A Dangerous Game. Heather GrahamЧитать онлайн книгу.
She was heading in an easterly direction. She had just shoved the baby into Kieran’s arms and fled the office. Kieran was running after her. She was, at tops, a block behind. Remember, it was rush hour—and that can mean a gridlock of people.”
“Someone snuck up behind the victim,” Mike said.
“Someone who must have followed her to the offices of Fuller and Miro,” Craig said. “The killer moved fast. Partner, you mind?” he asked Mike, taking him by the arm to move him around in front so that Craig could mimic the stabbing as he pictured it had to have happened.
He came up quick, hand strong on his imaginary knife.
“Then,” Mike said, arching, as if he had a knife in his back, “she swirled around. Possibly trying to face her killer.”
“But,” Craig said, “the killer delivered the knife without missing a stride and just kept walking.”
“Kieran said there were no screams—not until she reached the woman and screamed herself. She’d already called the cops and me...there was an officer in uniform there in a matter of minutes and a detective on the scene within ten. I arrived just about the same time as the detective.”
“That would be Lance Kendall—he should arrive momentarily. In the meantime, we’ll proceed as scheduled. One would think that the dead would wait patiently—which they do. However, their loved ones tend to be very emotional and impatient, so we do try to keep up. If you’ll follow me?” Dr. Andrews requested.
Craig was far too familiar with the OCME. The Manhattan offices were close to the FBI building which, in a way, made it too easy to be present for an autopsy, even when it certainly wasn’t always necessary.
Mike must have been thinking along the same lines.
“You know the French Revolution?” he asked Craig softly.
Craig glanced over at him. “Well, I know something about it. I’m not sure I’d want to teach a course on it.”
Mike nodded sagely. “They say that those who had to die, well, they were nobles, and thus they had to behave nobly—and so they went nobly to the guillotine. Madame du Barry screamed and cried and had a fit, and then the people saw how ugly it was. It was only after that they—the people as a mass—began to protest the sanctioned murders.”
“Good thought,” Craig murmured. “We’ve seen enough death. We could have left the autopsy to Lance Kendall.”
“No, I know you. We had to be here no matter what. It just always takes me longer than I’d like to get rid of the feel of this place.”
That was something Craig understood. They worked hard at the morgue—very, very hard. Every floor, every table, every instrument in the place was cleaned and cleaned again; antibacterial agents ruled.
And still the scent of death was strong.
They were offered paper suits and masks; two minutes later, they were in the room where there were actually two autopsies in process.
Their victim waited for them, tragically naked but clean, ready for the knife.
Anthony Andrews adjusted the mic he wore and cleared his throat. He identified their Jane Doe by date and circumstance and stated the date, his own work as the ME, Jerry Sanders as his assistant, and Mike and Craig as witnesses.
And he set to work.
Y incisions were, to the layman—and to Craig this many years into his work—little less than horrendous. The sound of the ribs breaking seemed extremely brutal.
But Craig was also passionate in his belief that the dead did speak. Autopsy was incredibly important. He believed in God or a higher power, and that when the soul was long gone, the body could no longer be hurt. But, it was still hard to watch sometimes.
The process today was the usual. Andrews and his assistant worked over the body. The organs were studied and weighed; samples of blood and stomach contents were taken.
Lance Kendall arrived sometime soon after the first hour. He stood as Mike and Craig did—still and listening. Craig hadn’t met Kendall before he’d arrived at the scene of the murder on Friday, though he did know many of the men with the Major Case Squad of the NYPD. At the crime scene, Kendall had been thorough and detailed—polite to Craig, and making no comments about not needing the FBI for a murder on the street. He was, Craig imagined, ambitious, but didn’t seem the kind to put ambition before results. Of course, Craig had no idea how the man felt about it all now that the case had been handed to a task force and the FBI was taking the lead.
“This is something you need to see,” Dr. Andrews said.
He was inspecting the corpse’s mouth.
They all moved over, one by one, and the ME pointed out the woman’s dental work.
Craig had no idea of what he was looking at—only silver fillings here and there.
He knew that Andrews would explain.
“I believe that this woman is approximately forty—though she does look fifty. She has not, however, recently borne a child, so the baby is not hers. What I was showing you, that isn’t American dental work, and it isn’t new. It was probably done more than ten years ago, and I’d say that it was done somewhere in Eastern Europe—a country that was once part of the Soviet Union or under the Communist bloc, most likely. Russia maybe, the Ukraine...but, then again, maybe Albania or somewhere in the former Yugoslavia. In other words, I do believe she’s of Eastern European descent, but she’s not malnourished. She’s healthy—just worn. I don’t believe she’s taken care of herself well—she’s probably faced tremendous stress to look ten years older than I believe her age to be. She’s worked hard—manually, I believe. Take a look at her hands. Possibly, she worked as a maid. We’re trying for an ID, naturally, through fingerprints. We’ll search through dental records, but I doubt we’ll find local records for her.”
“We are testing to see if she was related to the baby,” Craig said. It wasn’t really a question; it was an obvious action to be taken.
“Of course,” Andrews said. He looked at Lance Kendall. “As your FBI team members noted, the one stab wound in the back that killed her most probably occurred swiftly—she didn’t know what hit her. She staggered toward Miss Finnegan in the street because you instinctively turn when you’re attacked from behind. The attack was planned and fluid—that type of knife isn’t just in everyone’s daily purse or briefcase.”
“So our Jane Doe was followed to the offices of Fuller and Miro. And she went to those offices to hand the baby to Kieran Finnegan. Why?” Kendall asked.
“We don’t know,” Craig said. Andrews cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, I’ve given you what I can. I’ll make sure you all receive a hard copy of the report. If we discover anything else on our end, of course, you’ll be notified.”
“What about ethnicity through DNA?” Craig asked.
“Well, we might be able to pinpoint an area of most likely ancestry,” Andrews said.
“That will be helpful,” Craig said.
“Of course,” Andrews said. “I’ll keep everyone informed on any information that I get. As soon as I have it, naturally.” He stared at them all.
It was their cue to leave. The three of them thanked him and headed toward the building entrance. As they did so, a man was hurrying in. He was very tall and lean, with tawny eyes and sandy hair. He was in a polo shirt and jeans and a jacket. Beneath the jacket, Craig was aware, the man was carrying a weapon.
“LeBlanc?” he asked. “Hank LeBlanc?”
The US Marshal nodded and intros went around. “So we have the whole gang. I imagine we’ll get a counterpart from Homeland Security before this is all over,” LeBlanc said.
“Good,” Kendall responded, his voice vehement. They all looked at him, and