Read Online Embracing Midnight by Devyn Quinn - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Devyn Quinn
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seemed inconceivable he could commit murder, and then chase Callie down a few hours later.
Inconceivable, maybe. Impossible? Not entirely. Especially if he had help.
“Where was she found?”
Agent Charlie Grayson consulted his notebook. “Down in the NoLo, an alley behind one of the abandoned hotels. Sanitation workers found her this morning around seven.” NoLo was local slang for Belmonde’s lower north side. Part of the city’s red-light district, the sin and skin trade was alive and well. Along the strip of back streets hosting the city’s sex trade, the sultry town sizzled with blazing hot adult entertainment.
The time was presently ten after one in the afternoon. It hadn’t taken long for the feds to swoop in and claim the victim from local law enforcement.
“Go ahead and fill her in,” Reinke said.
The ME nodded. A balding gnome, nature had put tiny eyes over a large nose and an even larger mouth, none of which matched. Fingers stained with nicotine, he continually dressed the same way: wrinkled khakis, and a lab coat stained with blood, food, and God knew what else.
“We know this one belongs to our suspect, as he rarely deviates from his chosen methods.” Brad Jackson lifted one of the victim’s hands. A series of gouges, like a perfect dotted line, ringed the girl’s wrist. The gouges weren’t deep, just enough to penetrate the surface of the skin. The other wrist bore identical damages, as did her neck.
Callie gave a tight grimace. “What did that?”
Jackson peered over the rim of heavy plastic frames. “My guess is some kind of restraint, very tight and most likely very uncomfortable to endure. Only the most sadistic mind could’ve conceived something like this to assert control.”
An emotional knot wedged in Callie’s throat. Her hand clenched tighter, as if to squeeze away any influences his words might have transferred to her. The prickle rising at the back of her neck kicked up a notch. Being bound with something that invasive must have been terrifying.
“Go on.” Not that she wanted to hear any more.
With the help of an aide, the body was lifted and turned. A shallow hole gaped at the base of the victim’s skull. “Of the five victims we know of,” Jackson continued, “all have this same injury—the death blow. Savage, cold, and downright barbaric.”
An understatement.
Jackson commenced to fill her in for the next fifteen minutes. The rest of the girl’s body bore intense bruises and other cuts. By the bruising between her gently spread legs, there was no doubt that she’d been sexually assaulted. Their best hope at this point was for semen or saliva to provide them with a DNA profile of the offender—or offenders. The possibility existed that more than one man was involved.
Though Callie heard Jackson’s words, they registered as little more than a drone in her ears. Too many thoughts were tumbling through her head to pay attention. Less than twelve hours ago the corpse was a living, breathing human being.
Now the unknown girl was dead, no more than an empty shell soon to rot away into little more than a pile of bones. Who she was, what she was, the sins she’d committed didn’t matter anymore. Death had wiped away her identity, her joy and sorrows. Only her pain remained, stark and brutal. Because she’d passed from life in such a tragic way, those who survived would be responsible for seeking justice, speaking for one no longer able.
By the time Jackson finished, Callie was too drained to think. Fighting the clench of nerves, she scrubbed her numb face, disbelieving. “Shit.” The victim’s injuries exactly matched those in autopsy photos she’d viewed of other victims.
Small scars flicked across the victim’s neck, shoulders, breasts, and abdomen. Well healed, these were obviously inflicted before death.
Callie thought about her own scars, and wondered. The impulse died before she gave it further consideration, vanishing like ashes in the wind.
Inconceivable, maybe. Impossible? Not entirely. Especially if he had help.
“Where was she found?”
Agent Charlie Grayson consulted his notebook. “Down in the NoLo, an alley behind one of the abandoned hotels. Sanitation workers found her this morning around seven.” NoLo was local slang for Belmonde’s lower north side. Part of the city’s red-light district, the sin and skin trade was alive and well. Along the strip of back streets hosting the city’s sex trade, the sultry town sizzled with blazing hot adult entertainment.
The time was presently ten after one in the afternoon. It hadn’t taken long for the feds to swoop in and claim the victim from local law enforcement.
“Go ahead and fill her in,” Reinke said.
The ME nodded. A balding gnome, nature had put tiny eyes over a large nose and an even larger mouth, none of which matched. Fingers stained with nicotine, he continually dressed the same way: wrinkled khakis, and a lab coat stained with blood, food, and God knew what else.
“We know this one belongs to our suspect, as he rarely deviates from his chosen methods.” Brad Jackson lifted one of the victim’s hands. A series of gouges, like a perfect dotted line, ringed the girl’s wrist. The gouges weren’t deep, just enough to penetrate the surface of the skin. The other wrist bore identical damages, as did her neck.
Callie gave a tight grimace. “What did that?”
Jackson peered over the rim of heavy plastic frames. “My guess is some kind of restraint, very tight and most likely very uncomfortable to endure. Only the most sadistic mind could’ve conceived something like this to assert control.”
An emotional knot wedged in Callie’s throat. Her hand clenched tighter, as if to squeeze away any influences his words might have transferred to her. The prickle rising at the back of her neck kicked up a notch. Being bound with something that invasive must have been terrifying.
“Go on.” Not that she wanted to hear any more.
With the help of an aide, the body was lifted and turned. A shallow hole gaped at the base of the victim’s skull. “Of the five victims we know of,” Jackson continued, “all have this same injury—the death blow. Savage, cold, and downright barbaric.”
An understatement.
Jackson commenced to fill her in for the next fifteen minutes. The rest of the girl’s body bore intense bruises and other cuts. By the bruising between her gently spread legs, there was no doubt that she’d been sexually assaulted. Their best hope at this point was for semen or saliva to provide them with a DNA profile of the offender—or offenders. The possibility existed that more than one man was involved.
Though Callie heard Jackson’s words, they registered as little more than a drone in her ears. Too many thoughts were tumbling through her head to pay attention. Less than twelve hours ago the corpse was a living, breathing human being.
Now the unknown girl was dead, no more than an empty shell soon to rot away into little more than a pile of bones. Who she was, what she was, the sins she’d committed didn’t matter anymore. Death had wiped away her identity, her joy and sorrows. Only her pain remained, stark and brutal. Because she’d passed from life in such a tragic way, those who survived would be responsible for seeking justice, speaking for one no longer able.
By the time Jackson finished, Callie was too drained to think. Fighting the clench of nerves, she scrubbed her numb face, disbelieving. “Shit.” The victim’s injuries exactly matched those in autopsy photos she’d viewed of other victims.
Small scars flicked across the victim’s neck, shoulders, breasts, and abdomen. Well healed, these were obviously inflicted before death.
Callie thought about her own scars, and wondered. The impulse died before she gave it further consideration, vanishing like ashes in the wind.
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