The crime scene made no sense and, worse, had no direct precedent in my experience as a homicide detective.
A bullet-riddled Chesterfield couch and settee had been pushed up against the wall to make room in front of the fireplace. This was where the first three bodies were piled.
While it’s safe to say that I’ve seen some horrendous shit in the line of duty, this scene, the monstrosity of it, stopped me instantly.
As promised, the stacked victims were the father, mother, and son on top, all lying faceup. There were blood streaks and stains on the nearby walls, furniture, and ceiling, and a pool had formed around the bodies. These poor people had been attacked with sharp cutting instruments of some sort, and there had been amputations.
“Jesus, Jesus,” I muttered under my breath. It was a prayer, or a curse on the killers, or more likely both.
One of the printing techs answered under his breath, “Amen.”
Neither of us was looking at the other, though. This was the kind of homicide scene you just gutted your way through, trying to get out of the house with a minute piece of your sanity intact.
The blood patterns around the room suggested the family members had been attacked separately, then dragged together in the middle.
Something had fueled whatever savage rage brought these killers to this and I agreed with Fescoe that there had been several killers. But what exactly had happened? What was the cause of the massacre? Drugs? Ritual? Psychosis?
Group psychosis?
I stashed the random thoughts to consider at another time. Methods first, motive later.
I slowly circled the bodies and parts, picking m
y way around the pools of blood, stepping on dry parquet where I could. There didn’t seem to be any cohesion to the cutting, or the killing for that matter.
The son’s throat was slit; the father had a bullet wound to the forehead; and the mother’s head was turned away at an unnatural angle, as if her neck had been broken.
I went full circle to see the mother’s face. The angle was such that she seemed to be looking right up at me, almost hopeful, as if I could still save her.
I leaned in for a closer look at her and all of a sudden felt dizzy. My legs went weak. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
Oh no! Oh my God, no!
I stepped back blindly, my foot hit a slick spot, and I fell. As I went down, I reached to break my fall. My gloved hand smeared deep red across the floor.
Ellie Randall’s blood. Not Cox—Randall!
I knew her—at least I once had.
Long, long ago, Ellie had been my girlfriend when we’d been students at Georgetown. She had probably been my first love.
And now Ellie had been murdered, along with her family.
ONE OF THE printing techs moved to help me, but I got myself up quickly. I wondered if maybe I was in shock about Ellie. “No harm. I’m fine. What’s the name here again?” I asked the tech.
“Cox, sir. Reeve, Eleanor, and James are the victims in the living room.”
Eleanor Cox. That was right; I remembered now. I stared down at Ellie, my heart racing out of control, tears starting at the corners of my eyes. She had been Ellie Randall when I met her, a smart, attractive history major looking for antiapartheid signatures from Georgetown University students. Definitely not someone whose story would end like this.
“Need anything?” Fescoe was back and he was hovering.
“Just . . . get me a garbage bag or something,” I told him. “Please. Thank you.”
I peeled off my Windbreaker and tried to wipe myself with it, then stuck the coat in the bag Fescoe brought me. I needed to keep moving and to get out of this room, at least for now.
I headed toward the stairs and found Bree just coming down.
“Alex? Jesus, what happened to you?” she asked.