. “Please, Sophie.”

Reluctantly she let go of the handle and Vito let go of her. “What’s this about?”

“First of all, we wanted to thank you for your help yesterday,” Nick said. “But studying the bodies we’ve recovered so far has raised more questions.” He leaned one shoulder against the back of the driver’s seat and dropped his voice. “We found a strange pattern of punctures on one of our victims. Katherine believes they were caused by nails or some kind of sharp spikes. The punctures start at the neck and stretch down the back of her body to the middle of her calf. There are similar punctures down the back of her arms. We think the victim was forced to sit on a chair of nails.”

She shook her head in reflexive denial. “You’re joking, right? Please say you’re joking.” But the memory of the dead man’s face, posed hands, and disemboweled body pushed the denial from her mind. “You’re serious.”

Vito nodded once. “Very.”

A shiver shook her. “The inquisitional chair,” she said quietly.

“Nick found a photo on a museum website,” Vito said. “So the chairs did exist.”

She nodded, her imagination painting horrific pictures. “Oh yes, they existed.”

“Tell us about them,” Vito said. “Please.”

She drew a deep breath, hoping her stomach would calm. “Let’s see… Well, first, the chair was one of many tools used by inquisitors.”

“Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition,” Nick murmured grimly.

“The Spanish Inquisition is the one that most people are familiar with, but there were several inquisitions.” It was easier to lecture than to think about the victims. “The first was the Medieval Inquisition. The chair existed during the later Spanish period and may have existed in the Medieval, but its use is a topic of debate among historians. If it was used, it wasn’t used as often as most of the other torture methods or devices.”

Nick looked up from the notes he’d been scratching in his notebook. “Why not?”

“According to original accounts, the inquisitors got a lot of benefit just by showing the chair to the accused. It’s a terrifying sight, more terrifying in person than the picture.”

“You’ve seen one?” Nick asked.

“Where?” Vito added when she nodded.

“In museums. There are several in Europe with good examples.”

“So, where would someone get an inquisitional chair today?” Vito pressed.

“It wouldn’t be that hard to make a simple one, if someone really wanted to. Of course there were more sophisticated models, even in the Middle Ages. Most of the chairs had simple restraints, but some had cranks that could tighten the restraints, forcing the nails deeper. And…” She sighed. “Some had metal sheeting that could be heated, burning the accused’s skin as well as puncturing it.” Vito and Nick exchanged a look and she lifted her hand to her mouth, horrified. “No.”

“Where would someone get such a chair?” Vito repeated. “Please, Sophie.”

The reality of their request began to sink in and a sense of panic began to crowd the horror. They were depending on her knowledge to find a killer and suddenly she felt totally inadequate. “Look, guys, my specialty is medieval fortifications and strategic warfare. My knowledge of inquisitional hardware is very basic at best. Why don’t I call an expert? Dr. Fournier at the Sorbonne is world renowned.”

Both men shook their heads. “Maybe,” Vito said, “if we absolutely have to, but we want to keep this limited to as few people as possible. Your basic knowledge may be enough for now.” He fixed his eyes on hers, and the tumult inside her began to calm. “Just tell us what you know.”

She nodded, forcing her brain to think beyond the rote knowledge they could get off any website. She pressed her fingers to her temples. “Okay. Let me think. He either made his instruments, or he obtained them already made. If they were already made, they could be crude copies all the way up to original artifacts. What are you thinking?”

“We don’t know,” Nick said. “Keep talking.”

“How even was the pattern of nail punctures?”

“Damn even,” Vito said grimly.

“So he’s careful. If he made them, he’d pay attention to detail. Maybe he’d want drawings or even blueprints.”

Nick looked as revolted as she felt. “There are blueprints?”

Vito leaned forward, his brows crunched. “Where would he get these blueprints?”

He was so close that the scent of his aftershave tickled her nose and she could see the thick black lashes that rimmed his eyes. Then his eyes narrowed, his gaze growing more intense and she realized she’d leaned toward him, drawn like a moth to a flame. Embarrassed and disgusted with herself, she jerked backward, putting more space between them. “You said to keep talking. I never promised to say anything worthwhile.”

“I’m sorry,” Vito murmured, leaning back. “Where would he find blueprints?”

Sophie made herself breathe. “On the Internet, maybe. I’ve never looked. The museums with the chairs might have documented the design somehow. Or… I suppose he could have used the old texts. There are a few journals kept by inquisitors. They might have drawings. He’d need access to the old texts, though.”

“And he’d get this access how?” Nick asked.

“Rare book collections. And he’d have to be able to read them. Most were written in medieval Latin. A few in Old French or Occitan.”

Nick noted them on his pad. “You can read these languages?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Of course,” Nick muttered.

Vito still watched her, more intensely than before. “And if he bought them?”

“If he bought them, he either bought copies or real artifacts. You see copies of armor and other weapons for sale on re-creationist websites all the time. Medieval festivals often have booths where weapons of varying quality are sold. Some are handmade and others are mass manufactured, but all are copies.”

“What kind of weapons?” Nick asked.

“Daggers, swords. Flails and axes. But I’ve never seen torture weapons sold. Now if they were authentic artifacts…” She shrugged. “You’d be talking private collectors.”

Nick nodded. “What do you know about them?”

“Like with everything else there are good and bad ones. Legitimate collectors purchase their artifacts privately from other collectors or from auction houses like Christie’s. Sometimes ‘new’ old stuff appears on the legitimate market, but that’s rare.”

“Like?” Nick prompted.

“Like the Dordogne swords. In 1977, six fifteenth-century swords that had been previously unknown came up for auction at Christie’s. Turns out they came from a rare find-eighty fifteenth-century swords were discovered at the bottom of the Dordogne River in France in the mid-1970s. They’d been on a barge headed for troops fighting the Hundred Years’ War. The barge sank and the swords lay buried for five hundred years. But that kind of find is very rare. Normally, catalogued artifacts change hands. Most of our exhibits come from the private collection of Theodore Albright the First.”

Nick frowned. “The father of the guy we talked to in there?”

“Grandfather. Ted the First was one of the more famous archeologists of the twentieth century. He got a lot of his items from other collectors, but…” She lifted a shoulder. “Ted the First was digging in the teens and early twenties. Nobody knows for sure, but I’d bet some of the items in his collection are artifacts he uncovered on his digs. If it could be proven, the Albrights might be forced to give them back.”

Nick nodded again. “So he wasn’t always a legitimate collector.”

“No, Albright the First was a good guy. See, that’s how it was done back then. You came, you saw, you dug, you carted home your loot. Reality is, museums have artifacts because someone brought them home… back then.”

“And now?” Nick prodded.

“Today, most governments have seriously cracked down on artifacts being removed from their countries. It’s considered theft and they prosecute.”

“So now they go through the black market,” Vito said.

“There’s always been a black market. It’s just that the prices have been going up since the crackdowns started. I’ve heard of private collectors buying art and pottery and documents. Roman mosaic floors, even. But not instruments of torture.”

“But it could be happening,” Vito pushed.

“Of course it could. I don’t travel in those circles, so I wouldn’t know.” She thought about some of the shadier archeologists she’d known. “But I could ask around.”

Vito shook his head. “We’ll ask the questions,” he said firmly, then lifted his hand when she lifted her chin with a jerk. “It’s procedure, Sophie,” he sighed wearily, “just like not telling you about the graves yesterday before you found them.”

“But that was to prevent bias,” she pointed out. “I know the details now.”

“This is to prevent harm,” Vito returned. “To you. This isn’t some academic project for a thesis. This is a multiple homicide in which the killer dug seven extra graves. I don’t want to see you in one of them.”

Sophie shuddered out a breath. “Good point. I’ll make you a list.”

One corner of Vito’s mouth lifted and his dark eyes warmed. “Thank you.”

She found herself smiling back before she realized that once again he’d reeled her in like a fish on a hook. I’m as gullible as a trout. Wiping the smile from her face, she dropped her eyes to her watch. “I really need to go.”

She got out of the car, then stuck her head in the open door. Vito was watching her again, his eyes slightly narrowed and… hurt. Her heart pricked, but she hardened it. Deliberately she turned to Nick. “I’ll e-mail you a list of any sources I can come up with. Good luck.” She was halfway to the museum’s front door when she heard a car door slam, then Vito calling her name. She kept walking, hoping he’d take the hint and leave her alone, but his footsteps grew louder as he closed the distance between them.

“Sophie. Wait.” He gripped her arm and pulled until she stopped.

“What more do you want, Detective?”

He tugged on her arm. “I want you to turn around and look at me.”

She complied. His face was inches away, his brows furrowed in a confused frown. From the corner of her eye she saw Nick leaning against his car wearing a similar look of confusion and she felt a spurt of indecision, but the words on the card she’d found with the roses echoed in her mind. A-I’ll always love you. V. “Let go of my arm.” He released her but didn’t move back, so she did. “What do you want from me, Detective?”

“What happened? Last night we were talking and you were smiling, then I asked if you wanted to get a pizza and you got mad. I want to understand why.”

“Maybe I just didn’t want to have dinner with you.”

“No. If looks could have killed, I would have dropped dead on the spot. I’d like to know why. And I’d like to know why I’m Detective now when I was Vito last night.”

She huffed a flat laugh. He sounded so victimized. “You guys really are all the same, aren’t you? Look, Vito, I’m sorry your ego got bruised, but it’s time you learned that not all women are going to fall at your feet. I’ll get you the information, as quickly as I can. But not because of you, so get that straight now.” She took a step, then stopped. He was still standing there, his dark eyes snapping with anger and suddenly the questions she’d asked herself too many times demanded answers.

“Tell me, Vito. When you’re on the make, do you think about the woman at home?”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, each word deliberately spaced.

“Then I guess the answer is no. What about the target? Do you think she’s stupid, that she’ll never find out that she’s only a conquest? Do you think the woman at home will never find out that she’s being betrayed?”

“I don’t know where you get your information, but I have no woman at home.”

She stomped her foot. “The ‘woman at home’ is a metaphor. It means you’re taken.”

His expression didn’t change. “I have no one, Sophie.”

She held his gaze. “So those roses in your truck… weren’t yours?”

His eyes flickered. He opened his mouth, but this time no words emerged.

She smiled, but not nicely. Turning on her heel, she walked the rest of the way to the museum without interruption. But when she got to the door she saw his reflection in the window. He stood where she’d left him, watching her go. Just like the night before.

Monday, January 15, 2:15

P.M.

Vito slumped in the passenger seat, ignoring Nick’s curious stare. “Just drive.”

Nick pulled away from the curb into traffic. “Where to?”

“Let’s go to the morgue. Jen should have sent a few more in by now.”

“Happy, happy, joy, joy,” Nick muttered. He was silent for several minutes as Vito stared out the window, thinking about knights and torture… and roses.

“We could contact another professor,” Nick finally said quietly. “Other universities have archeology programs. I checked it out on the Web last night.”

“You checked lots of stuff on the Web last night,” Vito returned, and even he could hear the animosity in his voice. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. The house is too quiet,” Nick murmured. “I always hated the way Josie would stay up all night with her music blaring, but now that she’s gone… I miss it.”

Vito turned only his head to study his partner. “Do you miss her?”

“I know she cheated, and I know it makes me a fool. But yeah. I miss her.”

It was an open door, Vito knew. Nick didn’t like talking about his private life. That he’d been duped by his ex-wife for so long was an especially sore spot. But he’d opened the door so that Vito could talk.

“She saw the roses.”

Nick winced. “Sheee-it.”

“Yeah. That about sums it up.”

“Did you tell her who the roses were for?”

“That would have been too logical.” Vito huffed a disgusted sigh. “No, I didn’t. I couldn’t. So she thought the worst. I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.”

“What a crock of bullshit. Vito, do you like her?”

“Don’t you?”

“Well, yeah, of course. Even if she does speak Occitan, whatever the hell that is. She’s funny and cute and…” He shrugged with a rueful grin.

“Hot,” Vito supplied morosely.

“That ’bout sums it up. But more importantly, she might be able to help us with this case.” He glanced over, serious again. “So even if you don’t want to explore her personally, tell her the truth so we can use her ‘basic knowledge.’”

“I don’t want to tell her the truth.” I don’t want to tell anybody the truth.

“Then make up a damn good lie, because if we end up having to pay another expert, Liz’ll want to know why. And I’m not taking your whoopin’, Chick.”

Vito gritted his teeth. Of course Nick was right. A free resource was too valuable to let get away for personal reasons. “Fine. I’ll stop by the museum tomorrow.”

“Better do it tonight. I’ve got to go to court tomorrow, so you’ll be on your own.”

Vito blinked in surprise. “Did I know about this?”

“I told you twice and sent you a memo. You’ve been distracted this week.”

By Andrea. Vito blew out a breath. “I’m sorry. So why are you in court?”

Nick’s jaw tightened. “Diane Siever.”

Vito winced. Diane had been a thirteen-year-old Delaware girl who’d gone missing three years before. Nick had been the unlucky cop to stumble across her body during a raid on a heroin ring when he’d still been Vice. “Do you still get cards from her folks?”

Nick swallowed hard. “Every damn Christmas. I wish they weren’t so grateful.”

“You gave her parents closure. At least they know. I can’t imagine not knowing.”

“I can’t imagine sitting in a courtroom watching the sorry asshole that murdered your daughter strutting up to the stand like a damn peacock.” Nick’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the wheel. “Damn DA deals. Every time I think they’re on our side, they go and deal a murderer. Makes me sick.”

The “sorry asshole,” a junkie with track marks on his track marks had rolled on his partner, an up-and-coming local drug lord. The DA had wanted the drug lord more than the junkie and had dealt him down. “Which DA made the deal?”

“Lopez.” Nick nearly spat the name.

Vito frowned. “Maggy Lopez? Our Maggy Lopez?”

“One and the same.”

Maggy Lopez was a recent addition to Liz Sawyer’s homicide team, but every time she drew one of their cases, Nick had let Vito handle the communications. Now that made sense. “You never said word one about her before.”

Nick just shrugged angrily. “I shouldn’t have this time. Call the lab and see if they got anything on Keyes’s computer.”

“Okay.” Vito’s call was answered by Jeff Rosenburg. “You guys have a chance to look at that computer we took from Warren Keyes’s residence this morning?”

“Dream on, Chick. We’ve got a line out the door.” Jeff always said that.

“Can you look? It’s important.”

“Important,” Jeff finished with him sarcastically. “What isn’t? Hold on…” A minute later he was back. “You lucked out, Chick.” Jeff always said that, too. “We got to it, but only because one of the techs is working on a special drive-wiping project.”

“So you’re saying Keyes’s drive was wiped?”

“Not totally. It takes a lot to totally wipe a drive, but enough is gone to make it a challenge. The method was very elegant.” Jeff sounded impressed. “It was a virus, delivered through your vic’s e-mail. But it was timed.”

“Like a sleeper?”

“Just like. The tech is still trying to piece together the code to find out how long the virus stayed hidden before leaping to life and gobbling your vic’s files. We’ll call you if we come up with anything more.”

Vito snapped his phone shut thoughtfully. “Wiped,” he said. “But elegantly.” He told Nick what Jeff had said. “So we have a sadistic OCD killer who digs graves with military precision, who has a sick medieval obsession, and who is a computer wizard.”

“Or who has access to a computer wizard,” Nick countered. “Or maybe we’re dealing with more than one killer.”

“Could be. Let’s see what else Jen’s dug up.”

Monday, January 15, 3:00

P.M.

They found Katherine studying x-rays. Vito stood behind her, easily able to see over her head. Andrea had been small like that. There had been times Vito was afraid he’d break her. Sophie Johannsen on the other hand… she was just a few inches shorter than he was. When she’d confronted him about the roses, those full lips of hers had been about even with his chin. Physically, it would take a lot to break her, but inside was a vulnerability that touched him. You really are like all the others. Someone had hurt her. Deeply. And she thinks I’m just like them.

That bothered Vito. Deeply. He needed her to know he wasn’t like all the others. Even if only for his own peace of mind.

“Who is this guy?” Nick asked with a frown, snapping Vito’s attention back to the x-rays at which he’d been blindly staring. “Did he push our bodies to the back of the line?”

Vito scanned the skull illuminated on the light board. “He’s not one of ours. No evidence of medieval torture. This guy took a bullet right between the eyes.”

“No medieval wounds and he took a bullet,” Katherine agreed, “but this is one of your victims, boys.” She extended one hand. “Meet victim number one-dash-three.”

“What?” Vito said.

“He’s ours?” Nick said at the same time.

“What does one-dash-three mean?” Vito added.

“Yes, he’s yours. One-three means he comes from the third grave in the first row. He was young, late teens, early twenties maybe. Cause of death was that bullet to his skull. He’s been dead perhaps a year. I’ll know more after I run some tests.”

She walked to the counter and grabbed a sheet of paper. On it she’d drawn a four-by-four matrix of rectangles and had made notes in all but three of them. “This is what you have so far. Seven empty graves, nine occupied ones. Jen’s recovered six of the nine bodies. She’s in the process of excavating the seventh body in row one, grave four, aka one-four.”

“The fourth row is empty,” Nick murmured. “Three-one, Caucasian male, midtwenties, blunt trauma to head and torso. Trauma with a jagged object to head and right arm. Right arm nearly severed. Time of death, at least two months ago. Contusions on torso and upper arms, circular in shape, approximately one quarter inch in diameter.” He looked up. “This is the third body we pulled out last night.”

“Exactly. Three-two is the woman with the folded hands.”

“Sophie told us about the Inquisitional Chair,” Nick said, his voice heavy with disgust. “Our boy has the deluxe model. Spikes and metal plates for heating.”

Katherine sighed. “This just gets better all the time. Three-three is your Knight.”

“Warren Keyes,” Vito said. “He was an actor.”

“I thought so. I finished his autopsy, by the way.” She handed Vito the report. “Cause of death was heart failure brought on by blood loss. His abdominal cavity was empty. There were no injuries to his head, but the bones in his arms and legs were all dislocated. The force was shear, not radial.”

“Meaning they were pulled, not twisted,” Vito said, scanning the report.

“Yes.”

“He was stretched on a rack,” Nick murmured.

“I’d say that’s a good guess. He was definitely drugged.”

“His mother said he was clean and sober. He’d been in rehab,” Vito said.

“That’s entirely plausible. There was damage to his nasal membranes from the coke. I found a lot more of that white mixture up in his nasal cavity.”

“So was the stuff you found silicone grease?” Nick asked.

“Silicone lubricant, yes. The lab’s going to try to narrow it to a brand for you. But there was something mixed with the silicone. Plaster. It had filled his sinus cavity.”

Nick frowned. “Plaster and lubricant? Why?”

But a memory was poking at the edge of Vito’s mind. “One Halloween when we were kids, our boy scout troop made masks by taking plaster casts of our faces. We used cold cream to make the plaster lift off better. He made death masks of Warren Keyes and the woman with the hands.”

“Then he took the cast over most of their body,” Katherine said. “But why?”

“It has something to do with medieval effigies.” Vito shook his head. “He made a tomb, maybe? I don’t know. None of this makes sense yet.”

Nick had turned back to Katherine’s diagram of the graveyard. “So what about the elderly male they brought in this morning?”

“Ah. Him.” Katherine tapped the second row from the top. “The second row had two bodies and two empty graves. The bodies were both elderly, one male, one female.” She lifted a brow. “The female was bald.”

Vito blinked. “He shaved her head?” he asked but Katherine shook her head.

“She’d had a mastectomy.”

“He killed a woman with breast cancer?” Nick shook his head. “Good God almighty. What kind of sick bastard kills an old woman with cancer?”

“The same kind that would torture and mutilate his other victims,” Katherine said. “But he didn’t torture her. She had a broken neck, but no additional injuries. Now the old man, he’s a very different story.”

“Of course he would be,” Vito muttered as she put up three new x-rays.

“The old man in plot two-two has a broken jaw, massive trauma to his face and torso. He was beaten badly, by a fist, I’m guessing. The jaw is dislocated and the cheekbones are crushed. This was a vicious attack with lots of power behind it.”

“A big fist,” Vito murmured. “He’s a big guy, our killer. He had to have been to haul Warren Keyes’s body around, even if he drugged him.”

“I agree. The man has six broken ribs. These femur injuries were made with something bigger and harder. Both femurs were broken.” She turned around, both brows lifted. “But the pièce de résistance…”

“Shit.” Nick sighed. “What?”

“His fingertips are gone. Sliced clean off.”

Vito and Nick looked at each other. “Somebody wanted the old man to stay incognito,” Vito said and Nick nodded.

“So he’s probably in the system. Were they sliced before or after death, Katherine?”

“Before.”

“Of course,” Vito muttered. “Time of death?”

“I’d say two months or more. The bodies of the elderly couple were in a similar stage of decomposition to three-one, the man whose right arm is nearly severed.”

“The one with the circular bruises,” Vito murmured. “Any idea of what they are?”

“Not yet, but I haven’t really looked too hard. One of my techs found the bruises and recorded it in the log.”

Nick rubbed the back of his neck wearily. “And now we have one-three with a bullet in his head. Decidedly postmodern era.”

“Dead for a year, not a few weeks to a few months like the others,” Vito added. “This doesn’t make any sense at all.”

“Not yet,” Nick agreed. “We won’t be able to make any sense of it until we identify more of the victims. We got lucky on Warren Keyes. Was there anything you could readily see that might identify the others?”

Katherine shook her head.

“Shit,” Nick muttered. “So, we’ve got six bodies so far, one identified. Four of the six are young, two old. One actor, one cancer patient, one who might be identified if we’d been able to run his prints.”

“Who the killer really hated,” Vito added. “And that breaks with his profile.”

Nick lifted a brow. “Keep talkin’.”

“He dug all those graves perfectly, all exactly the same. He’s obsessive-compulsive. The third-row vics were tortured, but with tools, not his bare hands. The new guy with the bullet-another tool. The old man’s injuries say he really let loose. Rage and passion aren’t the MOs of an OCD perp.”

“Personal,” Nick agreed thoughtfully. “If he knew the old man, chances are good that he knew the old woman, too. But he used his hands on her. Broke her neck.”

“But he didn’t beat her up.”

Katherine cleared her throat. “Boys, this is all fascinating, but I’ve been on my feet all day and I’d like to get out of here before midnight. So leave.”

“Gee, Ma, we like the morgue,” Nick whined and chuckling, she shooed him out.

“If you want autopsies-then go. I’ll call you later. Now go.”