“Drowned?”
“There is water here. But blood tests will give me a better idea.”
“Drowning has got to be one of the worst ways to die,” Sinclair whispered. “I nearly drowned as a kid, and I’ll never forget the sensation.”
Rokov glanced at his partner, and for the first time, she looked upset. However, a tender word would be met with scorn, so he ignored the comment. “She was drowned in one location, brought to the abandoned restaurant, and staked to the ground.” Rokov made notes in his book.
Dr. Henson continued her autopsy with a vaginal examination. For this Rokov did drop his gaze and waited to hear the doctor confirm what he already suspected.
“She was sexually assaulted,” Dr. Henson said.
Sinclair muttered an oath. “Any semen?”
“No. He was careful to use a condom. I would suggest that, based on the damage, he raped her several times.”
A heavy silence filled the room as she finished taking swabs and then covered up the lower half of the body. When Henson pronounced the autopsy complete, the detectives moved toward the door. They pulled off their scrubs, dumped them in a laundry bin, and moved into the hallway.
Sinclair pressed fingers to her temples. “He’s going to do it again.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He went after her like he was on some damn holy mission. And fanatics on a mission don’t stop at one.”
Rokov often played devil’s advocate. “A bad breakup or divorce. Emotions run hot.”
“Hot? Shit. This goes beyond regular anger and frustration. This is crazy-guy behavior.”
“No argument.” Rokov’s cell buzzed. He removed it from the holster, and checked the caller’s identity. “It’s Kier.”
Detective Malcolm Kier was partnered with the senior member in the unit, Deacon Garrison. Kier hailed from the southern part of the state and last year had married Angie Carlson, Wellington’s associate.
Rokov opened his phone. “Rokov.”
“I got your DMV picture. Where are you?”
“Medical examiner’s office.”
“I’ll send it to your phone.”
“Thanks.”
“The magistrate says if the photo matches this victim, you’ll have your search warrant right away.”
“Good.” His phone beeped. The image of Diane Young’s driver’s license photo appeared on the screen.
He held the DMV photo next to the victim on Dr. Henson’s table. Dark eyebrows, round face, full lips. It was a match.
Rokov raised the phone to his ear. “Tell the magistrate the photo is a perfect match.”
“I’ll get the warrant,” Kier said.
He checked his watch. “It’s past seven so the traffic should be gone. I want to search her place tonight. The sooner we catch this nut, the better.”
Chapter 6
Tuesday, October 19, 7:30 p.m.
The detectives arrived at Diane Young’s house just after ten p.m. Forensic technicians were backlogged at another crime scene but had said they’d follow within the next half hour.
Diane Young lived on the top floor of a three-story brick apartment complex in New Market Apartments off Beauregard Street. The three-hundred-plus-unit complex was constructed mostly of brick and had plenty of grass and well-established trees for shade. Located on the border of the city of Alexandria and Arlington County, it had been built in the late seventies and was considered nice and affordable.
A single light illuminated the top level and the metal doors that led to the four different units. Each of the doors had either a wreath or a welcome sign, including Diane Young’s, which sported a piece of stained glass artwork fashioned into a half-moon.
Rokov pulled on his rubber gloves, and then using the master key from the complex manager, he opened the front door. He flipped on the light just inside the front door. He glanced inside the apartment, taking note of parquet floors that led to a galley kitchen, and then to a dining room.
An eleven-by-fourteen painting featuring the sun and the moon hung on the wall just inside the small foyer, and below it a small table sported a basket and a cell phone charger. No doubt, like him, Diane put her keys in the basket and her phone on the charger in the same place every time when she returned home.
“She’s got a thing for the sun and moon,” Sinclair said.
Rokov nodded. “Records show that she owned a business called Beyond. Apparently she reads horoscopes and tarot cards for Internet customers.”
Sinclair flipped on the lights in the kitchen. A pot rack filled with copper pans dangled from the ceiling, and a rich maple dinette set filled the corner nook. “Looks like business might have been good.”
“According to the city business license department, she made six figures last year. And the business owns three top-of-the-line computers, a scanner, and printer.”
Moving through the kitchen into the dining room, they noted the furniture was made of a rich fine-grained wood. A china cabinet was stocked with fine crystal and china. More paintings on the walls featured the sun and moon theme. They rounded a small corner and into the living room filled with a brown leather sofa, two club chairs, a coffee table, and a wide-screen television. An oval Oriental rug pulled the space together.
The magazines on the coffee table were neatly stacked. Rokov picked up a copy of a fashion magazine. Diane had dog-eared the pages of the articles she wanted to read. Not surprisingly, she’d made notes in the margins on the horoscope page. “JV! Wrong! Too general. Looks like she didn’t have much use for the monthly horoscope column.”
Sinclair picked up another magazine. “She’s done the same here. I guess she was always tracking the competition.”
Other than Diane’s notes in the magazines, the place was eerily put together. Not a pillow was out of place or a picture askew. “She liked things neat.”
Sinclair picked up a picture of Diane and another woman who shared her blue eyes and black hair. “Think this is her sister?”
Rokov glanced at the photo. “Good bet. I’ve got an officer trying to track down next of kin.”
Walking through a victim’s home always left Rokov feeling like the interloper. A week ago, Diane had been alive and well and sitting on this couch, watching TV, eating a snack, and marking up her magazines. Now she lay in the morgue, a Y-incision on her chest, waiting for next of kin to claim her. “Let’s have a look at the back two rooms.”
The first room, listed as the unit’s den, was set up as a bedroom. A twin bed, covered in a silk comforter, hugged one wall. Beside the bed stood a nightstand with a pair of glasses, a half glass of water, and a bottle of sedatives. Pink slippers peeked out from under the bed. The room’s small closet was crammed full of her clothes and shoes.
Rokov picked up the pill bottle made out to Diane Young, prescribed by a Dr. Wexler seven days ago. He opened the bottle. Only three pills remained. “She’s taken more than her share in the last week.”
“What or who could have stressed her?”
“That might be the million-dollar question.”
The next room, considered the master bedroom, had been set up as an office. The walls were covered with astrological charts, stars, moons, and inspirational quotes. In the center of it all was a circular desk equipped with three top-of-the-line laptops. In the corner was a high-capacity printer and fax machine and next to it a shredder. A lush purple carpet warmed the floor, and a pale plum coated the walls.
“So she’s all about tradition in the other rooms, but here it looks a little like a mystic’s shop.”
“That’s what she was for lack of a better description.” He sat down in Diane’s chair and glanced at the blotter covered with jotted notes. Most of the notes were restaurant names and numbers. “Most of these places offer takeout. I bet she almost never cooked.”
“Welcome to my world.”
Rokov shook his head as he clicked on the computer. The screen popped up and immediately requested a password. “L
ooks like we’ll have to wait for the computer guys to do their thing.”
Rokov heard the squeak of the front door and immediately he and Sinclair drew their weapons and moved toward the hallway. Adrenaline popped and snapped through his body. Forensics was expected but he never assumed a visitor was a friend until confirmed. It wouldn’t be the first time a murderer had returned to collect damning evidence.
“Hello! Diane. Are you here?”
The woman’s tentative voice gave him pause as it bounced off the walls and down the hallway. The voice was tinged with fear and worry.
Rokov rounded the corner, his gun in hand. “Alexandria Police. Identify yourself.”
The woman screamed and jumped back. Her gaze darted between Rokov and Sinclair. “Who are you?”
Immediately, he recognized the woman from the framed photo on Diane’s end table. He lowered the tip of his gun but maintained a firm grip. “Alexandria Police. I’m Detective Rokov and this is my partner, Detective Sinclair. Please identify yourself.”
Dark hair swept over narrow shoulders and accentuated pale, pale skin. Frown lines etched her forehead, and her lips were drawn and thin. “I’m Suzanne Young. I’m Diane’s sister. What are you doing here?”
Rokov let out a breath and lowered his gun. He pulled out his badge and showed it to her. “Ma’am, may I see some identification?”
He tucked his badge back in his pocket as she fumbled in a sac purse and dug out a black wallet. With trembling fingers, she pulled out her driver’s license and handed it to him. Her name was listed as Suzanne Elizabeth Young, aged twenty-six of Arlington, Virginia. He handed the license back to her and holstered his weapon. Sinclair did the same.