The room resembled an operating theater apart from the rows of drawers to store corpses set into two of the walls. The air was chilly and the smell of dead bodies and cleaning chemicals hung in the air. On a long aluminum bench lay what remained of Ely Dorsey after the autopsy.
She moved closer to Wolfe. “What do you have?”
“As I thought, the cause of death was a puncture wound through the left ear and into the brain.” He pointed to a specimen. “If you look at the cross-section of the brain, I would say death was instantaneous.”
Jenna peered at the slice of human tissue in the petri dish and nodded. “I see. Was it painful? I don’t recall anyone complaining of hearing screaming.”
“Yeah, it would have been extremely painful.” Wolfe pointed one gloved finger to Ely’s mouth. “See the marks on his cheek? The tips of fingers caused the bruising. He had a pair of socks stuffed into his mouth, and the killer pressed down with a great deal of force with the left hand then thrust the knitting needle or perhaps a meat skewer into his ear. I’m leaning toward the latter. I would say from the position of the marks, the killer was straddling him at the time. The killer was dressed as well. I found a few obscure filaments of denim stuck to the condom he was wearing at the time of death.”
She stared at the body and her mind went into overdrive. Her time spent in the vice squad in her other life had taught her many things, and one of them was that many people enjoyed unusual sexual fetishes. Whatever a person craved there was someone out there willing to accept payment to satisfy the most perverted needs. “I thought this case was connected to a pedophile ring but now I’m not so sure. This man looks as if he had a date for some rough sex, maybe with a dominatrix. From what I saw in the motel, the killer blindfolded him at some time and tied him up. If he paid for rough sex, he would not be alarmed when she covered his mouth.”
“Do you have reason to believe this killer is female?” Wolfe looked at her over his face mask. “I admit the fingertips are small, but a number of men have small fingertips as well.” He sighed. “Then there is the handprint on the cheek. I believe the killer slapped him, and as his body goes into rigor, the print has become more evident. Can you see it is a small hand? It could be female.”
Jenna walked around the body. “I think so. Going on the chocolates and wine, I’m leaning toward a hooker or a kinky sex date.”
“It points to that but I’m not convinced.” Wolfe met her gaze. “I think your instincts were right the first time. I think the killer is the same person who murdered Price. Both crime scenes stink of a predator. The gifts, for instance; the majority of predators arrested for luring kids to places with the intention of having sex have a bag of gifts with them.”
Jenna chewed on her bottom lip, staring at the body. If the men knew each other, her assumption of a vigilante killer was becoming a reality. She glanced up at Wolfe. “Did you remove the blindfold on scene?”
“No, it was on his forehead when I arrived.”
“Then I’m going with the vigilante theory, and the removal of the blindfold is crucial evidence. I figure she wanted to see his eyes as she killed him.” She stared at Wolfe. “Now all we have to do is figure out who she is.”
21
Kane moved through the crowd on the way to the park and headed for the magician working the street. The man was not wearing gloves and did not have a spider tattoo but he needed to ID him. He waited for an opportune moment and tapped him on the shoulder.
The man turned slowly and small black eyes moved over his face.
“Is there a problem?”
“I’d like your name.” Kane pulled out his notebook and pen. “Are you with Party Time?”
A relieved look passed over those black eyes and the magician nodded.
“I am, and I’m licensed. My name is Stu Macgregor.”
Kane stared at him in disbelief. He knew Macgregor was classed as a low-risk sex offender in Montana but was surprised the local council had issued him a license to be anywhere near kids. “Really, show it to me?”
“I’m rehabilitated, certified. I haven’t offended for seven years. I agreed to chemical castration so I could continue working in a restricted capacity. In any case, how could I do anything wrong with all these people around?” Macgregor glared at him then unzipped his costume, dug into a pocket, and thrust it at him.
Kane examined the documents. Macgregor’s license restricted him to public street performances. Attached to it was a notice giving his classification as a low-grade sex offender. He shook his head in disbelief; it seemed every state and town council had a different way of dealing with pedophiles. “Okay.” He thrust the paperwork back at him.
“I did my time and you are hassling me for no good reason.”
“I’ll do more than that if any kids go missing from my town.” Kane eyeballed him. “I’m watching you.” He turned and strolled toward his vehicle.
As he made his way to pick up Bradford, he wondered if there was a connection between Stewart James Macgregor and Pattie McCarthy. The age seemed to be right but getting information out of Miss McCarthy would be like getting blood out of stone.
He double-parked outside Aunt Betty’s Café, much to the annoyance of the cars behind him, and Bradford jumped into the passenger seat, coffees in hand. He took the cardboard carry container from her and deposited the cups in his console. “Thanks.”
“I asked Susie Hartwig if she remembers seeing Miss McCarthy in town but she can’t be sure with the hundreds of people she has served during the festival. She does remember seeing her on Saturday evening around six; she stopped by for a meal.”
Kane scratched his cheek. “So Pattie McCarthy was lying about staying home.”
“Looks like it. Now what?” Bradford glanced at him.
“Next on my list is Lizzy Harper.”