Silent Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense

Chapter 13

MIKE MORELLI WAS NOT happy about the discovery of yet another corpse. He was still buried in his investigation of the brutal murder of Harvey Pendergast and his family. He felt he was making progress, even if he didn’t exactly know toward what he was progressing. When a new murder hit, though, the pressure was always on from the Chief to give it the full-court press, on the theory that most murders are solved shortly after they occur, if they are solved at all. Therefore, Mike was faced with the prospect of either adding a new unsolved murder to his workload, or relegating this one to Lieutenant Prescott. Neither possibility pleased him.

As he trudged through the muddy grounds behind the Blaylock plant, he was glad he was wearing his trademark trenchcoat. The sky was gray and overcast; for once, the coat seemed appropriate. He just wished he’d worn some old shoes as well. The ground was wet and muddy and he was getting it all over himself.

He saw Tomlinson standing just outside the huddle of activity that inevitably surrounded the corpus delicti. “Over there?” he asked, pointing.

“Yes, sir. But if you’ve had breakfast … you may want to go slow.”

“Isn’t that what you said the last time?”

Tomlinson nodded grimly. “More or less.”

“Well, this can’t be worse than the last one.”

Tomlinson did not reply.

“Great. Just great.” Mike trudged past him, brushed the other crime scene personnel aside, and pulled the white sheet off the naked corpse.

He couldn’t tell what exactly had happened to this woman, but whatever it was, he knew it was bizarre. And sadistic. And painful. Her torso was riddled with punctures, sizable blood-ringed holes running up and down her rib cage on both sides. There was one over her heart as well. That was no doubt what had killed her, if she wasn’t dead already. Dried blood was everywhere.

Mike threw down the sheet. “Goddamn it, I hate my job.”

Tomlinson was at his side. “You don’t hate your job. You hate the person who was capable of doing this.”

“I hate my job because it forces me to think about sadistic bastards who are capable of doing this.” He walked away from the crime scene, putting a good distance between it and him, trying unsuccessfully to soak in some fresh air. Trying, because the air wasn’t that fresh; it seemed sooty and polluted. Probably the plant had a smokestack or incinerator somewhere on the premises. Not that it mattered. Right now, a sudden jolt of pure oxygen probably wouldn’t make him feel any better.

When at last he returned to the center of activity, he was all business. “How did they come across the body?”

“According to the foreman, they were readying waste-disposal drums for transport to a waste-disposal site. He says it’s a regular procedure—something they do every week or so.”

“That’s all there is to it? They put the waste in the drums, then haul it off?”

Tomlinson nodded. “So they said. On a frequent and regular schedule.”

Mike crouched down, grabbed a handful of dirt, and let it trickle through his fingers. “This soil has been disturbed.”

“I noticed that,” Tomlinson said. “But the foreman explained that it was just the result of many feet trampling over the ground after the body was discovered, combined with the wet weather.”

Mike scanned the area surrounding him. The soil had been disturbed for a wide radius in all directions. It was almost as if the dirt had been turned, like something a farmer might do to freshen the topsoil.

Mike pushed back up to his feet. “Do we know who she is?”

“No clue. She was stripped naked when we found her.”

“Any idea how she was killed?”

Tomlinson shrugged. “Just the obvious. Something sharp and thin. Ice pick, maybe.”

“Maybe. Lot of tearing of the surrounding skin, though. What does the coroner say?”

“He says not to bother him until he’s finished his report.”

“Pompous ass. He’ll talk when I want him to talk.” Mike pressed a hand against his forehead. Calm down, he told himself. Don’t let it get to you. “Doesn’t look like the same M.O. as the last murder. Harvey.”

“Agreed. They don’t seem to have anything in common. Except above-average cruelty.”

“Christ. What a wonderful world we live in.” He turned, trying to think clearly. “Still, it’s a hell of a coincidence. Last victim was a Blaylock employee. This one turns up in Blaylock’s backyard.”

“True. But coincidences do happen.”

“Not on my turf.” Mike surveyed the scene, watching the technicians go about their specialized tasks. “Still, we have to go by the book. Until we have reason to think different, we’ll treat this as a separate murder inquiry.” He paused. “Even if my gut tells me otherwise.”

Mike fumbled pointlessly in the pocket of his coat. Days like this he really wished he hadn’t stopped smoking. “Find out who she is, okay? Start by taking her picture inside the plant. Show it around. I’m betting someone will recognize her.”

“Consider it done, sir.”

“I want all the reports from the crime scene teams on my desk as soon as possible.”

“Understood.”

“There’s not much I can do until we know who she is. But the longer that takes, the less likely we are to find the killer.”

“Right.”

“Until we have a tangible reason to think otherwise, we have to assume these killings are unrelated. Which means there are two killers on the loose.” Now that was a chilling thought. Two killers. Two men in one county capable of committing hideous and sadistic atrocities. And both still at large.

He cast his eyes toward the steely sky. “We have to catch them before they strike again.” He paused, then looked directly into Tomlinson’s eyes. “We have to.”

It was the cop again.

His piercing green eyes, pressed up against the high-powered binoculars, recognized the detective as soon as he arrived. Sherlock Holmes at the scene of the crime.

He would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit he was a trifle concerned. He had thought this investigation would be handled by some local yokel Blackwood cop. The fact that Tulsa’s top homicide investigator had been called in suggested that someone somewhere at least dimly perceived the possibility of a connection. True, the great detective was still light-years behind him. He had no clue what was happening, much less why. But at the same time, certain facts could not be denied. All had not proceeded according to plan. When he had planted the body in the barrel, then put the barrel in line with the others for the usual Saturday burial, he had expected the body to disappear, not to be seen for decades, if ever. How was he to know that, contrary to all prior procedure, the corporation had decided to start digging up the drums?

What were they thinking, anyway? He didn’t know what the deal was, but he had a strong hunch it related to the lawsuit, the one described in the document he’d found in Maggie’s purse. Someone was trying to bury the evidence. Or unbury it, in this case.

Could the great detective put two and two together? True, he now had the corpse, and he would undoubtedly discover who she was. He would discover the connection to Blaylock—but that wasn’t all that unusual, especially in this one-horse town. Would he realize that the killings were linked? Even if he suspected as much, would he ever be able to uncover the secret?

There was one way, he was forced to admit. If the cop discovered the connection between the victims—and found the others.

Now more than ever, the green-eyed observer realized he had a double reason for eliminating his former colleagues. To recover the merchandise—and to wash away the only trail that could lead the authorities to him.

He laughed, safe and secure in his distant hiding place. That detective had no idea what was going on, any more than he realized he was being watched at this very instant. He could never catch him. He was Moriarty, wasn’t he? Even the original Holmes was never able to outthink Moriarty; he could only defeat him by brute strength, by tossing him off a waterfall. This detective would never have that opportunity. He would never come close.

And if he tried—punitive measures would be taken. Immediately.

It was time for a celebration, he declared silently. He reached into his always-loaded overcoat and withdrew a bottle of white wine, a still-chilled bottle of chardonnay. From another pocket he withdrew a corkscrew—its spiral blade caked with blood.

He plunged the corkscrew into the bottle and slowly withdrew the cork. The wine fizzed over the top, the effervescent yellow liquid mixing with the blood—creating a faintly crimson overflow.

He poured it into a glass and drank with great enthusiasm. Even if he had not yet recovered that which he sought, he could take time for a bit of revelry.

And then, when he was finished, it would be time to kill again.