CHAPTER 14
WHO IS the woman?” I asked softly as we came up to the unlikely police group, the “multijurisdictional mess,” as Nick Ruskin had described it.
The dead woman was white. It was impossible to tell too much more than that about her at this time. Birds and animals had been feasting on her, and she almost didn’t look human anymore. There were no fixed, staring eyes, just dark sockets like burn marks. She didn’t have a face; the skin and tissue had been eaten away.
“Who the hell are these two?” one of the FBI agents, a heavyset blond woman in her early thirties, asked Ruskin. She was as unattractive as she was unpleasant, with puffy red lips and a bulbous, hooked nose. At least she’d spared us the usual FBI happy-camper smile, or the FBI’s famous “smiling handshake.”
Nick Ruskin was brusque with her. His first endearing moment for me. “This is Detective Alex Cross, and his partner, Detective John Sampson. They’re down here from D.C. Detective Cross’s niece is missing from Duke. She’s Naomi Cross. This is Special Agent in Charge Joyce Kinney.” He introduced the agent to us.
Agent Kinney frowned, or maybe it was a scowl. “Well, this is certainly not your niece here,” she said.
“I’d appreciate it if the two of you would return to the cars. Please do that.” She felt the need to go on. “You have no authority on this case, and no right to be here, either.”
“As Detective Ruskin just told you, my niece is missing.” I spoke softly, but firmly, to Special Agent Joyce Kinney. “That’s all the authority I need. We didn’t come down here to admire the leather interior and instrument panel of Detective Ruskin’s sports car.”
A thick-chested blond man in his late twenties briskly stepped up beside his boss. “I think y’all heard Special Agent Kinney. I’d appreciate it if you leave now,” he announced. Under different circumstances, his over-the-top response might have been funny. Not today. Not at this massacre scene.
“No way you’re going to stop us,” Sampson said to the blond agent in his darkest, grimmest voice. “Not you. Not your Dapper Dan friends here.”
“That’s fine, Mark.” Agent Kinney turned to the younger man. “We’ll deal with this later,” she said. Agent Mark backed off, but not without a major-league scowl, much like the one I’d gotten from his boss. Both Ruskin and Sikes laughed as the agent backed down.
We were allowed to stay with the FBI and the local police contingent at the crime scene. Beauties and the Beast. I remembered the phrase Ruskin had used in the car. Naomi was up on the Beast board. Had the dead woman been on the board as well?
It had been hot and humid and the body was decomposing rapidly. The woman had been badly attacked by forest animals, and I hoped that she was already dead before they came. Somehow, I didn’t think so.
I noted the unusual position of the body. She was lying on her back. Both her arms appeared to have been dislocated, perhaps as she twisted and struggled to free herself from the leather bonds and the tree behind her. It was as vicious a sight as I had ever seen on the streets of Washington or anywhere else. I felt almost no relief that this wasn’t Naomi.
I eventually talked up one of the FBI’s forensic people. He knew a friend of mine at the Bureau, Kyle Craig, who worked out of Quantico in Virginia. He told me that Kyle had a summer house in the area.
“This shitheel’s real savvy, real smooth, if nothing else.” The FBI forensic guy liked to talk. “He hasn’t left pubic hairs, semen, or even traces of perspiration on either of the victims I’ve examined. I surely doubt if we’ll find much here to give us a DNA profile. At least he didn’t eat her himself.”
“Does he have sex with the victims?” I asked before the agent went on a tangent about his experiences with cannibalism.
“Yeah, he does. Somebody had repeated sex with them. Lots of vaginal bruises and tears. Bugger’s well equipped, or he uses something large to simulate sex. But he must wear a cellophane body bag when he does it. Or he dusts them somehow. No pubes, no trace of body fluid yet. The forensic entomologist has already collected his samples. He’ll be able to give us the exact time of death.”
“This could be Bette Anne Ryerson,” one of the grayhaired FBI agents within earshot said. “There was a missing-person report on her. Blond-haired gal, five six, about a hundred and ten pounds. Wearing a gold Seiko when she disappeared. Drop-dead gorgeous, at least she used to be.”
“Mother of two kids,” said one of the female agents. “Graduate English student at North Carolina State. I interviewed her husband, who’s a professor. Met her two children. Beautiful little kids. One and three years old. Goddamn this bastard.” The agent started to choke up.
I could see the wristwatch, and the ribbon that tied back her hair had come undone and rested on her shoulder. She was no longer beautiful. What was left of her was bloated and suffused. The odor of decomposition was pungent even out in the open air.
The empty sockets seemed to be staring up into a crescent-shaped opening at the tops of the pine trees, and I wondered what her eyes had looked at last.
I tried to imagine “Casanova” cavorting around in these deep dark woods before we had arrived. I took a guess that he was in his twenties or thirties, and physically strong. I was afraid for Scootchie, much more than I had been, in fact.
Casanova. The world’s greatest lover… God save us.
CHAPTER 15
IT WAS well past ten o’clock, and we were still at the grisly, highly disturbing murder scene. The dazzling amber headlights of official cars and emergency vehicles were used to illuminate a footworn path into the shadowy woods. It was getting colder outside. The chill night wind was a gritty slap in the face.
The corpse still hadn’t been moved.
I watched the Bureau’s technicians dutifully strip search the woods, collecting forensic clues and taking measurements. The immediate area had been cordoned off, but I made a sketch in the dim light, and took my own preliminary notes. I was trying to remember what I could about the original Casanova. Eighteenth-century adventurer, writer, libertine. I had read parts of his memoirs somewhere along the line.
Beyond the obvious, why had the killer chosen the name? Did he believe that he truly loved women? Was this his way of showing it?
We could hear a bird somewhere let out an unearthly scream, and also the sounds of small animals all around us. Nobody thought of Bambi in these woods. Not under the circumstances of the gruesome murder.