The Caller

Forty-Four

Cassandra Jenkinson’s house was no less gracious on the inside. The front door led Hunter and Garcia into a spacious anteroom with a striking crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. A large, gothic-framed round mirror occupied most of the wall to their left. To their right, a sculpture of twisted stainless steel sat atop a rectangular, double-pedestal console table. On the floor, directly in front of them, a circular, Turkish knot rug filled the room with color. At first glance, nothing seemed disturbed or out of place.

Nicholas Holden, the same forensic fingerprint expert who had worked the first crime scene, was carefully dusting the door lock and studying its keyhole.

‘Any signs of a break-in?’ Hunter asked, bending down to have a closer look.

Holden shook his head. ‘Nothing apparent. Neither the door nor the lock look to have been forced in any way.’

‘Picked?’ Garcia questioned.

‘Unlikely. That’s what I was looking at right now, but this is a five-lever mortise lock. They are hard to find in the US, which is surprising because they’re rock solid. Due to its five levers, picking it becomes a monstrous task. You’d need all the right tools and plenty of time to get through it.’

‘How much time?’ Garcia pushed.

Holden shrugged. ‘Hard to say, but probably a lot more time than any assailant would be prepared to waste at the front porch of an exposed house.’

None of the houses on Flanders Street were sheltered by any sort of gate or fence. A person standing or kneeling by the Jenkinsons’ front door would’ve been easily spotted by most of the neighboring houses.

‘I’ve just started here,’ Holden added. ‘But I’ve already come across two sets of prints. One — female, probably belonging to the victim herself. The second one, undoubtedly male. Big hands.’

Both detectives thanked Holden, pulled open the next door, and moved on to the following room, which had been drenched by the brightness of two powerful forensic spotlights.

The split-level living room they entered was simply stunning, with a towering dark-granite fireplace and gleaming hardwood floors. It had been lavishly decorated with antique furniture, works of art, and a large Persian rug that gave the space a somewhat serene but exotic feel. If the chandelier they saw as they entered the house was striking, the one at the center of the living room ceiling was nothing less than impressive, with ten candle-shaped light bulbs surrounding hundreds of stringed crystal beads that dropped down like sparkling raindrops. But all that beauty, all that tranquility, had been completely shattered by the horror that now took center stage in the room.

From the dining table that sat across from the fireplace, one of its six chairs had been dragged closer to a wall where several framed original paintings hung. On the chair, with her hair, face and torso drenched in blood, a woman sat naked, with her eyes wide open and her mouth contorted in a frozen scream that Hunter was sure had reached no one, except the monster who had mutilated her.

‘Detectives,’ Dr. Slater said in greeting, nodding at Hunter and Garcia. She was standing just behind the victim’s chair.

Neither detective replied, their intrigued stares still battling against the terrorized one that had mummified in the victim’s eyes. Dr. Slater didn’t take offence.

‘Not what you were expecting, is it?’ she added.

Hunter looked deep in thought, like a chess player analyzing his opponent’s unexpected move, trying to figure out what he was up against.

‘I’m not really sure what I was expecting,’ he finally replied, before returning the doctor’s greeting gesture. ‘Hi, Doc.’

Garcia followed suit.

Dr. Slater gave them a few more seconds. A lock of blonde hair escaped from under the hood of her Tyvek coverall. Calmly she moved it back into place.

‘How certain are you that this is the same perp from three nights ago?’ she asked.

Both detectives could clearly see why Dr. Slater had asked that question. Judging from the crime scene alone, anyone would be forgiven for thinking that the killer’s MO and signature suggested otherwise.

‘Right now,’ Garcia replied, ‘not that certain.’

‘I figured as much,’ the doctor came back. ‘And that’s why I asked, because I sure have my doubts. Linking both murders based solely on crime-scene evidence...’ she allowed her eyes to quickly circle the living room... would be a hell of a stretch. Other than the fact that the victim was also left sitting on a dining chair.’ She reinforced her point by indicating it. ‘Most of the killer’s MO differs greatly from the one we saw the first time we met.’ She stepped away from behind the chair. ‘Here, let me show you.’

Hunter and Garcia moved closer.

‘As I’m sure you’ll remember, the victim of two days ago was restrained to the chair by her ankles and torso, immobilizing her arms, but still allowing enough freedom of movement for the “bending forward, slamming” action.’

Both detectives nodded.

‘OK, so first major diverging point — this victim wasn’t restrained to the chair at all, at least not by ropes, or cords, or anything similar.’ She called their attention to Cassandra’s wrists, ankles and the patch of skin directly under her breasts. There were no binding or friction bruises. No marks, either. ‘You’ll need to wait for the toxicology results to find out if she was drugged or not, but I’d be seriously surprised if she wasn’t.’

‘A paralyzing agent?’ Garcia suggested.

‘That’s what I would expect, yes, and that would be a second diverging point in the killer’s MO. As I’m sure you’ll remember, toxicology came back negative on all accounts for the first victim.’

The doctor interlaced her fingers together to readjust her latex gloves.

‘Third major diverging point,’ she continued, now indicating Cassandra’s lips. ‘There are no lacerations, scratches, or impressions of any kind to suggest that she was gagged prior to her demise, unlike the first victim.’

Hunter walked around and joined the doctor by the victim’s left side. For several silent seconds, he regarded the victim’s entire body. With the exception of a small cut to the right corner of her bottom lip, there were no other visible wounds, superficial or otherwise, anywhere on her torso, arms, legs or face. He bent forward to examine her mouth and the cut to her lip, but he found it hard to get past the look immortalized in her eyes — total and utter fear.

‘Fourth,’ Dr. Slater carried on with her assessment, ‘and undoubtedly the most obvious conflicting point in both MOs, is the complete break away from the kill method.’ She regarded the detectives before her. ‘From the surprised look on your faces as you walked in here, I’m guessing that, just like me, you were expecting to find another facially mutilated victim.’

She took their silence as a ‘yes’.

‘It would’ve been understandable if the killer hadn’t used broken glass this time, but I for one was expecting to find another grotesquely disfigured victim.’ Dr. Slater paused and once again called their attention to the naked woman on the chair. ‘As you can see, despite it being completely covered in blood, the only other injury to her face is this tiny cut to the right side of her bottom lip.’ She indicated as she spoke. ‘It’s a brand new cut, so my guess is that it was probably inflicted upon her with a firm hand slap, either to shut her up or to prove his resolve.’

Even through all the blood, Cassandra’s facial features were clearly identifiable — the petite nose, the high cheekbones, the full lips, the rounded chin. She no doubt had been a very attractive woman.

Hunter had already noticed that the victim’s fair hair was completely caked in blood, with the biggest concentration at the very top, which indicated that that was where the blood pour had originated from.

‘She obviously bled from the head,’ he said. ‘But I can’t see any major cuts or blunt-force trauma wounds.’

‘That’s also what puzzled me,’ Dr. Slater agreed, ‘because it doesn’t look like she was bashed over the head with any sort of blunt or sharp instrument. As you’ve said, there are no visible cuts to her scalp. No depressions to her cranium either.’

Hunter regarded the top of Cassandra’s head again, and, though he couldn’t see past the thick cluster of blood and hair, an image began forming in his mind.

‘Small breaches.’ Hunter didn’t phrase it as a question.

Dr. Slater’s eyes followed Hunter’s gaze as she nodded, looking a little impressed from his deduction. ‘He killed her by puncturing small holes into her skull.’