Face of a Killer

12

Sydney took the elevator to the thirteenth floor, thinking about Donovan Gnoble and his answers, his nonanswers to her questions. In her mind most politicians that high up in the political spectrum got there or stayed there by means less than altruistic. Gnoble, however, had always seemed on the up-and-up. Surely her mother would never have remained friends with him otherwise? She was about to add that her father would never have remained friends with him, but she wasn’t quite sure what to make of her father after the last two days.

She waved at the receptionist who buzzed her into the Bureau offices. Just down the hall to the left, she stopped at a wall-mounted counter, pulled her time card from the slot above it, and signed in. Hard not to see the blank space from yesterday, a day that was supposed to be spent in quiet introspection, remembering her father as he was supposed to be remembered.

She didn’t necessarily trust Gnoble to do what needed to be done. Not because he wasn’t a good politician, but precisely because he was a good politician. He’d always put his political interests first. That was the name of the game. And what of McKnight? she wondered, as she shoved her time card back in the slot. Could she trust that Gnoble would look into that, tell her what he found, even if it conflicted or cast doubt on his political ideals? After all, McKnight committed suicide while being looked at for a political appointment, and his name was connected to Gnoble’s.

And wasn’t that the point? Damned good one at that. She took out her cell phone, called Scotty as she walked to her desk.

“What are the chances you can get a copy of McKnight’s suicide note from Houston PD?” she asked.

“Hello to you, too.”

“Can you?”

“Figuring you’d want to see it, I’ve already tried. It’s not going to be easy. Hatcher’s already back in D.C., and Rick Reynolds, the agent who was looking into it after Hatcher left, says he’s not touching it with a ten-foot pole. There’s some political voodoo on the case, according to him, and he’s this close to being transferred to an outhouse in the wilds of some state with a population less than a thousand.”

“What do you mean political voodoo?”

“The note’s off-limits, which, I suppose, is good news, because if there is anything about your father in it, it’s not coming out in the papers. Gotta go. Another call coming in.”

“Scotty-” He disconnected, and before she could try calling him back, Lettie walked by, saw her, and said, “Dixon told me the moment you get back from court, he wants to see you.”

The first thing anyone noticed upon walking into Dixon’s office was the brochure for Tahiti on the wall, and below that a calendar marking off how many days until his retirement, which Dixon could cite not only to the day, but to the minute, maybe even the second. The calendar’s placement, as well as the Tahiti brochure, were there as a not-so-subtle reminder that if his subordinate agents knew what was good for them, they had better not do anything to screw up and keep him from the long-anticipated trip he intended to take once he reached the magic age of fifty. According to the calendar, he’d hit that in about four years.

Those in the know used that calendar as a gauge for his moods. If he was staring at it, be careful. At the moment Sydney walked in, he was buried in paperwork, a good sign, or so she thought, and she knocked on the open door.

Being a supervisor, he had his own agenda, because the first thing he said was “Thought you might like to discuss what happened the other night with the drawing.”

“Actually, I wouldn’t.”

“ Pretend you would.”

“I had my mind on something else at the time?” “Like what?”

The million-dollar question, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to throw it out there now. “The usual, wondering if SFPD had any leads, was Reno PD doing the follow-up?”

“No, they haven’t. And Reno PD doesn’t have anything, either.”

“Which means whoever you assign is going to have a lot to do on the case,” she said, trying to deflect his attention.

“It’s not like you to feed me bullshit, Fitzpatrick. What the hell is going on?”

If a lie would get her out of this, and she was any good at it, she would have concocted one on the spot. And the truth sure as hell wasn’t going to work. Then again, maybe part of the truth… “Don’t suppose you caught the article in the Chronicle. The one on the death penalty?”

“I scanned it briefly. Why?”

“One of the cases they detailed is the guy convicted of killing my father.” Dixon put down his pen, gave her his full attention. “He’s due to be executed, but claims he’s innocent. It was twenty years yesterday, so it got to me. The anniversary.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s why you asked for leave.”

That and the hangover she’d been anticipating. “In a nutshell.”

“You going to be okay? Or you need more time off?”

His more-time-off question was double-edged, something Sydney knew from experience, and she decided right then and there that she wasn’t about to reveal her visit to San Quentin and definitely not Scotty’s news, either. Not yet. Dixon didn’t want to hear that any agent working for him was having issues, was emotionally involved in anything that would take time from real work. Bottom line, he had to make reports to HQ in Washington, and her caseload was part of his stats. She gave a casual shrug. “I’ll be fine.”

He stared at her for several seconds, perhaps to ensure that she really would be okay, then, finally, “You talk to that officer from Hill City who drove up here about a sketch?”

“Case is a couple weeks old. Partly decomposed body, no available ID, though the officer thought it might be related to our case we picked up last night.”

“I agree with her.”

“Since it’s cold-”

“I don’t like coincidences. I’d like you to go down today, see what can be done.”

“Today?”

“You have something else that’s more important?”

“The Harrington report.” That particular report was due on his desk last week, and his expression told her she’d just given the wrong answer. She quickly added, “But it’s almost done.”

“Get to the point where the ‘almost’ part is eliminated from the ‘done’ part when you come back tomorrow. I’d like that guy sitting in a jail cell.”

“First thing in the morning,” Sydney said, hightailing it out of there. She wanted the time to contact Houston PD, find out about that suicide. But between the sketch and the Harrington report, she wondered when she’d have the time. The Harrington report was left over from her last assignment working white-collar crimes, an insurance fraud operation that was about to result in the arrest of more than ten individuals, including a prominent doctor, George Harrington, who had masterminded the ring that had netted his medical practice several million dollars.

Unfortunately for George Harrington, he was caught when his office billed an insurance company for a procedure his patient didn’t need. An appendectomy. The insurance company brought it to the Bureau’s attention, pointing out that said patient had already had his appendix removed several years before.

If Sydney wanted any peace in looking into the matters involving her father, she’d need to get on that sketch and get the Harrington report turned in. Lucky for her, the case was virtually done, which meant she could devote her full attention to turning in a sketch on the Hill City victim. Well, devote as much attention as her swirling thoughts would allow.

Hill City, located just north of San Mateo, was a quaint town of middle-class homes that were probably worth a small fortune, thanks to their proximity to San Francisco. The police department was located in an antiquated building in the center of town, where a large sign posted out front depicted the new building forthcoming once a bond was passed.

Sydney walked up to the glass double doors, pushed one open, then stepped into a small lobby. To the left was a door that led to the police department, where Sydney was greeted by a woman at the front counter.

Credentials in hand, Sydney said, “I’m Special Agent Fitzpatrick. Is the detective who is handling the Jane Doe working here?”

“Jane Doe?”

“Body found out in a marsh.”

“Oh. That’d be Detective Rodale. I’ll call him for you. Just have a seat.”

She directed Sydney to a very small waiting room consisting of four chairs just off the records section. Sydney sat, waited. About five minutes later, the detective walked in. He was wearing tan slacks and cowboy boots, and a navy sport coat that did little to hide the belly that protruded over his large silver belt buckle, the sort given out as trophies for a rodeo.

“You’re with the FBI?” he asked, his tone implying he was anything but impressed.

“Yes. I understand you have a Jane Doe that needs to be identified.”

“How’d you come about that info?”

Call it intuition, call it her previous eight years on the force before becoming a special agent-it was clear he wasn’t thrilled about her presence. There were two strikes against her. One, she was a woman. Two, she was a federal agent. Thank God not all officers were of similar mind. That same intuition told her, however, that if he knew Officer Glynnis had tipped her, Glynnis would bear the brunt of his anger. “National database. That’s why we have y’all entering every tiny detail from your reports.” She gave him her sweetest smile.

He seemed to buy it. “Yeah. Okay. Right this way.” And so Sydney followed him back to the detective bureau, which consisted of about six desks in a large room. He sat at his desk, didn’t offer her a seat, then hefted a thick black binder from a shelf behind him. “Everything’s in here.”

Sydney pulled up a chair from beside the desk, sat, opened the binder. “What’s your take on it?”

“Probably a hooker got mixed up with someone who didn’t like what she was charging. Or you Feds got a better scenario? I’m assuming that’s why you’re here? To take over the case?”

She flipped through the pages, trying to see if it might be related to the case they picked up the other night. The injuries were so much more severe, she couldn’t judge on that factor. “I’m here only to do a forensic drawing to assist you. For identification purposes.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to post her picture?” He crossed his arms. “Maybe one of her clients will recognize her.”

She examined the close-up photo of the victim. “If you think someone can get past the caved-in skull, filmy eyes, and the fact there are only a few strands of hair left on her head because of decomposition. And did you plan to show the neck stab wounds with it?”

He didn’t respond, which made her wonder if he was truly contemplating such a thing. For the public to view a photo of a victim in that manner was incomprehensible, and Sydney glanced at him to see if he was serious.

She decided he was, and figured she’d move on. “Dental?” “Negative.”

“Prints?”

“Only partials left. Submerged too long. Nothing came back. Not one lead panned out, so you can say this is one cold case. Which doesn’t change the fact that we don’t want or need you here.”

“Lucky for you my presence here isn’t required,” Sydney said, thumbing through the autopsy report. “At least not to do my job.” She stood, handed him the binder. “I’ll need a complete copy of your report and the autopsy. As soon as I get that, I’ll head on over to the morgue and you can play with the case all you want.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then maybe your superior officer will explain the finer details of federal jurisdiction to you.”

He picked up the phone, punched in a number, and after a moment said, “Lisa, it’s Rodale. I’m sending someone up to get a copy of our marsh homicide. Give it to her.” He dropped the phone in the cradle, stood so that his tall frame towered over Sydney and his rodeo belt buckle was about her eye level. She shoved her chair back and stood, still having to look up at him as he narrowed his gaze at her and said, “Don’t think that just because you’re with the FBI that you’re better than us. I’ve got more Code Seven time under my belt than you have time out on the streets.”

Code Seven was the cop term for lunch hour, and she gave a pointed look to his large belly. “I see you do,” she said, nodding. “But don’t worry. A little diet and exercise, no one will ever know how you spend your day.” And with that, she walked out the door.

The morgue was typical county fare, pale green tiles lining the walls, the floors slick concrete, the usual stainless steel wall of refrigerated compartments for body storage. Unlike Detective Rodale, the on-duty clerk assistant to the pathologist did not have an attitude. He was in his late fifties, balding, but his blue eyes twinkled with humor when he saw the name on the report. “That guy’s a piece of work, isn’t he?” the assistant commented.

“To say the least.”

“Got our Jane Doe here,” he said, opening one of the small square doors, and sliding the body out. “I’ve never had someone come in for a drawing before, but then, I haven’t been here that long. You going to work in here?”

“Actually if she’s not in terrible shape, I might be able to work from photos.” Something she preferred to do, primarily because looking at photos was easier on the mind and the nose, and far easier than standing in the morgue, staring at the actual corpse for hours on end.

“I’ll put her out on a table for you.”

She opened her briefcase containing her camera gear, while he readied the body for viewing. She figured she’d snap some digital, and some film. But before Sydney did that, she’d need to check the body to determine if she could work from photos. If decomposition was too far along, the next step would be boiling the skull to remove all flesh, then working with a forensic anthropologist to determine what the measurements and thickness of facial flesh would be for the particular race and sex of the victim-the standard process used, for instance, when the subject is a found skull that can’t be identified through dental records.

She put on some latex gloves, then turned to the gurney that held the Jane Doe. A post-autopsied body is not a pleasant thing to look at. Long tracks of sutures attempt to hold the victim together, though never enough to keep from exposing the inner pinkish-yellow flesh that always seems to escape the stitches. In this case, the chilly weather had slowed the decomposition of the victim, and as a result, the smell was tolerable, mostly masked by the heavy antiseptic scent that permeated the morgue.

If Sydney had to guess her age just from sight, she’d put her in her late teens to late twenties, but that was a job best left for the medical examiner. Even so, her victim’s face was devoid of any wrinkles, but it was also devoid of most of her hair, including eyelashes, eyebrows and scalp. This would be the greatest challenge, trying to reconstruct the proper hairstyle, which could drastically change someone’s appearance and hinder an identification if she guessed wrong. There were just a few strands in various places on her scalp. All appeared to be straight, light brown, and as Sydney carefully held them out, measured them, jotted the information down, she was pleased.

The assistant, curious, walked up. “You can tell something by the hair?”

“Possibly the hairstyle,” she said. “Here, these three strands remaining in the front are short. Tells me she probably wore bangs.” Sydney measured the few strands left on the side of her head at the top and back, then said, “See here how it’s longer in back? Two separate lengths?” He nodded. “Indicative of a layered style.”

That done, Sydney gently probed her face, determining that the flesh was still fairly firm against the skull, that the gases from decomposition had not overly disfigured it, giving it a swollen appearance. It was a lesson she’d learned from her first drawing, thinking the floater’s face was swollen. As a result she’d narrowed the jawline. Turned out the victim had a round face. Sydney no longer guessed.

The assistant watched, clearly fascinated. “What happens if the body’s in bad shape?” he asked. “You do one of those clay things?”

“I only work sketches,” Sydney said. “The clay models have their place, but I think the sketch is easier to ID from.”

“That right?”

“You ever see a clay model?”

“On TV.”

“Remind you of anything?”

He laughed. “Yeah. A clay head. A Neanderthal clay head with a wig.”

She smiled. “Though I’ve seen some excellent examples, very few artists are skilled enough to pull off a sculpture. Sketches, in my humble opinion, tend to be more forgiving,” she said, stripping off the gloves, then taking the Polaroid camera and snapping a few shots of the woman’s face. “The eye tends to see right past the softer lines from a pencil, filling in the blanks and forgiving tiny errors.” Sydney replaced the Polaroid, took out the digital camera, took photos from all angles, having to stand on a stepladder to get her overhead shots. Next she stepped down and lowered the sheet that had covered the length of her, wanting to get a shot of the tattoo.

That’s when Sydney saw the bite mark on her left breast.

And when she realized that this had just elevated from a cold case into a priority.