Grave Instinct

FOUR

Marriott Hotel, Savannah, Georgia Same night

He located the computer terminal in the hotel and went onto the Internet in search of the words that would encourage him to continue on his quest. Like an addict, he quickly found the site he wanted. It read:

While we have separate bodies, we have a singular mind. Every individual shares in this universal mind or soul. The result of even touching slightly on this cosmic mind is an illumination and understanding so profound and mystical, as cited by St. Thomas Aquinas before his death in 1274. Comparing it, he declared all his learning a mere “straw.” Mystic Jacob Boehme wrote: “The gate opened to me… so that I saw and knew more than if I had been many years at a university.”

It is a sharing, my friends, in the inexhaustible spring of eternity He read it, breathed it in, this confirmation that, despite the horror of his actions, he was doing the right thing. This was no simple rationalization. These were facts. Cahil's words were essentially correct, all but his having wrongly fed on the days-old dead in his grave raids rather than the living-and, of course, the foolish notion that a single small island of tissue deep within the medulla oblongata alone held the soul, could also be dismissed as wrongheadedness.

Grant Kenyon and Phillip knew better. The brain to be consumed had to be minutes fresh, not days old. And the entire brain had to be consumed, not a small shred of Cahil's ridiculous gray noodle. Grant had argued this with anyone logging on to Cahil's website who cared to listen.

Cahil had robbed those graves thirteen years ago not for the whole brain but for a two-inch-long finger-sized sliver of it. Such a piece of tissue could not possibly house all of the cosmic mind or soul of an individual, to act as the funnel for the cosmic river to enter the brain. Besides, why take chances? Consume everything, his own mind consistently told him.

Still, it was good to know all of Cahil's thoughts on the subject in order to implicate Cahil as the so-called Skull-digger. To this end, Grant Kenyon had used Cahil's beliefs against him. Still, fortified with Cahil's encouraging words, Kenyon logged off, signed off on the computer use with a fake ID and returned the key to the desk.

It was time to acquire more of the C-mind, the cosmic soul, the most profound excitement, and that awe-inspiring power that his other self required of him and fed on. Promises had been made; a deal between him and his brain had been struck: that if he stepped up his hunting, and Phillip could feed faster, the final prize was realized sooner.

He asked the desk clerk where he could find some action. The man's confused expression asked, What kind of action? Grant said, “Where're the clubs around here? You know, music, dancing, women?”

“ Oh, well, there are a number of strips.”

“ Can you show me on a map?”

“ Most certainly.”

Outside Savannah, Georgia 2 A.M., July 8, 2003

All that the completely possessed Dr. Grant Kenyon-as Phillip-wanted was the girl's brain, nothing more. They- the authorities-could have the rest.

And so Phillip the Cosmic Seeker-as his brain sometimes called itself-would feed.

He switched on the tensor lamp directed at his fourth victim s cranium. The light blinded her as she struggled for consciousness and blinked in disorientated fervor. He began the operation by shaving the area of the scalp, backing off her hairline. He whispered, “So as to make the cut as clean as possible.”

She moaned in response, her body somehow aware of him atop her, independently squirming against her restraints there in the back of the van. Next he shaved her eyebrows with a battery-operated shaver followed by a razor. They must come off completely. He didn't want any hairs adhering to the brain when he removed it.

The Demoral was enough to keep her groggy, but she was coming around, feeling the pressure of the razor against her scalp and eyebrows. More forceful now, she continued to struggle against her bonds a struggle that only excited the Cosmic Seeker. She had no power against the handcuffs around her wrists and ankles, which Phillip had instructed Grant to install in his van-along with the surgical leather strap that held her head in place at the throat and temples.

He had driven out to Picketville, an area of little population, and parked in a wooded area near the train tracks. No one for a mile or so. No one to hear her struggle or her screams when he chose to take the gag away and click on the handheld rotary bone saw.

Grant had no trouble performing the operation. After all, it was a procedure he'd performed on cadavers at the morgue. He had studied the pathology books and had been placed in charge of the morgue when old Graham Dobson had died. Since then, four years ago, Grant had opened up and examined some thirty brains, most of which he'd put back, but many he'd consumed. He had become proficient while at Mt. Holyoke Memorial Hospital at opening and closing the cranium in the manner he now performed on the living. It was a procedure he watched closely during his medical training. He recalled the excitement of wanting to know precisely how each incision was made in order to create a large enough frontal window from which to take hold of and remove the brain-to pluck it free of its prison. The medical books, his pathology instructor and the old hospital pathologist had made it look easy, but he had known even after doing it several times now on a living subject that it was never easy or without problem. The brain could be stubbornly anchored, especially in the living.

He removed the gag and said, “Now, this is just a razor. I just finished shaving your head. Necessary, Winona, before I cut it open.”

Winona Miller screamed in response. He glanced at the tape recorder set up earlier by Phillip to catch all the sound effects-in order to prove to Grant that he had actually done this hideous deed again.

“ I have to search your brain for answers. I want to share with you all my sight, dear girl, and you will come to know who you really are. I know your soul is in there, inside your head.”

“ What… what do you… want from me?”

“ Your memory, your DNA and your cosmic mind.”

“ What?”

“ Now, I have to mark where the cuts will go,” he said, replacing the razor with a red marker. The soft kiss of the marker made her tremble even more than the razor had. She started screaming and pleading for her life.

“ I don't wanna die. I don't wanna die. I don't wanna die…”

“ I don't so much want your life as your brain. It's the only reason we're here, Winona.”

She screamed in response.

He breathed in her terror; it made Phillip feel powerful to make her scream. Her screams penetrated the van walls and echoed out into the night, but they were far from anyone who could hear.

“ Time to cut,” he said as he began the incision with the scalpel. Her screams heightened at the scalpel's kiss, which brought the blood. Outside, a train screamed by as if on cue, drowning her out. Then she fainted. He eased back on his knees vulturelike, then he continued with the operation.

He hadn't known whether he could perform the operation on a living person that first time, back in Richmond, Virginia; but now, with his fourth victim in his complete power, held as she was to the van floor, it certainly presented itself as the thing to do again, to add to his collection. Why he wanted her brain in his hands, or what he might do with it, once he had it removed, he had not known the first time he had severed a living, still-pulsating brain from a person. But now he knew that his own brain wanted them. “Don't you understand, Winona?” he asked. “Your power source will join with mine. I know it's in there somewhere.” He caressed her head, her hair, her brow. “You're never going to be alone. You'll be with the rest of us. We'll all be one.

…” he told her even though she'd swooned into unconsciousness. “Too bad I can't hold it up to your eyes for you to see before your last breath. Maybe then you'd believe me.”

Phillip had taught Grant well. He was coming to accept what he was. As he worked the handheld, relatively small electric bone cutter, the saw wheel whirred and screeched. The sound lulled him into the thought of how he had entrapped her, using her own childish naivete against her.

Grant had been cruising by a residential home in south Georgia when he had spotted Winona getting into a car with a young man. He had followed as she and the boyfriend went to a dance spot called Sandman's. On the dance floor, he got close enough to see it in her eyes, that she was one of them-the virtuous chosen. She smiled at him, and he nodded casually. Having a beer at the bar, he watched and waited, patient and vigilant. He soon realized that the couple was not getting along. When she bolted from the dance floor and her boyfriend followed, so did Phillip.

The girl and her boyfriend appeared to be in their early twenties as they stood arguing in the dimly lit parking lot.

He stayed at a safe distance to watch their argument escalate while other couples politely ignored the discord and passed by-the comings and goings of any nightclub. Phillip saw many underage teens playing at being older, and he worried about looking too out of place here, too old for the general clientele.

Then he saw the girl storm off alone down the street and away from the club, leaving her vulnerable. He watched her boyfriend rush to his car, peel off and go right past her, slowing only to call her a bitch, not stopping.

Returning to his van, Phillip-or the thing Grant had become-followed her progress. Phillip got into his van and made his way toward his prey.

She had been drinking heavily at the club. Now she was hitchhiking for a ride home. He closed the distance between them, and in a moment he stopped alongside the young woman. “Need a lift?” he asked, smiling wide.

At first she held back, but then she half stumbled to the window, slurring her words as she spoke. “How far you going down Turnbull Boulevard?”

“ As far as you need me to, darlin'. You came off a pretty bad scene back there at Sandman's.”

“ You saw that?” she asked.

“ Bad scene,” he repeated. “Been there, done that more than I care to say. Guess we all have. But it'll look better to you in the morning. Look, I'd be happy to get you home.”

She stopped to stare at him intently, studying his features.

“ I'm just a little wasted,” he added, “but not so much I can't drive.”

He wasn't entirely a stranger to her. “Didn't I see you inside Sandman's?” she asked. “I thought you must work there or maybe own the place.”

“ No, wish I was an owner. I just go there sometimes. So, yeah, you did see me inside. I know I saw you.”

She looked over his dark van, a look of uncertainty coloring her features. She was pretty, he thought, in a Southern suburban prissy girl way.

“ Come on. I've got the ride and the time and something to help with your pain.”

“ No way. You sound dangerous. Besides, you're too old for me.” “Whoa, that hurt. But maybe a little experience and danger… maybe that's what you need about now. Forget that loser. I promise, I'll be nothing but a gentleman-until you get to know me, of course.”

She hesitated, trying to ponder exactly what that implied. “A gentleman until I get to know you, hmmm… Well, it is a long way, and my folks'd kill me if they knew I was out here alone. I thought that jerk was going to come crawling, but that didn't happen.”

“ Where do you live?”

“ The Heights.”

“ Coincidence, so do I. Come on. I won't bite.”

“ You don't sound like you're from around here, and my mother always says never to talk to strangers.”

“ Your mother's right, and so are you. No, I'm from up North. Just moved here to get work.”

“ Where abouts up North?”

“ New Jersey.”

“ What's your name?”

“ Phillip”-he was not lying-”what's yours?”

“ Not sure I should tell you,” she teased. “Listen, Phillip, you got any weed or anything that might cheer a girl up?”

He nodded and smiled. “You're not one of those undercover narcs now are you, baby?”

She laughed at this.

“ Sure thing,” he assured her. “Plenty enough for both of us. Plenty.”

She didn't answer, her mind contemplating him and his offer. She hesitated but placed a hand on the door handle and then cranked it down, opening the door and cursorily checking the cab from the door to be certain everything was normal. She glanced into the dark void of the empty rear. She could not make out anything there but a toolbox and some discarded boxes. “No backseats?” she asked.

“ I have to keep the back for my work, you know-supplies and stuff,” he said.

“ Supplies of what?”

“ Just stuff I have to cart around.” He gave a thought to the concealed. 38 below his seat and the sh@egon in the rear. These were for emergency use only.

“ What, like tools? You a mechanic, a carpenter, an electrician, what?”

“ Yeah, an electrician,” he lied.

“ You work with your hands, then.” She gave him a coy smile and he returned it.

“ What's your name?” he asked again.

“ Winona.”

Mimicking her Georgia accent, he replied, “That's a right pretty name, Wiii-no-naaa.”

“ Why thank you, Mr. Phillips.” Calling him “mister” reinforced her earlier remark that she found him too old for her liking, but she was interested in getting high.

She got into the van, inspected the door for anything strange, making certain she could open it before she closed it. “With all the weird shit going around in the world today, you can't be too careful.” She relaxed, accepting the ride by getting into the front seat and instantly putting out a hand, asking, “So… what've you got to smoke or pop?”

“ Sure… sure…” He fumbled with a joint, lit it, and dropped it into her lap. While she fought to retrieve the burning thing, her high-pitched voice telegraphing her distress, he suddenly plunged a needle into her forearm, saying, “Meet Mr. Demoral, Winona.”

At the same instant, her boyfriend's car raced by again, the burning rubber indicating his anger. He'd gone around the block and watched to see how easy a pick up she'd be. At the same instant her boyfriend sped by, Winona raised the mace she'd been clutching to Phillip's eyes, burning him only a little before he tore it away.

He pulled the door closed and drove off. At a safe distance away from the club as the Demoral began to work its magic, he stopped the van and dragged her back into the rear, handcuffing her into position.

She pleaded with him not to rape her. He promised that he would not do anything of the kind. “I told you I was a gentleman, a gentleman. I'm only interested in your mind, Winona.”

He'd remained true to his word as the saw now bit into her scalp. He liked to start at the top and work his way to each side at the ears, run to the base of each ear and then return to the midpoint between the eyes at the eyebrow line. Dr. Grant knew it was the neatest, most efficient way to handle the job with the least amount of bone shrapnel and blood. He didn't particularly care to have blood everywhere.

Jacksonville, Florida 4:25 A.M., same night

The helicopter descended over the gleaming Jacksonville cityscape, its surrounding waters reflecting the buildings, many lit with colorful pink and pale purple lights, turning the skyline into a 'Wizard of Oz setting. The pilot pointed at the police strobe lights below and said that he would put the chopper down as close to the scene as possible. That meant landing atop a small, weedy little plateau of pitted earth along the riverbank, a dusty sandlot for parking near the Venetia Warf. The dirt-and-sand parking lot looked at odds with the surrounding sheen of concrete high-rises, huge bridges and blacktop everywhere else.

While the new sun played hide-and-seek with the morning clouds, the pilot brought them down. Once the skids had settled and the chopper sat firm, Jessica took her medical bag and rushed out, crouching below the blades. J.T. followed. They then waved off the pilot and made their way to the waiting party of two uniformed people and one man in a gray suit.

“ Dr. Coran, so glad you could come.” Lorena Combs shook Jessica's hand. “I'm Sheriff Lorena Combs, Duval County.” Combs had a gazelle like grace about her, and a firm grip as she next shook J.T.'s outstretched hand. She then introduced the Quantico team to George Sheay, the heavyset chief of police in Jacksonville. The FBI's agent in charge, Henry Cutter, a tall man with a misshapen nose, stepped forward and introduced himself as well, telling them, “You can count on our full involvement and all the help we can offer, Dr. Coran, Dr. Thorpe. Sorry to take you away from home and family.”

J.T. was a bachelor, and Jessica shrugged Cutter's remark off, even as she gave thought to Richard Sharpe, who'd called from Korea during a stopover on his way to consult on the Beijing extradition case. “Where's the corpse?” Jessica asked.

Combs indicated the way and escorted Jessica to where the body still lay on the boat. With the onset of morning, traffic on the bridge nearby had increased and motorists were hearing about the victim over radio waves as they passed the wharves. The helicopter landing had also alerted people that something odd was going on at the wharf. A nearby sightseeing tour group chugged off on a river excursion, passengers pointing to the activity at the death boat. Jessica saw that they were surrounded by small businesses catering to weekend fishermen and tourists, but that the body was on a boat along one of the wharves filled with expensive yachts. Amid the yachts squatted the rusty old shrimping vessel. On the other side of a chain-link fence, a second wharf was lined with professional fishing boats and shrimp boats. “Community of yachtsmen are pissed off because the shrimp boat dared to dock in their little territory,” Combs mentioned.

While equipped with motors for maneuverability and chase, some of the relatively small shrimp boats also maintained backup sails. Though most of the rigging, Jessica realized as she approached, was actually nets strung about the boats-in serious need of disentanglement. Most of the shrimpers had already set out for an area where they could go from the St. John's River to the ocean. Those remaining were chugging and sputtering badly while at idle; some were under repair, while the one in question, squatted among a bevy of beautiful yachts, dead silent. This boat was littered with almost as much yellow police caution tape as rigging and netting.

An elderly, thin-faced man used a sea cap in his hand to punctuate his shouting at stationary police guards on the dock beside his boat. “What in God's creation is taking so long? I shoulda just threw the body back into the St. John's when it come up!”

“ Since the fish population has declined, the shrimpers usually go out twice a day, twilight and dusk,” said Combs in Jessica's ear. “Owner-operator of the boat being held is pissed off that we haven't released his vessel.”

As Jessica and J.T. walked toward the boat, their shoes slapping the boards, Jessica read the name painted across the wooden rear: Uneven Odds. As she neared the boat, she studied the screeching seagulls all around and overhead, and aside from their footfalls on the boardwalk, she heard a playful sound like melodic chimes. It was the boat's rigging just overhead, the ropes in the wind tapping out a tune over the body, as if playing a hymn for the dead girl.

Sheriff Lorena Combs said, “Boat captain says he picked her up about a mile north of here. I've got men combing that area for anything unusual, trying to determine exactly where she may have been dumped into the river.”

“ Shot in the dark, huh? Any luck identifying her?” Possibly. We put missing persons on it, and they're bringing over a couple to have a look.”

Jessica exchanged a look with J.T. No one wanted to break such news to the family in a normal death, let alone a mutilation death, and yet they had to have a positive ID. The two previous victims had been identified and put to rest, so those parents, family and friends at least had the closure of a burial. “Part of the killer's MO has been to take with him anything that might help officials identify the victim,” J.T. said to Combs.

Combs replied, “Worst part of the job. I told the possible parents that it would be easier on them after we got her to the morgue, that they could view the body through a window, but they're adamant and on their way here.”

“ Determining where she entered the water might well be of help in the investigation,” Jessica said, changing the subject. “Might locate some tire prints, some cigarette butts.”

“ We can only hope.”

They now stood on the dock, high over the boat captain in the hull. Abrams's clothes marked him as a working crewman as well.

“ Dr. Coran, Dr. Thorpe, meet Captain Abrams.”

“ Permission to come aboard, sir?” Jessica asked the skipper.

He laughed in response. “You know how many people have come and gone here? You're the first to ask permission.”

“ So, may we?”

He returned his cap to his head. “Why not? Permission granted. I'm going to find a drink.” He stormed off to his pilothouse.

Jessica noticed the tarp someone had positioned over the body, and now she and J.T. went toward it. J. T grabbed hold of the tarp and pulled it down to the victim's chest area. Jessica went to her knees beside the dead girl and tore the cover away entirely. She found the body now just as it had been described to her-as having been rolled. The victim lay on her stomach, no visible sign of injury. “Help me turn her, carefully.”

J.T. did so as the others held back. When the body was fully turned, Jessica heard Police Chief Sheay, standing well back, moan and say, “My God, Cutter. Do you see what this butcher did to her?”

“ Gentlemen,” said J.T., “this is surely the third such victim found in this horrid condition within a month. But it's not a butcher's job he's done on them.”

“ What do you mean?” asked Chief Sheay.

“ The cutting open of the skull, the manner in which it's been done here… this is no amateur at work. He's highly skilled with a scalpel and bone saw.”

Jessica let them know she agreed with J.T. “Scalpel, bone saw, forceps. The killer had all the right tools for his ends.”

“ Forceps?” asked Combs.

“ He had to have used forceps to snatch hold of the brain and remove it through the front like this,” Jessica explained. “It's as if he's trained to do it or has seen it done. It only happens on autopsies. Brain implants or brain surgery usually leaves only an oval in the affected area.”

“ But this guy wants the entire brain,” said Combs.

“ Why?” asked Sheay, handkerchief covering his nostrils and mouth.

“ To eat it, to weigh it, to dissect it?” asked Special Agent Henry Cutter. “We don't pretend to know why, Chief. Even the FBI's never seen this kind of thing before.”

“ If we knew why, it might help us find him,” said J.T. “But we honestly can only guess at his motives.”

Jessica added, “Our earlier examinations have shown that he uses a surgical saw, rotary style from the findings we've seen. Makes clear striations against the bone. If we could locate this guy and his saw, we could nail him on the saw markings to the skulls alone.”

“ How do the other victims compare to this one? Physically, I mean,” asked Cutter, stepping closer, wincing at the wound.

“ Approximate size and shape, hair color difference, color of eyes no match.” Jessica bent down and stared into the eyes to determine an answer to her own question. “Blue. The others had brown and hazel eyes.”

“ So he isn't too picky. Not in search of a specific type with blue eyes, brunette hair, size, weight?” pressed the hawk-nosed Cutter.

“ It appears his only interest is what lies inside their skulls,” replied Jessica. “None of the previous victims were raped either. Tests are likely to show the same here, I suspect.” She examined the eyes more closely for any telltale signs of strangulation-the minuscule red dots of hemorrhaging in the eyes. She found none. She next felt about the exterior of the throat for any damage there, and other than the now-familiar restraint marks at the throat and temples, where the head had been held in place by some elaborate restraint, she found nothing of particular note, certainly no merciful sign of strangulation. “J.T., that medical head strap you brought,” she said, hand out. J.T. obliged, handing the strap to her.

She fitted it about the neck and head of the deceased. It matched perfectly against the head restraint marks left on the girl. “That tears it. This guy knows medical supplies, John.”

“ And no signs of strangulation?” asked J.T.

“ None.”

“ Like the others.”

The two M.E. s knew that this indicated a death that came with the shock of having one's skull split open by a bone cutter.

Agent Cutter asked, “Any sign of drug use in your earlier victims?”

“ The only significant amount found in either was the drug Demoral.”

“ Demoral?”

“ Used mainly as a sedative and muscle relaxant,” said J.T.

“ Found in both prior victims, and no apparent injury to any other part of the body. We've determined that they all died while alive-while under this madman's scalpel and saw.”

“ That's what the autopsies show?” Combs's obvious empathy for the victims showed in her eyes now.

“ Afraid so. This guy works methodically. We've found residue of red marker. He maps out the cut just after shaving the hair away from the crown and eyebrows. His first incision is with the scalpel, after which he brings the bone saw to bear along the scalpel lines. We've determined that he is left-handed from the angle of the pressure he brings to bear on the marker.”

“ And he'll strike again?”

“ If he can, yes.”

Combs hesitated. “Strange, all so strange..

The case was indeed strange, Jessica thought. “It fits no pattern I've ever seen in all my years as a forensic scientist.”

Jessica examined the bruised wrists and ankles, noting that they appeared to have been caused by handcuffs. J.T. concurred.

“ Well then… if her head and limbs were restrained…” Combs's light brown eyes grew dim.

“ Then we know the killer has mapped out his every move,” said J.T.

Jessica said, “Be clear on one thing, people. It's not enough that the bastard kill her. He wanted her to know what he was doing, wanted her conscious. He wanted her brain still palpitating when he got to it.”

“ So if he's eating it, he wants it fresh and warm,” added J.T.

“ And he's into torture as well as murder.” Combs almost choked on her deep sigh. “You have no doubt of that?”

“ None.”

A policeman escorted a well-dressed couple to the crime scene. They were in search of their missing daughter. The couple clung to one another as if for breath and life. Supporting one another like a pair of beams that had fallen over, the father introduced himself and his wife as the Mannings. He looked as shattered and fearful as she.

Finally, they mustered the courage to come close enough for a look. The sight of the victim caused her to faint, and he fell to his knees holding her. “It's Amanda… It's our little girl!” moaned the tearful father. “My God, what have they done to her?”

Combs got the parents up and off the boat with the help of uniformed officers. The sad processional going from wharf to street level was heartrending to watch. Like two children in the dark, the parents stumbled the entire way.

“ Jane Doe has a name now,” said J.T.

“ Amanda… Amanda Manning,” replied Jessica, who stepped away from the body long enough to breathe in the air coming over the river.

“ They'll want the body released as soon as possible, Dr. Coran,” said Combs upon her return.

“ Yes, certainly. We'll do all we can to accommodate Amanda's parents.”

Jessica and J.T. returned to the body and began the work of gathering microscopic data in vials and on slides. Jessica studied the fine features of a young woman barely out of her teens, a dimpled cheek and a lovely curvature to the face and eyes, accentuated by a slim nose. All of it and the girl's life marred by the missing forehead and empty skull, marred by a madman's twisted and awful designs.

Just then a shaft of sunlight illuminated the dark cavity of Amanda's empty cranium, and Jessica stared into that well, as if studying it might release some answer to the mystery.

“ Well… let's get the morgue involved,” said J. T, about to wave on the attendants.

Combs agreed, adding, “Amanda will be waiting for you at the FDLE morgue, Dr. Coran.”

“ Wait… There's something else here,” Jessica said, her eyes widening as the other two started away. “Something inside her skull.”

J.T. and Combs got down close to see what Jessica referred to. J.T. fully expected Jessica had found some small crustacean had taken up residence inside the empty skull. “What is it?” he asked, his nose bristling with the odor of dead fish ground into the boards of the old boat.

“ It's etched inside the back wall of the cranium… some sort of mark or… or symbol, I think,” said Jessica. “Must be something the killer intentionally left behind. He's trying to tell us something.”

J.T. crouched in closer and his knees popped as he looked into the space of the empty skull and at the back wall. Seeing the mark, he added, “Definitely not of nature's doing.”

Combs bent even closer in over the body. “What is it?”

“ A… a circle sitting atop a cross.” Jessica drew the sign on a small yellow pad fetched from her case. She held it up to them, and everyone studied the strange glyph.

“ Looks like some kind of religious cross or other icon. But in this context… What does it mean?” asked Combs.

“ I'm not sure.”

The boat captain, Abrams, had reappeared and was studying the sign on the pad. “The upright line like the number one represents upright man, the horizontal line crossing it represents the horizon, while the circle atop the vertical and horizontal represents God.”

“ Was this symbol found on the other two victims?” asked Combs.

“ Unless they missed it… I mean it was nowhere on the protocols. Maybe it was missed.”

“ The sign wasn't on the other two,” said J.T. “I read the reports, too.”

“ Can you go back, take another look?” asked Combs.

“ Both of them have since been buried,” J. T explained.

Jessica sighed heavily and shook her head. “I'm certain the attending M.E. would have seen it if it was there.”

“ What do you think it means?”

“ Who can say? Perhaps that he's doing this out of some holy crusade only he understands.”

“ Son of a bitch is so twisted he thinks God approves of what he's doing?” Combs had to move away. She went toward the front of the boat and stared across the river at the teeming city coming to life, morning rush hour in full swing now, an army of cars passing over the 295 overpass. Jessica joined her there.

You OK, Sheriff?”

“ No… are you?”

“ No… not really. Hell of a number this guy did on her.” On the outside, Jessica knew she presented the picture of calm, but inside she shivered each time she looked back at the corpse's head.

Combs lit up a cigarette and offered one to Jessica, who waved off. They both fell silent a moment, each with her own thoughts until Combs said, “You think you've seen it all, then something like this comes along. Blows your mind.”

“ Yeah… I know… I know the feeling.” After a moment, Jessica added, “Agent Cutter wants to set up a joint task force-state, county, city and federal involvement.”

“ I already told Cutter fine. I have no jurisdictional ego battles in my department. Whatever works… whatever gets us this… this creature.”

“ Murder still gets the chair in Florida, right?” asked Jessica, the wind coming off the river playing havoc with her auburn hair.

“ It's too good for this guy, but it's the best we can do. What he really ought to face-”

“ I know,” concurred Jessica.

“- is the kind of torture he put his victims through. God, can you imagine having your head cut open while you're alive?”

“ And under no anesthesia,” Jessica added. “As for the parents, they don't need to know the details until and unless they insist.”

Combs nodded and took another long pull on her cigarette. Jessica returned to the body to finish her preliminary examination. Everyone had fallen silent. Jessica spoke to J.T. “Imagine Amanda Manning when she was filled with life and love, J.T., filled with tenderness, pity, heartache, sorrow, contentment, jealousy, frustration, shame, despair, pride, triumph, hatred, rage, accomplishment.”

“ Anima,” said J.T., summing it up. “Her anima was taken along with her organ. I know.”

“ All her noisy, boisterous, excitable, passionate, determined, anxious self-stolen in one night of horror.”

“ Now it's all gone,” added Combs, standing nearby.

J.T. had been sketching out the scene on a pad to indicate precisely where the body was in relation to objects around it. He sadly noted that since they were on a boat, there really were no fixed objects unless the boat was tied down permanently.

“ Do your best with what we've got, J.T.”

Jessica took scrapings from beneath the victim's nails. Combs asked, “Do you think that Amanda ripped some skin or blood from her assailant?”

“ I wouldn't count on it, but only time and tests will tell,” Jessica replied. “You can wave in those ambulance attendants now, if you will, Sheriff.”