“I would agree. Some of the other burns look like laser to me. And there, on the inner thigh where it’s mottled? Extreme cold.”
“Yeah. The bruising—no laceration, no scraping. Smooth implement.”
“Sap.” Roarke studied the bruising himself. “An old-fashioned sap would bruise like that. Leather’s effective if you can afford the cost. Filled with ordinary sand, it does its job.”
“Again, agree. And we have the punctures,” Morris continued. “Which are in circular patterns here, here, here.” The screen flashed with close-ups of the back of the right hand, the heel of the left foot, the left buttocks. “Twenty minute punctures, in this precise pattern.”
“Like needles,” Eve mused. “Some kind of tool…He could…” She curved her right hand, laid it on the heel of the body, pressed. “That’s new. We don’t have this wound pattern on record.”
“He’s an inventive bastard,” Peabody added. “Morris, can I get a bottle of water?”
“Help yourself.”
“You need air,” Eve said without looking at her, “go get some.”
“Just the water.”
“This patter
n might be new,” Eve continued, “but the rest is consistent. More creative, maybe, a little more patient. You do what you do long enough, you get better at it. Longer, deeper wounds along the rib cage, over the breasts. Wider burn areas, deeper bruising up the calves.
“Increases the pain, gradually. Wants it to last. Cuts and burns on her face. No bruising there. Sap her and she might lose consciousness. Don’t want that.”
The doors swished open. Feeney walked in, came straight to the table. He looked down. “Ah, hell,” was all he said.
“We’ve got one new wound type. Circular pattern of punctures. See what you think of it.”
Eve bent close to the ruined face, her eyes behind the goggles unflinching. “No bruising here that would indicate he gagged her—or not tightly. Nothing that would mar the skin. He has to have a place, a very, very private place. So she can scream. Tox back?”
“Yes, just before you came. There were small traces of a standard sedative in her bloodstream. Barely registered. She’d have been awake and aware at TOD.”
“Same MO. Puts her to sleep when he’s busy with other business.”
“There were traces, too, of water and protein in her system. The lab will confirm, but…”
“He likes to give them enough nutrients to keep them going,” Feeney said.
Eve nodded. “I remember. Then ends it this way.” She lifted the victim’s hand, turned the wrist up. “Crosshatches, but not too deep. She’ll bleed out, but it’ll take time. Adds to his clock.”
“I expect, given the prior blood loss, trauma, two hours. Three at the most. She would have lost consciousness before the end of it.”
“Any trace of what he used to wash her down?”
“Yes. In the scalp wounds, and the punctures under the nails. I sent it to the lab.”
“Send over some skin scrapings, some hair. I want to see what kind of water. City water? Suburbs?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“He’ll be starting on the second.” Feeney looked at Eve as she took off the goggles. “Probably has the third picked out.”
“Yeah. I’m going to see the commander. For now, you tag a couple of your best men. I want them running and analyzing data as we get it, running probabilities. First on scene was Gil Newkirk’s son.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“Yeah, you reach out to Newkirk, senior? He’s out of the one-seven, so’s his kid. I’m bringing the son in on the uniform end of the task force, if his lieutenant doesn’t have a problem with it.”
“Who’s the LT?”