“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Dr. Rogers,” Special Agent Jessica Bishop said, arm outstretched to shake the medical examiner’s hand. The woman had a snowflake tattoo on her wrist just above her blue surgical gloves. Jess’s eyes narrowed to look at her, wondering if they had met before but she would have remembered the jet-black hair and nose piercing. She was definitely new to the coroner’s office. Jess wondered how long she would last.
“Please call me Elle. I’m glad you called when you did. The body has been released for burial. We’re just waiting on a family member to claim her. I hope it happens soon because I need the room.” When she spoke, the light glistened off the stud in her tongue.
“Does she have any known kin?” Jess asked. The details the paper had published were general and vague: a girl’s body found on a path beside a DC fire station. She needed to see for herself if this case was related to the other two murders Jess was looking into.
Dr. Rogers shook her head. “She may as well not have family. Her mom was too strung out to answer my questions coherently and her stepdad only wanted to talk about how he refused to pay for a burial because it wasn’t his kid so it wasn’t his problem.”
Jess frowned. She had heard of other families refusing to claim a body because they didn’t want to pay for a funeral; it was the reason she had already paid for her own cremation. Not that her family would refuse, just that in all likelihood her parents would be dead and there wasn’t anyone else in her life she would want to burden with that, so she took out a policy at a firm that would handle everything. “Can I see the body?”
“Of course. I didn’t know the FBI was investigating this until you emailed me.”
Jess’s skin warmed. She wasn’t here in an official capacity but it was better if Dr. Rogers didn’t know that. Jess was still a federal agent, even if she had not been reinstated, so this wasn’t illegal. Even if she were just a concerned citizen trying to get justice, she wasn’t committing a crime.
Dr. Rogers pulled on the lever of the stainless-steel door of the body locker and pulled out the body. The wheels of the gurney squeaked as metal rubbed against the polished floor. “Here she is. This is Jade Peters.”
Jess stared down at her. Thick dark brown hair, almost the same color as her own, fell just below her shoulders, like a cape, shielding her, offering some armor against her nakedness. Her tiny body had been cut open, examined, and then sewn crudely back together. “She’s so young. I knew she was only ten but I had forgotten how young that is. She’s just a baby.”
Dr. Rogers nodded. “Sadly not my youngest homicide victim.”
Jess wasn’t surprised at all. When it came to the evils of humanity, nothing surprised her. “Are you sure it’s homicide?” She needed a definitive answer to link the cases together.
“She died of an opioid overdose.” She shrugged. “I can’t say if it was intentional or accidental. But given the circumstances of her disappearance and the staging of her body, my gut says it was murder.”
Jess glanced up, her curiosity piqued. “How was the scene staged?” The paper had not mentioned any staging. That was a new development.
Dr. Rogers squinted. “Have you not seen the crime scene photos? This is your investigation, right?”
Jess blinked, momentarily back-footed. “I’m trying to determine if this is related to two other homicides.” That much wasn’t a lie, but she left out the part that she had no jurisdiction here and that the FBI had not sanctioned an official investigation. She had started an investigation off her own back after reading through crime reports while she waited for her hand to heal so she could go back to work. Two months had given her a long time to examine every unexplained death on the Eastern Seaboard in the last five years.
There was a serial killer in DC targeting little girls. She knew it, she had seen the evidence, she just needed to get back to work so she could prove it.
“I have all the crime photos in my report; I can send you a copy. Is the email you sent your inquiry from good?”
Jess’s heart picked up speed. That was exactly what she wanted. She paused for a second so she wouldn’t sound so eager. “Um… yeah,” she tried to sound nonchalant, “please, that would be great.” She pressed, “How was the body staged?”
“Well, she had been dressed in a satin party dress and her nails were painted. She even had a bow in her hair. This guy went to a lot of effort with the body.”
That sort of elaborate staging sounded like a fetish kill. Seeing his victims laid out was a turn on for him. He got off on it. “What are all these scabs and scars? It looks like a rash of some description. What is that?” Jess asked. Clusters of small, crusted lesions covered her torso and upper thighs.
“Those are cigarette burns,” Dr. Rogers said.
Jess looked up. “The killer burned her?” That was not consistent with the other victims.
She shook her head. “No, the injuries are historic. Look at this one.” She pointed to a raised white bump just under the clavicle. “That keloid scar is at least a year old. She was physically abused over a sustained period of time. Notice how all of the burns are focused on her torso. That’s so no one would see them. Whoever did this knew what they were doing.” Dr. Rogers walked around the table and flipped a switch. The light on the X-ray film reader flickered on. The negatives of a child’s forearm and hand lit up. “You can see here a healed spiral fracture. She has a matching one in the other arm.”
“Is that sort of break consistent with abuse?”
“It is when it hasn’t been treated. Look here at this bump. The arm didn’t heal straight because it wasn’t set. I’ve checked her medical records. The only time she saw a pediatrician was when she was born. She had no contact with medical professionals. As far as I can tell she wasn’t even vaccinated.”
“How could she go to school without her vaccination records?”
Dr. Rogers shrugged. “I have no idea. But this child should have been taken from her home. Her entire body has signs of physical abuse.” She turned back to the table.
Jess shook her head. “Poor kid. So, she was kidnapped on her way home from a community center, kept for just over twenty-four hours, assaulted, and then murdered, and then her body positioned in a public area where she would be found.” She spoke aloud as she talked her way through the timeline of events so she could later retrace Jade’s steps.
“I didn’t see any evidence of sexual assault. There are no fresh cuts or bruises and there were no fluids or spermicides that would indicate anything of that nature. That’s not to say that didn’t happen; I just can’t conclusively say.”
Jess nodded. She knew how to read between the lines. Coroners had to be conservative in their reports, only stating what they could definitively prove. It was their job to report the cold hard facts.
There may not be definitive signs of an assault but Jess had never worked a stranger abduction case without that element present.
Jess glanced up at the clock. It was nearly five. Dr. Rogers had taken longer than she had expected with her previous autopsy and now Jess was running late. “I’m going to have to go but one last question. Did you take scrapings from under her nails?”
“Yeah and I found something.”
“Let me guess,” Jess interrupted, her heart picking up speed. “You found residue from blue cotton candy.”
Dr. Rogers’ eyes widened. “Yeah, how did you know?”
“Because that’s the killer’s signature.”
Jess checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. She hardly ever wore makeup but tonight it was mandatory if she had any hope of blending in. She rubbed the corner of her mouth where the lipstick had bled over the edge. According to the tube the color was called Passion’s Blush but it could have been called Prostitute Pink or Streetwalker Red because this color would not look out of place on a professional.
Between the heavy makeup, the teased hair, and the skirt that barely covered her ass, she looked like a hooker, which was exactly what she was going for.
“When in Rome,” she muttered as she tossed the tube of lipstick in the glove compartment and slammed it shut.
The headlights flashed when she locked the car. She had parked in the parking lot of an abandoned warehouse. It wasn’t exactly a safe or salubrious area, but it was safer than her being spotted getting out of her car.
The heel of her boot caught in a crack in the pavement as she turned the corner but she righted herself by leaning against the crumbled brick of a vacant auto-parts shop. She walked as quickly as her stiletto boots would allow because she didn’t want to be loitering on K Street any longer than necessary. Lights flashed as a black BMW pulled up beside her.
Well, that didn’t take long. On reflex, she stroked the gun strapped to her side. She was small so she looked vulnerable, but she had the best shot of anyone she knew. Protecting herself wasn’t an issue but explaining why she was walking the streets in the red-light district would be, so she would prefer not to have to shoot anyone tonight.
The window squeaked as it rolled down. The driver, a middle-aged man, leaned across the passenger seat to speak to her. “Hey, gorgeous. You looking for a date?”
Jess scanned the car for any weapons before she stepped a little closer. She leaned in but not too close. “Hey, sugar. For you, I’m always looking. I need to meet my daddy though. Hit me up in fifteen.” Daddy. Her stomach clenched at the term for pimp. Whoever had coined that colloquialism had a raging Electra complex going on. A paternal reference for a sexual oppressor was every shade of messed up.
“Yeah, sure thing.” He pulled away even before he finished speaking. They both knew he wouldn’t come back to find her. He would pick up the next woman he came across. Any female would do. He just wanted a receptacle, someone to pretend not to be disgusted as he grunted and thrusted.
Jess kept walking until she came to the string of strip clubs. Patrons and dancers lined the streets just outside, smoking. Billows of smoke hung above them like a dark cloud. She passed the strobe lights at the entrance to Bottoms Up and turned down the alley. In the distance, a siren wailed and a woman screamed, yelling a string of profanities.
She found who she was looking for standing between two dumpsters, smoking a cigarette.
“You’re late.” John Donato tucked a lock of thick black hair behind his ear only for it to fall again. His hair was longer now than when she had first met him and he now had dark stubble over his jaw.
“I’m sorry. I got caught up. Did you get what I asked for?”
He ground the cigarette against the wall and then tossed it on the ground to join the pile of stubs before he immediately lit up another. He handed her the pack and she took one, allowing him to light it up for her. His short, nicotine-stained fingernails had been chewed to the quick. Dark smudges of blood outlined the corner of his index finger where he had bit down too far and drawn blood.
His brow raised when he saw the scar on her hand—a permanent reminder of her last investigation. She held her breath as she waited for the inevitable question but he didn’t say anything. He just turned away like he hadn’t seen it because they both had their secrets and they both valued their privacy.
It hurt to hold the cigarette because her pincer grasp had been nearly annihilated with the injury to her palm, but she would be damned if she admitted defeat and switched hands because of a little pain.
She didn’t smoke so she would only bring it to her lips if anyone came into the alley, otherwise she would just hold it until the glow of the tip burned its way down.
She stared down past the cigarette, to the raised skin of the jagged red scar that ran from the top of her wrist, over her palm and to the crevice between her ring finger and pinky. The skin was angry and red, puckered and twisted. It was ugly. She didn’t care about the aesthetics but objectively her hand was now ugly, scary even. She hadn’t realized at first how bad it was until she registered the look of horror on a cashier’s face when she handed her money for her morning coffee. There was a flash of disgust mingled with fear followed by a look of pity that made her want to scream. She had survived. There was nothing for anyone to feel sorry for her about.
John reached into his leather jacket, pulled out a manila envelope, and handed it to her. She resisted the urge to rip it open and start reading the contents there and then, and instead put it in her bag. “Thank you,” she said. “I really appreciate this.” And she appreciated that he hadn’t asked her any questions about why she needed the information or why she couldn’t access the files herself.
He took a long drag of his cigarette. “It was the least I could do. It was a really decent thing you did for me. Anyway, thanks again.”
“It was nothing.” Jess shrugged off the thanks. She hadn’t done anything special. She just hadn’t been an asshole. Once she had interviewed him and ruled him out as a suspect for a case she’d been working on. She made sure his name had been taken out of all reports so that when it went to trial, it didn’t become public record where his fingerprints had been found.
“Most people would have hung me out to dry. You saved my career. And my marriage.”
Jess nodded. She didn’t ask him if he had told his wife he frequented bathhouses and slept with men because that wasn’t her business. Relationships were hard, at least that’s what she had heard. She had never successfully navigated one so she had no right to pass judgement on anyone. Even if she didn’t understand, she realized he had his dragons to slay just like she did.
“How’s your case going?” Jess asked.
“I’m ready for it to be done. I miss my kids.” He took a long drag of his cigarette. “And my wife,” he added, almost like an afterthought.
Undercover work was hard. It changed people, wore them down until there was nothing left. “I need one more favor. I know it’s presumptuous to even ask—”
“What do you need?” he interrupted her. His stare trained on her. His dark eyes were bloodshot. It looked like he had traded drink for sleep.
“I was at an autopsy this afternoon.”
“For one of the cases I got you the files for?”
“Yeah.” Jess nodded. “One of the victims, Jade Peters, was beat up pretty bad. I think it was her stepdad, Wayne Smathers. Someone at her community center had made a report about suspected abuse but it didn’t come to anything because she was kidnapped and murdered before the investigation went anywhere.”
A man staggered through the alley singing the national anthem with his own less than patriotic words. A woman wearing even less clothing than Jess followed behind him laughing. She held a crumpled paper bag close to her chest like it was her prize possession.
Jess brought the cigarette to her lips. The amber end had worked its way down, leaving an ashy tip. Some of the hot ash had fallen on her palm but she hadn’t felt it. It was strange the way her hand could be both excruciating and numb at the same time.
John waited until the couple had turned the corner before he said, “What do you need? Need him to go away?”
“No, nothing like that.” Jess shook her head, realizing again how much it had meant to him that she had kept his secret. She hadn’t done it with any ulterior motive, but nonetheless she had created an ally who was willing to make people disappear if she asked. “Jade had siblings. There are other minors in that home. I want them safe. Can you organize a wellness check on the down-low? I don’t want it traced back to me. The kids should be interviewed at school and the house searched. They need to be out of that house. It’s not safe.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I’ll make that happen.”
“Thank you.” The knot between her shoulder blades loosened a little.
“Anything else?”
“No. I’m good.”
John took another long drag of his cigarette. “Are you hungry? I know this is a shithole but they do decent wings.”
Part of her was tempted to say yes because buffalo wings sounded a whole lot better than what she had planned for the evening. “Nah, I’m okay. I have another meeting I need to get to. But thanks.”
“Busy lady. Raincheck?”
“Yeah,” she said because she could hear the loneliness in his voice. “Sounds good. And thank you again for this.”
Jess took a deep breath as she scrubbed at her closed eyes. “Okay, let’s do this.” She rubbed at her mouth to make sure she had removed the last remnants of her lipstick.
“Excuse me?”
Jess looked up at the receptionist, realizing too late her silent pep talk had been spoken aloud. “Sorry. Nothing. I didn’t say anything. I mean, I wasn’t talking to you.” She clamped her mouth shut to stop herself from any more incoherent rambling. She just wanted to get this over with.
The receptionist smiled, sympathy softening her sharp, hawk-like features. “These things are mostly a formality. I’m sure it will be fine. Would you like a glass of water?”
“No, thank you.”
“Okay, he should be ready to see you in a few minutes. He’s running a little late tonight. Are you sure you don’t want something to drink?”
“I’m okay. Thanks.” Jess looked down at the pile of tattered glossy magazines. They were all a good six months old. She didn’t care what cooking tips the Kardashians had to offer—the article was just an excuse to show off their state-of-the-art kitchens and give the writer an opportunity to comment on each of the sisters’ respective ass sizes—but it gave Jess a legitimate reason not to talk. She was shit at small talk at the best of times but her hand was in agony right now and her pulse would not slow to anything short of tachycardia so polite conversation was just not a viable option. No matter what the receptionist said, this was not a routine appointment; her career depended on the next fifteen minutes.
“Agent Bishop?”
Jess looked up at the man standing in the open doorway. His sandy hair brushed the top of his ears, curling up at the ends. He looked young, too young to be a doctor. He was probably recently recruited fresh from medical school, thinking the FBI would be a stable gig so he could pay off his student loans and maybe give him a few good stories to tell.
Jess stood up. Her eyes narrowed as she studied him: the scuffed shoes, the stethoscope that was so new the metal still glistened when the light hit it at the right angle, and the crispness of his lab coat with his name, Owen Rhys, embroidered on the pocket in cobalt thread. It was probably a gift from his mom. She probably cried at his graduation when she gave it to him, remembering how it seemed like yesterday when she’d dropped him off for his first . . .
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