A Necessary Evil Page 2

  “You mind if I come down and take a closer look?” Maggie called down.

  Racine shrugged. “Help yourself,” she said, but she came to the bottom of the embankment and offered her arm for leverage. Maggie waved her off.

  She searched instead for anything—branches, rocks, roots—to hang on to. There was nothing but river mud and tall grass. She didn’t have much choice but to slip and slide. Like a skier without poles, she tried to keep her balance, managing to stay on her feet, skidding past Racine, but stopping within inches of ending up in the Potomac.

  Racine shook her head, a slight smirk on her lips, but thankfully didn’t say anything. Maggie didn’t need to be reminded that perhaps she went a bit overboard when it came to Racine, not wanting to accept any favors, or worse, feel she needed to repay a debt. She and Racine had had enough challenges and obstacles in the last several years. And more importantly, they were even. That’s where Maggie wanted to leave it.

  Maggie tried to clean her shoes of the clumps of mud, rubbing them against the tall grass, not wanting to bring any more foreign particles to the scene. Her leather flats would be ruined. She was careless about shoes, often forgetting her slip-on boots. Gwen constantly warned her that her treatment of shoes bordered on irreverence. It reminded Maggie of Stan’s shiny, polished ones, and she glanced back up the embankment, noticing that he had backed away from the edge. Was he worried she may have started a mud slide, or did he want to make sure no one expected him to follow her path? Either way, she knew he wouldn’t be coming down.

  Julia Racine caught Maggie looking up.

  “Heaven forbid he gets his shoes dirty,” Racine said under her breath as if reading Maggie’s thoughts. But her eyes and attention quickly returned to the decapitated head as she added, “It’s got to be the same killer. But we may have gotten lucky this time.”

  Maggie had only recently seen pieces of the case files on the other two heads. This was her first invitation to the crime scene, now that Racine and Chief Henderson suspected they might have a serial killer on their hands.

  “Why lucky?” Maggie finally asked when it became obvious that’s what Racine was waiting for. Some things never changed, like Racine demanding everyone’s attention before she announced her brilliant theories.

  “Getting that tip allowed us to get here before the critters finished their snack. The other two were down to the bone. We still haven’t been able to identify them.”

  Maggie swiped her shoes against the grass one last time and came closer. Then the smell hit her like a blast of hot air. The mixture of scents that accompanied death was difficult for Maggie to describe, always the same and yet always different, depending on the surroundings. There was the faint metallic smell of blood, but this time overpowered by that of rotting flesh and the muck of river mud. She hesitated, but only for a second or two, focusing instead on the grisly scene less than three feet in front of her.

  From above on the embankment she had thought there was a tangle of algae and muddy grass holding the head in place. Now she could see it was actually the victim’s long hair, twisted and wrapped around the back of the head, allowing the face to stare up at the clear blue sky. A little closer still, and Maggie could see that stare was not the correct word. The eyelids seemed to flutter as dozens of milky-white maggots pushed and shoved their way into the eye sockets. Even the victim’s lips appeared to be moving as if allowing one last whisper, but it was rather the slow-moving masses of maggots. They were pouring from the woman’s nostrils too, unrelenting, determined and focused on their task of devouring their prize from the inside out.

  Maggie waved at the lingering blowflies and squatted opposite the crime lab tech to get an almost eye-level view. Beyond the buzzing flies, this close she could hear the squishing sound as the maggots pushed and shoved at each other to squeeze inside the various orifices. There was a sort of sucking sound, too.

  God, she hated maggots.

  During her early days as an FBI newbie when she had no fear and much to prove, at the request—or rather the dare—of a medical examiner, she had put her hand into a corpse’s maggot-filled mouth to retrieve the victim’s driver’s license. It had been the killer’s trademark and not an unusual one, allowing his victims their identities even though he stuffed them down their throats. Ever since then it was still difficult for her, whenever she saw maggots up close and personal, to not feel that sticky trail of slime they had left all over her hands and up her arms as they quickly grasped at self-preservation and began sucking at her own flesh.

  But now, sitting back on muddy heels, she knew what Racine meant about getting lucky this time. Despite all the movement, Maggie could see clumps of yellow-white eggs stuffed in the victim’s ears and at the corners of her lips and eyes. Not all of the maggots had hatched yet and those that had were in their first stage, which meant the head couldn’t have been here more than a day or two.

  In the July heat, Maggie knew the process moved quickly. As disgusted by them as she was, she had learned to also have a healthy respect. She knew adult blowflies could sense blood from up to three miles away. They would have arrived in a matter of hours of death. As disgusting as flies on a corpse look, the flies eat very little. They’re more interested in laying their eggs in the dark, moist areas of the corpse, reducing what was once a warm, living, breathing human being to a warm, moist host.

  The eggs hatch within a day or two and immediately the baby maggots start to devour everything down to the bone. While working a case in Connecticut, Professor Adam Bonzado had told her that three flies could lay enough eggs and produce enough maggots to devour a body as quickly as a full-grown lion. Amazing, Maggie thought, how efficient and organized the creatures of nature were.

  Yes, Racine was right. This time they had lucked out. There would be enough tissue left for DNA samples. But more importantly, there might be telltale signs embedded or bruised or hidden in the flesh, the last remains of this poor woman to tell them what had happened to her in her final hours.

  Unfortunately, though, for the crime scene tech, his greatest challenge would be to contain the head and maggots. It’d be so much easier to brush them off, rinse, spray, fumigate the head and be rid of the pesky things, but cleaning away the maggots could mean washing away evidence.

  Maggie looked around for footprints, tracks of any kind.

  “How do you think she got here?” she asked, remembering to personalize the victim instead of falling into Stan’s habit of using “it,” something that could simply be “scooped up.” But she knew it wasn’t irreverence as much as it was a coping mechanism.

  The crime scene tech followed Stan’s lead. “It wasn’t tossed—not from the overpass, not from the ledge of the embankment. I can’t see any impact marks or skids in the mud. It looks like he simply placed it here.”

  “So, the killer brought her down here himself?” She glanced back at the steep embankment, but saw only her own skid marks.

  “From what I can tell.” The tech stood, stretched his legs and looked grateful for the distraction. “There are some footprints. I’ll make a plaster cast.”

  “Oh, yeah, the footprints,” Racine said. “You’ve got to see this.” She stepped carefully, pointing out the remnants of the impressions in the mud.

  Maggie stood up and looked to where Racine pointed, except it was almost fifteen feet from the victim’s head.

  “How can you be sure they’re the killer’s?”

  “We haven’t found any others,” the tech replied, shrugging. “It rained pretty hard two nights ago. He had to have been out here after that.”

  “The prints come out of nowhere,” Racine said. “And get this—they seem to lead right into the river.”

  “Maybe a boat?” Maggie suggested.

  “Out here? And not be noticed? I don’t think so.”

  “You said you had a tip?” Maggie examined the oversize prints. The tread marks were pronounced, but there was no recognizable logo.

  “Yup,�
�� Racine said, crossing her arms as if finally feeling more in control. “An anonymous call. A woman actually. Called 911. I have no idea how the hell she found out. Maybe the killer told her. Maybe he got tired of us being so slow in finding the other two.”

  “Or maybe he wanted us to know the identity of this one,” Maggie said.

  Racine nodded, instead of coming up with a competing theory.

  “So what do you suppose he does with the rest of the body?” the tech asked both women.

  “I don’t know.” Racine shrugged and began to walk away. “Maybe our anonymous woman caller can tell us. They should have her number tracked down by the time we get back.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Washington, D.C.

  Dr. Gwen Patterson tried to see the crime scene from her office window, only she was on the wrong side of the Potomac. Even with binoculars the overpass blocked most of her view. But she could make out Maggie’s red Toyota parked up on the road next to the mobile crime lab van.

  There was an annoying tremor in her fingers as she ran them through her hair. Was it excitement? Nerves? It didn’t matter. She knew the stress was starting to take its toll. And why wouldn’t it? Three weeks, three victims. And yet today she had expected to feel a sense of relief. She expected the tension to begin to leave. Except there was no relief. Instead, the knot between her shoulder blades only seemed to tighten. Maybe it was silly to think that just because Maggie was on the case she would feel she had gained some sort of control over the situation. How did she ever let it get this far?

  She was meeting Maggie later for dinner at their favorite hideaway—Old Ebbitt’s Grill. She’d order the pecancrusted chicken. Maggie would have steak. Maybe they would share a bottle of wine, depending on Maggie’s mood. And her mood would depend on what she had seen down by the river, under the overpass. But it didn’t matter. She could count on Maggie sharing with her what evidence had been left behind. Maggie would be her eyes and ears. Gwen would ask questions, play devil’s advocate like she usually did. And hopefully Maggie wouldn’t recognize that Gwen already knew some of the answers. She could make this work. What other choice did she have?

  It was ironic that something like this would happen, now that she had purposely distanced herself from patients and assignments that included criminal behavior. Gwen left the window and glanced at the walls of her office. The sunlight reflected off the glass of her framed credentials, creating prisms of color. A whole wall full of certificates and degrees—and what good were they in a situation like this? Gwen rubbed at her eyes—the lack of sleep was catching up with her, too, but she smiled. Yes, it was also ironic that the older and wiser and perhaps even the more deserving she became, the less those framed credentials mattered.

  She was at the top of her game, or at least that’s what her colleagues kept telling her as they referenced her articles and books in their own studies and research. All of those hard-earned credentials had gained her entrance to Quantico, the White House and even the Pentagon. She had contacts with United States senators, members of congress, ambassadors and diplomats, many of them patients. Several even had her number on their speed dial. Not bad for a little girl from the Bronx. And yet, here she was, all those contacts and credentials worthless.

  The notes had all been brief, the instructions simple, but the threat had been ambiguous, that is, until today. If there had been any doubt before, she knew now that he wouldn’t hesitate to follow through on his threat. But finally she would have Maggie. Yes, Maggie could go where Gwen could not. Maggie would describe the crime scene, create a profile and help her figure out who the bastard was. They had done it before, together, plenty of cases where they took the evidence, examined the victims’ similarities, considered all of the circumstances and then followed a trail that led them to the killer. She would simply be Maggie’s guide, just like the old days when Maggie had first come to Quantico as a forensic fellow.

  God, that seemed like a lifetime ago. What had it been? Ten years? Eleven?

  Back then Gwen had been Assistant Director Cunningham’s number-one independent consultant. She had taken Maggie under her wing, acting as the seasoned mentor, gently pushing her and coaxing her. Despite their age gap, the two of them had become friends, best friends. And yet because of the fifteen years that separated them, Gwen oftentimes found herself in a variety of roles with her best friend—sometimes mentor, sometimes psychologist, sometimes mother. Though the latter still surprised her. She had always believed she didn’t have a maternal bone in her body, except when it came to Maggie. Maybe that’s why this didn’t seem so strange. Perhaps that’s exactly why she thought she could pull this off without Maggie knowing, without anyone knowing. Why couldn’t Maggie be her surrogate, going places she herself couldn’t go, following this killer and yes, even capturing him? All Gwen had to do was lead her to him. She’d beat him at his own game. Could it be that simple? Could it actually work? It had to work.

  Gwen packed her briefcase, stuffing papers and folders inside without really looking or choosing. Another sign that the fatigue was taking hold. Even her ordinarily pristine desktop looked as if a wind had blown through the office, disheveling the stacks of paper.

  She grabbed the cell phone that had been left for her that morning in a plain manila envelope and dropped through the office complex’s mail slot. She carefully wiped it down and while still holding it with a paper towel, she placed it in a brown paper sack. On her way home she’d find a Dumpster to toss it into, just as the note had instructed her to do.

  CHAPTER 4

  Omaha, Nebraska

  Gibson McCutty found the back door unlocked, just as he had left it. He stumbled into the kitchen, bumping into the vegetable bin and cursing under his breath when he heard something thump to the floor. He hesitated, listening. It was difficult to hear over his gasps for air.

  Why couldn’t he breathe?

  He had raced all the way from the airport, standing and pedaling, pumping and pushing his Ironman Huffy through red-lighted intersections, ignoring honks and slowing only to climb up the final incline. So of course he was gasping for breath. He just needed to stop for a minute. He leaned against the refrigerator, waiting to catch his breath. He was surprised to feel an immediate sense of comfort from the appliance’s familiar noisy hum. He was home. He was safe. At least for now.

  He could feel the stupid refrigerator magnets digging into his shoulder blades—annoying little garden creatures his mom used to tack up his brother’s “artwork.” Like she was even a gardener. No way would she allow dirt under her fingernails. The thought made him smile, and he forced himself to remember each of the magnets, hoping the tactic would block out the image of all that blood. He closed his eyes—bunny, squirrel, raccoon, hedgehog. Was a hedgehog a garden creature? Had anyone really seen a hedgehog?

  It wasn’t working.

  The details had been scorched into his mind—that face all twisted in pain. Blood coming out of his mouth. And those eyes, staring without blinking. Had he recognized Gibson? Had he been able to see him? Of course not. He was dead. Wasn’t he?

  Gibson shook his head and pushed away from the refrigerator. He stumbled into the living room and stepped over the laundry basket left at the bottom of the staircase. Then he took the steps slowly, counting them out in his mind, stopping when he reached number eight. Using the handrail, he pulled himself up, bypassing the creaky ninth step. Once he made it past his mother’s door he was home free. Sometimes she watched the five o’clock news in her room while she changed from work. He couldn’t risk her hearing him. How would he explain where he had been? And she would certainly ask, especially when she saw he was one smelly, wet glob. Even his hair was plastered to his sweaty head under his baseball cap.

  As he got closer, he didn’t hear anything coming from behind her door. Maybe she wasn’t home yet. And then he remembered. Of course she wasn’t home yet. It was Friday. No work tomorrow, plus tonight was his little brother’s sleep-over. He remembered her tel
ling him that she might treat herself and join the other ladies from the office for drinks after work. Was that tonight? Yeah, it was Friday night. He was sure of it. What a stroke of luck. Maybe things weren’t as bad as he thought.

  Still, he hurried to his own room and closed the door behind him, careful to muffle the noise. He tossed his backpack on the bed, then he pressed his entire body against the door as if the extra pressure was necessary to turn the lock. He held his breath and listened again, not trusting his good fortune on a day where none had existed. He heard nothing. He was home alone. He was safe. And yet, he was shaking, not just shivering, but shaking like some convulsing idiot.

  He wrapped his arms around his chest, but jerked them away when he felt the wet front of his T-shirt. He really was a sweaty mess. He had almost wiped out on his bike several times as he jumped curbs and sped through blind intersections. Now he pulled off his ball cap and threw it on his bed, then wrestled out of the T-shirt, getting tangled in it and almost ripping it at the seams just to be free of the smell of sweat and diesel and vomit. The stink reminded him that he had upchucked his fast-food meal, leaving it somewhere just past the exit ramp from the airport parking garage.

  Finally, he allowed himself to turn on the small desk lamp. Immediately, he noticed the blood caked under his fingernails. He tried to dig it out, wiping it on the T-shirt. Then he opened his closet door, wadded up the T-shirt and stuffed it into an empty Best Buy plastic bag he found on the closet floor. He slung the T-shirt and bag hard into the back of the closet, away from everything else. He knew his mom would never find it. After she discovered the moldy, half-eaten bologna sandwich tucked in his sock drawer, she had threatened that she wouldn’t be responsible for any of his things except those in the laundry chute. He supposed she thought it was a way to make him more responsible for taking care of his own things, but he wondered if it was just another way for her to avoid seeing or knowing any negative stuff going on with him.