Face of a Killer

13

Sydney had no idea if the bite wound appeared in the medical examiner’s report, since she hadn’t had a chance to read it completely. One thing she did know, however, was that it did not appear in the police report that she had viewed, and she pointed to the victim’s left breast, asking the assistant, “Do you know if this is documented in the autopsy?”

He looked over, nodded. “I’m the one who typed it up after the pathologist dictated it. Bite wound, left breast. His words exactly.”

She took out a measurement card with a color chart on one edge, laid it against the wound, and snapped several photos with the digital and then the film camera. The fact this was not mentioned in the police report was significant. Sydney wondered if it might be a simple oversight, or if Mr. Big Belt Buckle didn’t think it was important. Unfortunately, not noting it meant that it wouldn’t appear in the information normally entered into the national database, a database used to link crimes that might be connected.

Crimes like the rape and attempted murder of Tara Brown, who also happened to have reported a bite mark on her breast.

And two things occurred to Sydney in that moment. One, it seemed highly probable that they might have a serial rapist and murderer in their area. The true test would be when they had both bite marks examined by a forensic dental expert, especially if no DNA was found. Two, if the suspect was one and the same, she now had a sketch of him in her office, thanks to Tara Brown.

Sydney called Dixon to let him know what she’d found, called Rainie to check up on Topper, finished up at the morgue, then drove back to the city to get started on the forensic drawing of her Jane Doe. Staring at a corpse, or even photos of a corpse, often riddled with stab wounds, bullet holes, or any number of untold injuries, was not easily forgotten. Each time she found herself in this position, she wondered why she’d chosen a profession that forced her to look at death and destruction, especially when she found herself working with victims-like the one she was sketching now, victims of crimes so horrific that death must have seemed a relief. Doubt always crept in at times like these. What made her think she was good enough or even qualified? What if she failed in her attempt at an accurate drawing? What if no one was able to identify the woman? Who would speak for her if no one knew her?

She knew the answer. Quite simply because her father’s death had defined her. Just not in the way her stepfather had thought. True, she’d been unable to help her father, couldn’t stop fate from taking his life, but there were others out there she could help. An advocate for the dead. That was why she had chosen this path all along, honed her artistic skills, willed herself to look at victims so mutilated that the public was not allowed to view them. In a perfect world she’d be painting landscapes. In her world she drew dead people, and so she sketched away, losing track of time until Scotty called.

“I thought you might be home by now.”

“I’m working a priority case. Picked up a sketch that might be related to the rape the other night.”

“About your father…”

She leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes. “Scotty…”

“If you can’t talk to me, who can you talk to?” 98 Robin Burcell

“Can you get me a copy of McKnight’s suicide note?” “I already told you.”

“Do that. Then we’ll talk.”

“I thought I could stop by-”

“Get me that note, Scotty.”

She hung up, glanced down at her sketch, thinking that sometimes dealing with the dead was much easier. She put Scotty and her father from her mind for a few short minutes, finished up the hair, figured she had a good likeness of her Jane Doe, then put away her things. Copies of the sketch in hand, she dropped everything off with Dixon, who was working late, and wanted it for release to the press.

That done, she drove home, desperate to clear her mind as she took Topper for a walk. She started at the sound of every car that drove past, though Topper seemed unfazed. When they were safely home, she tried dabbing a bit of paint on her unfinished canvas, but soon found that her favorite pastime did little to ease her thoughts, and her gaze kept straying to the envelope McKnight had mailed to her. She doubted she’d find anything different; there wasn’t that much in there to see. What was it Scotty used to tell her? Have a beer. Loosen up. Maybe she needed to finally take a piece of advice from her ex, especially when it came to delving into one’s father’s alleged illegal doings. “Hey, Top,” she said to the dog. “Doesn’t your daddy keep a shitload of high-end beer in his fridge?”

Topper wagged his tail.

“That’s what I thought. Desperate times call for desperate measures.” She raided Arturo’s refrigerator, walking out with a six-pack of Sierra Nevada, while Topper raided a basket of dog toys, walking out with something that squeaked. Back at her place, she popped the first beer open, didn’t even look at the envelope until she’d finished her second. Finally she dumped out the contents of the envelope, stared at the writing, knowing in her heart it belonged to her father. For Cisco’s Kid. Send the money to this address. But what that meant was anyone’s guess. The note might hint at blackmail, was cryptic at best, and the two men who could explain it were both dead.

Of course, that left the matter of McKnight’s suicide, and why-if her father was blackmailing him-would McKnight be apologizing for something he did to her father? She needed to know what the hell was in that suicide note, and it bothered her that Scotty, the king of the greased wheels, couldn’t get it for her. A lot of other things bothered her, like the fact she was sitting here, drinking alone. And if that wasn’t reason to open another beer, she didn’t know what was. About two sips in, Topper ran to the door and started growling. “Were you that fuzzy-looking a half hour ago?” she said, getting up. She lost her balance, fell back onto the couch. “Damn, I’m a lightweight.” She got up, peeked out the window, saw the empty stairs, the still driveway below. “There’s no one there, Toppie.”

Topper growled again, and this time she heard a car door slamming shut. The dog seemed to have an innate sense about what cars didn’t belong in this neighborhood, and she’d had too many beers to override his good sense.

Her Glock sat on the counter next to her purse, and she walked over, slid it from its holster, then shut off the light. “Topper,” she whispered. “Quiet.” She returned to the door, tried to listen past her quickening pulse. The sound of someone talking, an accent she couldn’t decipher, saying, “Be careful. Don’t kill-” Another car door closing. Topper pressed his nose to the threshold, his growl low, vibrating. She told herself it was nothing, just a couple of guys. She tightened her grip on her Glock, looked out the peephole.

And saw the silhouette of a man walking toward the steps.