Читать книгу A Perfect Obsession - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 10

CHAPTER THREE

CRAIG HATED ATTENDING an autopsy.

He did, however, attend whenever possible. No detail was too small when seeking a murderer.

And here, downtown, it was easy enough to get to the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. Young and old, victim of accident or murder—or just having faced death unattended or from causes unknown—the bodies of the deceased in lower Manhattan came here. The OCME had two other locations—in Brooklyn and in Queens, serving those who died farther afield or when a death toll rose dramatically due to assaults by nature or by man.

This office was located on Twenty-Sixth Street—not far from Finnegan’s and Le Club Vampyre or the NYC offices of the FBI.

“You’ll have my tape for anything you might have forgotten here,” Dr. Andrews said when he was finished, stepping back from the gurney and nodding to his assistant so that the man could take the body to finish the sewing-up procedure. “But it’s the weirdest damned thing I’ve ever seen. From my findings, I believe she’s been dead for most of the two weeks she’s been missing. Maybe only ten days, though, which would mean that he kept her for just a few days—and has preserved her or tried to preserve her until he chose to leave her. Obviously, gentlemen, we all know that she wasn’t killed in the crypt. Wherever she was killed, there has to have been a massive blood spill—she was stabbed straight in the heart. But what’s so disturbing is the way that she was kept. She was not sexually assaulted, and her remains were treated tenderly.”

“As if the killer regretted the murder?” McBride asked.

“I can’t speak to the killer’s mind. The facts of the case are this—she has been dead approximately ten days up to two weeks. There are no defensive wounds anywhere on her body. She was kept on ice, or at a very low temperature, slowing decomposition, until she was brought to the crypt. The temperature below the ground is much cooler than above, more toward the preservation side, but not enough that more decay didn’t begin to set in. But, even on ice, I believe she had begun to decay before being brought to the crypt. There is no other wound on her other than the fatal jab to the heart. I’m going to suggest a strong, broad knife, one-and-one-half to two inches in breadth, five to six inches long. The fatal stab was inflicted in one smooth and determined motion.”

“By someone strong? A man?” Mike asked.

“Certainly, no one feeble delivered the thrust. But, no, if the knife was sharp enough, which it was, a person of average strength could have easily done the deed. I don’t know as yet what chemical compounds might have been in the body. When I receive the lab tests, I’ll let you know.”

“Well, we know how she died and when she died,” McBride said. “Now, if we only knew the name of the killer.”

“I want to get an info board and timeline going,” Craig said. “Also, see if they came up with anything from the security cameras in the club. We’ll set up in one of the conference rooms. I have a feeling our task force might get bigger, and we’ll be briefing a lot of people.”

He thanked Dr. Andrews and they headed out.

It was always good to leave the morgue.

* * *

Kieran thought that she was incredibly lucky in her employment. Dr. Fuller was a truly decent man—totally unaware of his looks and completely dedicated to his field. There wasn’t a narcissistic bone in his body. He was always courteous and caring of others.

Of course, if all else should fail, she also had Finnegan’s!

But her two roles converged nicely that day.

Traffic was exceptionally bad, and by the time Dr. Fuller arrived, Jeannette Gilbert’s body was long gone. Still, he headed first to the church to view the scene of the discovery, then he came around the corner to Finnegan’s and met with Kieran in Declan’s office.

Kieran got him a scotch—he said he needed one, just one—and ordered shepherd’s pie for him. He’d been driving a long time.

He ate quickly. He sipped his scotch as if it were nectar from above.

She’d already texted the pictures to him; she went over her sketches and her notes.

He sat for a minute, thoughtful.

“They’re going to suspect her manager and agent, Oswald Martin,” he said.

“Yes, I know. But you don’t think it was him?” Kieran asked.

“She was his meal ticket. He also worked with her for years,” Fuller pointed out. “Tell me—what were your impressions?”

Kieran looked at him and then plunged in. “Organized. The killer knew what he was doing. It’s likely he’s killed before.”

Fuller nodded. “As I understand it, the FBI’s on it because a body was found similarly in another state.”

Kieran continued with her assessment. “She trusted whoever killed her, so, therefore, I don’t think it was a random person off the street. Also, whoever did it is meticulous in his own habits. Maybe not clinically insane, but I’d say crazy, just not visibly so. Sociopath, beyond a doubt. His own satisfaction excludes any concern for others. The usual profile would suggest a young man, late twenties to early thirties. But I think he’s a little older. I also think he’s got a decent income, is well educated. After all, he can definitely do some research. He found out about the crypts under the church. What puzzles me, though, is why he placed her in a coffin there. He had to have known that she’d be found quickly.”

“Maybe he wanted her found,” Dr. Fuller speculated. “His first victim, however, was in a mausoleum many weeks before the woman whose space she was in died. Then again, maybe that didn’t please him.”

“You mean that killing is like art to him?”

“Killing—and displaying the body.”

Kieran nodded. “Jeannette was stunningly beautiful in life. Living art. Maybe he tried to preserve his victims, but couldn’t?”

“Possibly. Buying mortuary supplies might raise a question.”

Kieran gave him a brief, grim smile. “He’s living his life in his own mind. Maybe he saw something in her.” She thought of the original murder. “Dr. Fuller, what was the other victim like? What do you know about her?”

“Young. Her name was Cary Howell. That’s all I have. Frankly, we need to get over to the FBI offices. It’s just a short walk south on Broadway—I won’t even have to drive again. You ready?”

* * *

“Two hundred and eighty-five miles—driving time approximately five to six hours, with a couple of pit stops, down to Virginia,” Craig said. He had his board set up, having accrued more records on the Virginia case. “Victim number one—that we know of—Cary Howell, was found in a crypt when the matron of a family was about to go in.” He pointed to her picture. “Killed six months ago.”

Then he pointed to Jeannette’s photo. “Gentlemen,” he told McBride and Mike, “please note Cary and then Jeannette. I think you’ll agree it’s highly unlikely that we have a copycat on our hands—not when you see the details.”

“A rose in her hands,” Mike murmured.

“White dress,” McBride said. “Let me guess—Cary Howell was stabbed in the heart?”

“She was. Of course, you’ll note the decay of the body is much greater in the first case. She’d been there longer, and Virginia can be hot.” He glanced at his notes and looked over them. “In fact,” he said softly, “the Virginia ME bemoans the fact that the heat does what it does to bodies. The decay caused breakdowns that made certain chemical testing impossible for him.”

“Still, Virginia,” McBride said. “We need to find a suspect who was in Virginia when Cary Howell was killed—and here in New York when Jeannette was killed.”

“Not so easy,” Craig said. “The Virginia ME could only narrow down the time of death on Cary to about a week, and that week would have been six months ago. The drive to Virginia and back can be done in a day.”

“Still, we can find out who has been to Virginia,” McBride said. “Or if any of our suspects left the city around that time.”

“Not if they took side roads,” Mike noted.

“Hard to get in or out of New York City without hitting some kind of a camera,” McBride said.

“True—but there are ways,” Craig said. “But I don’t believe that Jeannette Gilbert went off with just anyone. She knew her killer. She trusted him. That makes me believe that the killer is from or lives in New York City since, even though she traveled for work, Jeannette spent her entire life here.”

“The other victim trusted her killer, too,” McBride said.

“But Jeannette Gilbert was a media star. She was known. Right now, I’d like to look at this case as if it is a separate situation. We need to focus on possible suspects right here in the city, people who were close to Jeannette Gilbert.”

“Sure,” McBride said glumly.

“Naturally, everyone at the church-nightclub was questioned immediately, but only Gleason had actually ever met Ms. Gilbert, and that was because of an ad done at the club. He made no attempt to hide and didn’t avoid any questions. He’ll remain on our radar. Number one suspect—according to the tabloids—is her manager, Oswald Martin,” Craig said. “I have officers out trying to find him now.”

“Can’t convict a man via the tabloids,” McBride noted.

Mike had a sheaf of notes in front of him. “She had a row with a photographer a while back—Leo Holt. High-fashion photographer. It was covered in the tabloids. And they lived in buildings on the same block by Central Park. However, there’s nothing to link him to her disappearance.”

“We really have nothing to link anyone yet. Thing is, I don’t think we’re going after the usual—because of Virginia. I don’t think it’s someone with whom she just had a petty argument. I don’t think it’s a scientist working at the scene, either.” Craig shook his head. “But I like charts and lists, so I’ll add Holt’s name.”

“Going in that direction, there’s John Shaw himself,” McBride offered. “He’s creepy enough, crazy enough. My gut says no, but you could write him down, too.”

Craig did. “Then,” he added, “we have the owner of the club. Roger Gleason.”

“Definitely slimy,” Mike said.

“Can’t convict on slimy,” McBride put in.

“No, but we have to start somewhere,” Craig said. “The first one who usually comes under suspicion is the significant other. In our case—the mystery man.”

Mike cleared his throat. “We don’t know who he is. That’s why he’s a mystery man.”

“We’re going to find out. We have statements from friends and associates and coworkers already, since she was listed as a missing person,” Craig said. “It will come out.”

“We have to add in every one of the people involved with Shaw,” Mike said. “His colleague, Professor Digby. Henry Willoughby had been there, too, representing the historic preservation group. And then the grad students.” He referred to his notes. “Allie Benoit, Joshua Harding and Sam Frick. All of them go to the university here, and all have worked with Dr. Shaw before.”

“There’s her family,” McBride said. “The aunt... She’s just kind of a sad sack. And the step-uncle, Tobias Green—a total asshole. Never bothered with the girl, begrudged every piece of food she put in her mouth as a kid—and threatened to sue the NYPD if we didn’t find her!”

“Add the asshole step-uncle to the list,” Mike said.

“I don’t think you should write asshole on that board of yours. Probably against Bureau policy,” McBride said wearily.

“He probably is an ass,” Craig agreed, “but I’m not sure if that puts him with the kind of man we’re looking for. Gilbert wouldn’t have feared him, but how would he have gotten to know our other victim?”

“And you can’t convict a guy for being an asshole,” McBride said sadly.

“We’ll still want to talk to him,” Craig murmured.

“Construction workers, bar employees—we’re missing people,” Mike said.

“Yeah, well, we could be missing suspects that include all of Manhattan and beyond, since the news was out about the find,” McBride said wearily. “What have we got off security tapes? Did Tech finish with them yet?”

“We got nothing,” Craig said.

“How can you have nothing? I saw the cameras there.”

“The techs studied the tapes over and over. Roger Gleason stayed late—until Professor Shaw was all set up for today. You see him and Shaw leaving together—in fact, you see Gleason setting the alarm. And, yes, the alarm company has been questioned and nothing went off last night. The cameras recorded through the night. You see no one go in and no one go out.”

“That’s impossible,” McBride said.

“It was a church,” Mike argued. “There’s more than one entrance. The door to the left leads to the offices—at least what was offices when it was a church. The door to the right led outside.”

“I tried it, Mike,” Craig replied. “It doesn’t open now. The next building is flush against it.”

“There has to be another way out,” Mike said. “I feel like an idiot. I went through every room at the place. I don’t remember another door, but—”

“There are two side doors next to the main pointed arch entry,” Craig said. “Locked from the outside, on the same alarm system. In an emergency, they open out.”

“I had Forensics inspect those doors. They weren’t jimmied. They weren’t opened,” Mike said.

“Shouldn’t pass a fire code that way,” McBride grumbled.

“That’s just it. An alarm to the fire department goes off when they’re opened,” Mike said.

“Something had to have happened—a technical failure?” McBride posited. “And of course there are no alleys.”

“It’s Manhattan,” Mike said. “Buildings wind up flush together because real estate is prime. No alleys,” he added, looking at Craig.

“No. No alleys,” Craig agreed.

“The cameras had to have been tampered with. Someone had to have jimmied the alarm system,” McBride said. “It’s looking like the owner himself might be guilty in this thing. Who the hell else could have done all that?”

Craig had to admit that it seemed the detective was right.

How had someone gotten into the church, carried the body downstairs and gotten it into the coffin without being seen?

“She was killed by a ghost,” Mike muttered.

“Seems that way,” McBride said, shaking his head. “But she’s still a real corpse. A ghost would have had to have carried in a real corpse!”

Craig’s buzzer rang then; he hit the intercom.

“Special Agent Frasier,” one of the secretaries said, “Dr. Fuller and Ms. Finnegan are here. I’ve taken the liberty of sending someone down to get them. Do I hold them out here or send them in?”

“Send them right in,” Craig said.

“Good. The shrinks can explain how ghosts work and make victims invisible, too,” McBride said, his sarcasm a cover for his exasperation. “Something’s wrong—film, tape, digital images. They had to be manipulated.”

“We have the best techs in the world,” Mike said.

“I don’t care how good you are, there’s always someone better,” McBride argued.

That was true enough, Craig thought.

“And that would point to someone who knew Le Club Vampyre,” he said aloud, glancing over at Mike.

“Or the church—when it was a church,” Mike said.

“It’s probably a new system. It’s different being a church and a nightclub,” Craig pointed out.

He was glad then to see Bentley Fuller walk in with Kieran.

“Guy looks like he’s in great shape. He’d make a solid FBI guy,” McBride commented beneath his breath, and he stood to greet Fuller.

Craig thanked them for coming. Kieran nodded at him and took a seat, but he picked up on her vibe right away. She looked uncomfortable. He wondered why. She hadn’t appeared so miserable the first time she’d come down to the FBI headquarters, back when they barely knew one another. By now, of course, she’d been here often enough. But still, there was something off about her.

Fuller walked right up to Craig’s board and stared at the image of Cary Howell.

“Wow,” Fuller murmured. “Same work—as in what the killer seemed to do. Same hand, too. I would be stunned if it wasn’t.”

Kieran was looking at the image, too.

“But here’s what different. Cary Howell was in a mausoleum. The old lady who died might have lived on for years, and Cary wouldn’t have been found until then. Why hide one girl and put the other where she’d be found the next day?” Craig asked.

“He thinks he’s an artist,” Kieran said.

“What?” Mike asked.

“He’s creating something with these women—art, in his mind. Temporary exhibits, if you will,” Dr. Fuller said. “I think he realized with his first victim that no one saw the true beauty of his creation since he didn’t make sure that the body was found quickly enough,” Fuller explained. “I do believe that Cary Howell was his first victim—or, I hate to say it—an earlier victim. He has been experimenting and learning.”

“Why put them in a coffin then, period?” Craig asked.

“Because they’re dead, and the dead belong in coffins, but their beauty should be remembered, honored,” Dr. Fuller said.

Craig glanced at Kieran. She was staring at his board. Her face was white.

“Kieran, are you all right?” he asked her.

“Fine,” she told him. She leaned forward. “I was looking at your suspect list. And the thing is—everyone in New York knew about the historical find.”

“Yes, but, everyone in New York didn’t know the layout of the church or where the wall had been broken,” Craig said.

“You have ‘mystery lover’ on the list,” she said.

“Yes.”

“I don’t see Jeannette Gilbert dating anyone who wasn’t young, her age, say. Probably someone appealing. I don’t see that as John Shaw or Henry Willoughby or...”

She paused, her voice trailing.

“Or Roger Gleason?” he asked.

“Gleason is...interesting,” she admitted.

“I think most young women would find him appealing,” Mike said.

“Slimy,” McBride said, shaking his head.

Kieran glanced at McBride and nodded. “Some women are drawn to men like him, though. He keeps himself fit, he has a quick smile and—here’s something important—he had something to offer them. He must have seen plenty of young women coming in for a job at the club.”

“Rich as Croesus, he is. He owns the building,” Mike pointed out. “The whole old church. Man, that’s some mean property in Manhattan.”

Craig looked at Dr. Fuller. “What about Miss Gilbert’s manager, Oswald Martin? The man is in his late thirties. He made her rich. But she grew up, and maybe she wanted to go her own way.”

“Possible, but unlikely in my mind. She was making a fortune for him. He tried to rule her life, yes, but she was getting what she wanted. She could slip away when she wanted,” Fuller said. “She gave impromptu press interviews—without him around.”

“He might have been furious over the mystery lover,” Mike said.

“And she might have just made up the mystery lover for good press,” Fuller said.

Kieran looked at him quickly. “A mystery lover is always good press,” she said.

“We’re all speculating now,” Craig said, putting an end to the talk. “I have agents out to find Oswald. I plan to speak with him tonight. Can you, at the moment, give us anything helpful?” he asked Fuller.

“Yes, Kieran and I have talked, but we needed to know more about his first victim, which is why we came down now, without a complete report with explanations. This is what we’ve got so far. This man has money. He can come and go as he pleases. He’s got a respectable appearance. Normally, I would have said he was between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five, but Kieran suggested a little older and I think she’s right. He’s gained the respect he receives and he’s intelligent. I imagine he pulled up the original church plans. They’re available online, by the way, though not even online—or in any archive—will you find a reference to the hidden crypt. Your killer listens to the news. He knew about the findings.”

“And how the hell did he get in?” Mike murmured.

“There’s always a way,” Craig said.

“But the security footage—”

“Yes, that remains a mystery,” Craig said, cutting off his partner. “What else can you tell us, Dr. Fuller?”

“The killer used a mausoleum before—a family mausoleum. He was dissatisfied. I believe he was in love with Ms. Gilbert—as he had been with Ms. Howell. Not sexually. His love is above all that. His love is for perfection, I believe. Both women were more than attractive. They were beautiful. He laid them out almost tenderly. They were...art.” Fuller kept his eye on the pictures as he spoke. “I’ll write up my complete report. You’ll have it first thing in the morning.”

Craig glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost eight o’clock, but he knew his day would go on; he was expecting Oswald Martin at the office soon.

If the man was innocent, he’d certainly agree to be questioned. And if he was guilty? Well, he’d agree, too. He’d want to appear to be cooperating.

“Dr. Fuller, thank you for coming in.”

“Well, then, I’m off. Heading to the office. I now feel the need for continued research on the minds of such men,” Dr. Fuller said.

Kieran stood.

“No need to join me. You were a godsend today, Kieran. Thank you,” he said. He smiled at her and then at Craig. “I’m quite certain that Special Agent Frasier will see to it that you get home safely.”

Kieran looked like a deer caught in headlights.

What the hell?

“Um, sure, thank you,” she said to Fuller. “Actually, I can just walk to Finnegan’s. I was supposed to be helping today. It’s a Friday night.”

It wasn’t unusual that she said she was going back to the pub. What struck Craig was the way she seemed to be so confused, unsure of what she really wanted to do.

“Someone will drive you,” Craig said. “I’ll meet you as soon as we’re done here.”

She nodded. Her smile for him was weak. She was almost out the door to the conference room when she seemed to remember Mike and McBride. She turned and bid them both goodbye, and then hurried out.

Craig didn’t get a chance to wonder about her behavior. The intercom buzzed again.

Oswald Martin was there. Were they ready for him?

Hell, yes.

* * *

Kieran had been sending Kevin texts half the day.

He hadn’t gotten back.

He might have gone home, but she doubted it. His audition might have run long. He might have had an instant callback.

But he should have texted her by then.

She looked at her phone as she was leaving the conference room and saw a missed text.

He was heading to the pub.

Walking out to reception, head still down over her phone, she crashed into a man coming toward the conference room.

She jumped, apologizing, as he steadied her, his hands on her shoulders.

She knew him from the tabloids.

Oswald Martin.

“Oh! I’m sorry, so sorry,” she murmured. He had an escort—a blue-suited FBI agent.

“It’s all right,” Martin said to her.

“This way, Mr. Martin,” his escort said.

“Yes,” Martin said, but he was still staring down at Kieran.

“I’m Oswald Martin,” he said.

“How do you do?” she murmured, not offering her name.

He kept looking at her, and then he took a card from his pocket. “If you’re ever looking for work, please...just see my card.” He thrust it at her and instinctively, Kieran took the card.

“Mr. Martin, if you will?” his FBI escort said firmly.

“Of course, of course,” he said. “My card—”

“Mr. Martin,” his escort repeated.

“Perfect!” Martin said, walking away.