“She wasn’t a Girl Scout, which meant she also wasn’t on anyone’s priority list.”
“Medical examiner was able to find the hyoid bone in the neck and determined it was broken.”
“Although strangulation isn’t quick or easy, it’s personal and doesn’t leave ballistics traces.”
“Cindy’s sister, Robin, stayed in contact with police and tried to keep the case active,” Ramsey said.
“But it’s impossible to compete with the growing caseloads and budget constraints.”
“Exactly.”
“We get to tell Robin Patterson her sister was murdered by a serial killer.” She rose and grabbed another water from the refrigerator. One quick twist and the bottle top opened. “Anyone else in Cindy’s life other than that mystery date who might have been a suspect?”
“She ran with a rough crowd according to her file.” And as Shepard sat down, he said, “There’s a second identification. Her name is Nina Hall, age thirty-nine.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky and see a connection between the two women.”
“That might be difficult. The victim was last seen in Portland, Oregon, in November 2009 leaving a popular nightspot called Sugar.”
“Our boy has a thing for musicians?”
“Maybe.” He pulled up her picture, revealing a blond woman with a round face, bright smile, and sparkling eyes.
“He likes blondes?” she queried.
“Perhaps. Two is enough to hint at a pattern, but not enough to confirm it. Nina Hall was the same age, height, and build as Cindy. And like Cindy, she vanished from a gathering of friends after midnight.”
“Was she found in a field?”
“No, in her own bathtub.” He swiped to a collection of crime scene photos. She leaned forward. Her eyes narrowed as she studied the woman lying in her tub, head tipped back, dull eyes peering out of drooping lids. Her left hand draped over the side sans the ring finger.
“There isn’t a tremendous amount of blood,” Shepard observed. She widened the image with the swipe of her fingers and enlarged the woman’s neck. “She was strangled. Her heart stopped beating, and when the finger was removed postmortem, only a small amount of blood was involved.”
“Correct. The single amputation struck the local homicide detective as odd, and he made a note in the file. He even called around to other jurisdictions in his state and asked if they’d seen a similar case. The general consensus was no, so he didn’t submit a case to ViCAP.”
“He was assuming this killer only operated in Oregon.”
“It’s flawed logic. But nothing to be done about it now.”
Drawing in a breath, she sat back. “Which leaves us with several women yet to be identified.”
A knock on the door had them both shifting attention from the tablet to the newest arrival, Dr. Josh Connor. Tall and lanky with a runner’s build, Connor was in his midthirties and had a pleasant face. Brown hair offset inquisitive green eyes.
Shepard rose and extended her hand. “Agent Melina Shepard. We met last year. I was working a child abduction case.”
The doctor wrapped long fingers around her hand, studying her face a beat. “I remember. Tough case. Father was involved.”
“He was convicted and sentenced to fifty years. Too bad it couldn’t have been longer.”
“That’s what hell is for,” Dr. Connor said.
“I’d rather not wait for hell,” Shepard said. “Justice in this world is far more satisfying.”
Ramsey agreed but kept his thoughts to himself.
Back in the autopsy suite, an overhead examination light shone down on a stainless steel table that butted up against a station equipped with a sink, a series of swing spouts, hoses, and electrical outlets. Lying on the counter was a sterilized blue pad and an open pack of autopsy equipment including scalpels, bone cutters, scissors, a basin, and a bone saw. A full complement to dismantle a body.
Normally, there was a sheet covering the body. Today, it was a disposable blue pad covering six wrinkled ring fingers lined up in a neat row.
Dr. Connor handed out latex gloves, and once he’d donned his pair, he pulled back the covering. The strong scent of formaldehyde lifted into the air. The fingers looked remarkably small.
Dr. Connor knitted his hands together. “As we all know, six examples of digitus medicinalis, or fourth fingers. They’re all from left hands.” He picked up the first finger and pointed the severed edge toward the light. “Note that the skin and bone are slightly pinched, but the actual bone is smooth. This suggests something sharp, perhaps bolt cutters, which compress and then slice. If the killer had used a different implement, such as a saw, it would have left a much different impression.”
“More jagged,” Shepard said.
“Exactly.” Dr. Connor held out the finger. “This kind of clean cut would also have required some strength. A weaker person would have worked the handle of the cutters repeatedly, leaving more tears and marks.”
“Our killer is a physically strong man,” Shepard said.
“I’d say so,” Dr. Connor said.
Ramsey inspected the severed digit. Over the years he had seen dozens of ways humans could mutilate and dismember each other. The only way to professionally process and then proceed was to remain distant from the fact it was a human.
The doctor placed the finger back in its original position on the table.
“Symbolically, the right hand is considered the physical hand and has greater visibility,” Ramsey said. “The left hand represents character and beliefs. Romantic promise. Chastity.”
“Isn’t there usually a sexual element with serial killers?” Shepard asked.
“In most cases, yes,” Ramsey replied. “And if not sexual, gratification is attained through the victim’s suffering or death.”
“This guy has a complex with the ladies,” she challenged. He could see her cheeks flush as if she were trying to control her temper. Most would not have noticed the subtle change, but he did. “What kind of sexual fantasy expresses itself this way?”
“It’s important not to prejudge,” Ramsey said. “If you get angry, it could cloud your judgment.”
“Funny, I find anger fuels me,” she said.
“Anger is easy,” Ramsey said carefully. “Dispassion takes practice.”
Shepard shoved out a sigh. “You’re saying if our killer quacks like a duck and walks like a duck, he might not be a duck?”
“If you mean he’s not sexually motivated, then yes.”
“Fair enough.” She shifted her attention back to the doctor. “Which two fingers belong to Cindy and Nina?”
“Cindy Patterson’s is the one I just showed you,” Dr. Connor said. “And Nina Hall’s is the one to the right of it.”
“And the other four?” she asked. “What can you tell me about them?”
“The next three appear to be a little more recent. Maybe in the last five or six years. And the last finger is very recent, as in the last couple of weeks.”
Shepard rocked back on her heels. “Could it be Christina Sanchez?” she asked. “According to Elena, her mother just died.”
“I don’t know,” Dr. Connor said.
“Hopefully we have a missing persons case on file. Were all the fingers removed postmortem?” Shepard asked.
“Yes,” Dr. Connor said.
Shepard reached for her cell phone. “Though two similar victims are not enough to establish a firm pattern, we can still reference their profiles. Given that set of guidelines, we’re looking for a deceased Caucasian female, potentially blond and in her late thirties.”
“Can’t speak to the hair color, but age sounds right,” Dr. Connor said. “I can tell you this office has had no female victims that were brought in with missing fingers for as long as I can remember.”
“If the victim hasn’t been brought here, then area cops don’t know about her either. Doesn’t mean there wasn’t a missing persons report filed.” As Shepard tapped the phone against her thigh, it chimed with a text. She glanced at the number and frowned. “Excuse me.” She opened the phone. Agent Shepard, this is Richard Barnard, Elena Sanchez’s caseworker. The hospital wants to release her by Wednesday to one of my foster families. Call me at your convenience.
She read the text aloud, straightening her shoulders and rolling her head from side to side. If he had not been paying attention, he would have missed a series of expressions implying distaste for social services. As a cop, she clearly understood foster care was a better alternative than BB. However, he believed she personally loathed the option.
“The girl needs to be with people who can care for her,” he said.
“I realize that.” She shoved her phone in her pocket and refocused on their case. “Anything else you can tell us about these women?” Shepard asked.
“Not at this time,” Dr. Connor said.
“You identified two. That’s a start,” she said. “We have two families to notify. Maybe when we talk to them, we’ll discover more information about the women.” She ripped off her gloves and tossed them in the trash can. “Thanks, Doc.” Without another word she walked out of the suite and into the hallway.
Dr. Connor shook his head. “She’s upset.”
“She’s not upset. She’s pissed.”
“How do you know?”
“Death notifications put cops in a foul mood.”