Katherine glanced toward the door as the assistants wheeled three more mobile operating tables into the room. On these tables were surgical instruments, scalpels, needles, and thread. Only swabs were missing; they were not needed because cadavers no longer bleed.
Next to the cutlery, Katherine saw a stainless steel plate that looked like a tray. On this tray were two arms. Maddeningly, Katherine couldn't help but think of the catering service that had brought in the cold platters for breakfast.
Sometimes sushi, sometimes croissant, sometimes body parts, the psychiatrist thought with her typical black humor.
"Split the carpal tunnel and thus reduce the pressure on the tendon," Wolfsen's voice snapped her out of her thoughts. "Let's see how you do with our new instruments."
Wolfsen, in blue scrubs and sterile gloves, stood at a table with two other surgeons as he made the first incision on the corpse's arm. No one needed to wear a mouthguard because there was no danger of saliva or bacteria infecting the tissue on the operating table. After all, the tissue on the operating table was already dead and could no longer be infected.
One arm was covered all over with tattoos. Pentagrams, skulls, bat wings. Katherine felt reminded of her penultimate big case, Legion and the Satanists, which had included bizarre guys tattooed all over.
"My goodness," said one of the surgeons, "the owner of that arm must have been a weirdo. Where do you guys get something like that?"
"That's nothing," explained another surgeon at an adjacent table where the other arm lay. "This one even cut marks into his skin, and that's usually only found in primitive tribes."
Katherine was instantly wide awake. "He what?"
"He's cut marks into his skin," the surgeon said. "Look for yourself."
Katherine hurried to the following table. And froze.
She saw the arm.
No tattoo but a mark on the upper arm below the shoulder joint.
Cut into the flesh with a knife. Deeply cut. With pressure. The muscle shimmered black-red under the cut as if the perpetrator had pressed the blade down to the bone with a lot of force and sadistic brutality.
The arm still looked relatively fresh, and Katherine discovered no scabs and little sign of wound healing. This meant the victim had lived a short time after someone had taught him the cuts.
Katherine had seen this sign before.
On Stephen Foreman.
And at Quantico.
And more than six years ago, in New York.
Almost more than six years ago. Yesterday morning. Last night.
And now again. One day later, the same mark was cut into the flesh with a knife.
"Excuse me," she said, stepping back.
She pulled out her smartphone, took a picture, and sent it to a number she knew.
To Ted Williams.
Ted, she wrote , we may have a series of murders here. The second body the same mark.
She stared at the table, mesmerized, as she sent the message with the picture via smartphone. Next, she would call Elizabeth and the team at BPD.
She rubbed her forehead, taking deep breaths in and out.
"Kate?" asked Wolfsen. "Are you all right?"
"No." Katherine took another deep breath. "Nothing is all right. Nothing at all." She raised her voice, "Everyone put down your instruments. Right now. That's an order."
Wolfsen and the other doctors looked at Katherine in wonder.
"Sorry, my friend, but something is wrong here. We have a problem," Katherine told Wolfsen. "This arm here, this mark cut into the flesh ... We currently have a case with a perp who left similar marks on his victim."
"A real killer?" Wolfsen found that thought exciting.
"Yes. And that makes me wonder how this arm got to you."
Wolfsen considered for a moment. "Well, as usual, that is. There's a company --"
"Listen," Katherine interrupted him, "we need to confiscate the arm and stop this event here. You understand that, don't you?"
"Yeah, sure."
Katherine raised her badge for all to see. "Please stop your work right now," she said, "My name is Dr. Katherine Isles, Boston Police Department." Everyone paused. "I have reasonable suspicion that one of these specimens came from a violent crime, and that's why I need to seize some of the body parts."
Wolfsen nodded to the others. "Do what Dr. Isles says."
The men and women backed away from the tables. Their faces reflected wonder but also amazement, even fascination in some.
Katherine took two more pictures of the arm and sent them to Nick and Elizabeth.
Then she dialed her sister's number.
xxx
Elizabeth went through the papers again. She was still tired.
She had once had an affair with a banker who claimed to need sleep only every other night. "Tomorrow is my sleep night," the woman had said each time. She claimed she didn't need that much sleep, but the detective was pretty sure cocaine had been the real reason.
She thought of what Maggie had just told her: the heart was Stephen Foreman's, and there were traces of the killer's DNA because he had bitten into it. Elizabeth immediately relayed the news to Nick and Jane and left a voicemail for Katherine.
Why would this killer kill a man like Stephen Foreman? Was he trying to make a statement? Was it essential for him to show all the world that he could defeat such greatness from the underworld? It was as if everyone should say about him: Look what he can do.
Or was it a kind of test of courage? And even if he had cut out his victim's heart - it was essential to the murderer that his victim was easily recognizable, even that he was found in his apartment and could therefore be identified flawlessly. This murderer hadn't set out to make the corpse unrecognizable and thus unidentifiable.
On the contrary, the victim's identity was apparent, perhaps because it was the perpetrator's intention.
One thing, however, puzzled Elizabeth. Even if the killer possessed great physical strength, he must have realized that the Deathguards wouldn't fail to react with a vengeance and that such gangs sometimes found a victim faster than the police, which led to the conclusion that the murderer acted carelessly, even recklessly. He was powerful, but against ten heavily armed gang members or a well-aimed shot, even he wouldn't stand a chance. Did he think he was strong enough to defeat even ten opponents? Or was there some other reason for his recklessness?
Elizabeth noticed how fatigue clouded her thoughts.
The murderer, she thought, and it felt like another voice was speaking in her head. Although the police and others were after these beasts, some were always out there, walking in broad daylight and night, shadowy, ruthless, and deadly.
Yes, the killers are out there. But so are we.
Elizabeth sat straight, shook off the fatigue, and took a sip of black coffee.
Why was the killer careless? Or would he continue to murder in another place, far from Boston, as he might have done in L.A. and New York? And if he persisted in Boston - why wasn't he afraid of the bikers' revenge? What made him so confident? Or was he like a predator, like a shark that went into a blood frenzy and forgot everything, even his survival? She hadn't even talked to her sister about that question yet.
Nick came back into the bullpen, holding a small note.
"Any word from the FBI yet?" she asked with a slight frown.
Nick shook his head. "I'll call Kate when she's done with her pharmaceutical company. For that --" He faltered as if he needed to get something unpleasant off his chest.
Elizabeth's eyebrows drew together. "For that what?" she asked.
"For that, we have a new body. Or what's left of it."
"What are you saying?" Elizabeth was abruptly wide awake. "Where?"
"I have the address right here." Nick pointed to the piece of paper. "Forensics is already on the scene. Will you go ahead? I'll catch up with you in a bit."
"Sure." Elizabeth gathered her things and headed for the elevator.
She secretly hoped this murder had something to do with the Angel of Death. On the other hand, she dreaded it.
Hope and fear weren't only constant companions of man but also Elizabeth's constant companions in her job at BPD.
xxx
Forensics was already at the scene when Elizabeth arrived.
It was a dilapidated building with a backyard in South End.
As it appeared, the body had been found in the basement. An officer was talking with a homeless man standing outside the entrance of the dilapidated house with his dog, a brown Labrador. Elizabeth walked up to the two men and introduced herself.
"This is Peter Mendel," the officer explained, "unfortunately, no address. He's been alerted to the body."
Elizabeth looked at the man. "What did you see, Mr. Mendel?"
"What do you mean saw? My Jerry smelled something," Mendel replied. Elizabeth smelled the man's alcoholic odor a yard and a half away. "I don't go anywhere without my Jerry; he gives me support and builds me up."
"You're in the neighborhood a lot?" the officer asked.
"Yeah, I've lived on the streets for eight years. I used to be married, had kids, and had a job. But then the money wasn't enough, and I started stealing. I was in jail three times. When I got out, the wife was gone, and the job too. And now I'm here."
Elizabeth nodded slowly. "And what are you doing here?"
"Well, begging, what else? You get good money being on the streets with dogs. Sometimes I put a little hat on Jerry's head. Then we get even more. Then, he gets really good things to eat from me in the evening." He stroked the dog. "After all, he works hard and helps earn money, so he should eat well. Because without a dog, you can pack up on the street. That's the way it is."
Elizabeth had often heard about the symbiotic bond between homeless people and their dogs, which didn't surprise her since the animals were the only ones who stuck by these poor people despite everything and didn't turn their backs on them like everyone else.
"We get dog food here, too," Mendel continued. "Most of the time, in fact, way too much. The other day we gave some away because my Jerry couldn't eat it all." The dog chortled as if agreeing. "But as I said, the dogs are important. Otherwise, a guy like me would go under here. If only because of those begging gangs. They almost always come with disabled people, who are supposed to arouse pity. But most of them are not disabled at all. People should rather show their identity card. A real disabled person has no problem showing their disabled ID."
"I see, Mr. Mendel." Elizabeth kindly tried to get the man to get down to business. "You found something spooky there with your dog, I hear?"
"Well, it was like this," Medel replied. "Jerry suddenly barked real loud, like he smelled something bad. Pulled on the leash. So I went after him. And then we were standing here in front of the house. The door was open. And I went down into the ... well, into the basement." The man screwed up his face as if the memory was causing him pain. "At first, I thought it was the booze again. It was like a nightmare, although a guy like me doesn't have dreams anymore. Or it was the fucking drugs. Methadone. I can't get therapy if I'm not off that stuff. Anyway, I was down there in the basement... And there I was thinking; I don't see right. But it was real."
"What, a dead body?" Elizabeth raised her eyebrows.
"Yeah, a real dead body, but ... But --" Mendel narrowed his eyes. "But not whole."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, not whole." Mendel pointed to the cellar of the dilapidated house. "Look for yourself, and you'll know what I mean."