The flight was mostly a blur; the exhaustion from her trip, and the help of two miniature whiskeys, had knocked her right out. Now, as Ilse exited the large glass sliding doors, crossed the terminal, and moved out into the parking lot, she felt like she was waking from a bad dream, fleeing to consciousness once more.
Parked next to one of the handicapped spots, she spotted a tinted window, black sedan. Most notably, a man sat on the hood of the car, his long legs crossed beneath him, serving as a tray for the manila folder opened against his dusty jeans. The man had a baseball cap, low over his features, but as she approached, his head turned, and his green eyes met hers, watching as she drew nearer.
"Doc," he said, nodding in greeting. For a moment, she almost thought he was glad to see her.
"Agent Sawyer,” she replied, her tone professional.
"First stop coroner's," he said, still sitting on the hood of the idling car, still studying the case file in his lap.
“I—how are you? It's been a while.”
He looked at her, considered the question, then flashed a thumbs up. He paused, then, as if remembering something incidental like locking a door on the way out of the house, and he turned back to her. “How are you?”
She smiled at the effort. “I'm fine, thank you. Well, so about this... case. I was surprised to get your call.”
“Worked out last time,” he said, shrugging. “Worth a shot, I guess.”
“I guess so, too. You mentioned it was a bad one over the phone." She drew near, wincing as she did, catching a glimpse of a picture that looked like a severed foot. She looked away again, just as quickly, feeling her stomach turn.
Noticing her attention, he slowly closed the folder. "Two dead. Both of them fifties. Both cut up in little bits. Killer spelled letters with their body parts."
This was the longest sentence she'd heard from Sawyer in a while. And, if she'd had her way, she never would've heard it to begin with. Her twisting stomach now turned downright tempestuous. She put a hand to her mouth, and half turned, wincing at his words. In most of her work with clients, the grisly details were kept to a minimum. Emotions, patterns of behavior, thoughts—these were dealt with. But the actual gore and blood... She dealt with survivors after all. After a couple of quick breaths, exhaling through her nose, Ilse said, "That's horrible."
"Mhmm."
"Is there anything else we know?”
"The coroner will know more."
Ilse wanted to say something, maybe even give an explanation for why she was at the airport, but he didn't seem to care. Agent Sawyer slid off the hood of the car, clicked the locks, and opened the front seat. "Hop in," he called.
And with that curt command, the lanky man slid in the front seat, buckled up, and, judging by a quick jolt of the car, had already taken it out of park.
Breathing in for four seconds, out for four, and muttering her memory trick beneath her breath, Ilse slid into the front passenger side. Her own mind whirred back to what her brother had said, back to the thoughts of the Mueller curse, back to the horrors she remembered in her father's basement. She'd hoped by coming here it would distract her from the terrors of her childhood.
But now, it looked like it was just going to replace them.
***
Gray walls, ammonia, the same sort of clinical, clean scent she'd detected back in the German hospital. Now, though, they were underground. The air was cool. A row of slabs was visible in refrigerator compartments, mercifully empty.
But two slabs, in the center of the room, were covered with white sheets. The sheets did a poor job disguising the vaguely human shaped lumps beneath them.
As she followed Agent Sawyer into the coroner's office, she felt like she might be sick.
"Need a minute?" Sawyer said. There was a note of compassion in his tone he normally didn't seem to find space for.
"Just a moment," she said, quickly, turning and looking at the sink, hand to her lips.
The coroner was standing by the two bodies, watching them both. He had a thin dusting of grey, prickly hair. His wired framed glasses hung low on his nose, and he had a clipboard, which he was examining as they drew near. He nodded to both in turn. "Agents," he said, trailing off.
"Sawyer."
"Right, and you?"
"I'm not an agent," Ilse said, quickly. “Dr. Beck,” she said, extending a hand in greeting.
The coroner wiggled a gloved hand, and Ilse lowered hers again. He gave her a long look over his nose, tilting his glasses a bit, but then he nodded and turned to the nearest slab. "It isn't pretty," he warned. He pulled back the white sheet.
This time, Ilse doubled over, gasping at the ground. She'd only caught a glimpse, but a glimpse was more than enough. Chunks of flesh, mutilated beyond recognition, sawed-off bits and pieces, the entire body basically cut to ribbons and then rearranged like a murder puzzle.
She wheezed, on her haunches now, staring at the ground.
"She's not that kind of doctor," Sawyer explained. Then, stepping past Ilse and giving her a chance to recover, he said, "So what we got?"
The coroner shifted, and said, in a clipped tone, "The killer clearly knew what they were doing. Multiple lacerations, clear contusions, but most the deep cuts went through bone. The victim was alive for part, judging by some of the tear patterns, but then eventually bled out.”
"Lovely," Sawyer said. He wrinkled his nose. "Besides the obvious, anything catch your eye?"
"The killer knows what they're doing with a blade. The rough, jagged portions were made when the victim was kicking, and yet still, somehow, he kept the cuts clean enough to sever muscle and bone."
Ilse thought she was going to be sick again and continued staring at the ground. Trembling, saliva damp on her lips, she got to her feet, careful to look anywhere but in the direction of the slab. She felt an urge to burp but decided if she let so much as a bubble from her lips, something else might follow. And so she swallowed, breathing heavily, and murmured, "Can I see that case file?"
Tom didn't even ask for an explanation; he just handed her the manila folder.
Grateful to have something to fan herself with, and an excuse to look anywhere else, Ilse began to flip through. Tom had already given her a bit of a run-down, mentioning the teachers, the chopped-up bodies, but given his laconic nature, she wanted to make sure she caught every nuance.
Ilse remained attentive, though, as the coroner said, "No narcotics, no substances of any of kind found in either victim."
Ilse kept the folder high, blocking her view. She breathed in, out, determinedly, only using her mouth. If she caught another whiff of those cleaning fluids, she wasn't sure she'd recover. As her eyes trailed along the folders, though, skipping from one bio to the next, she frowned. "Both victims really were in their fifties?" She murmured, "That's rare for serial killers. More often than not, they target young women."
Sawyer grunted. "Yup.” He watched her out of the corner of his eye. "Anything else?"
She wrinkled her nose, but then paused, nodding. "Frank Capriso and Arthur Hubbard."
"The victim's names. What about them?"
"Frank. F. Arthur. A." She looked at Sawyer now. "The same letters the killer formed with the body parts."
Sawyer blinked, glanced at the corpses, then back at her. He extended a hand and said, "May I?"
She was loathe to relinquish her cover, but turned, handing him the envelope and glancing in the opposite direction from the slabs, staring at a couple of sinks in the back of the room.
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Sawyer flipped through, settling on some of the glossy crime scene pictures. "F... A..." he said, softly. "Well doggone. You're right.” He murmured, “Doesn't help much until we know the next letter, though... Still—need to know more about the kills.”
Sawyer glanced up, allowing his attention to serve as question enough. The coroner sighed, and muttered, "I'll look for signs of chemical influence. But it's pretty straightforward. Blood loss, massive trauma, many ruptured organs; the victims didn't stand a chance."
"Ligature marks?" Sawyer said.
"Now that you mention it, no. He didn't bind them in any way."
Ilse wrinkled her nose and frowned. "If he cut them," her stomach twisted, “but didn't use ropes or anything. How did he hold them down?"
Sawyer snorted. "Strong bastard."
Then, he gave a little rolling wave of his fingers towards the coroner, and turned, marching right back out the direction they'd come. Ilse didn't need a second invitation, hastening in quick pursuit, grateful to be anywhere but near those stone slabs.
“Where to now?” she said.
Sawyer paused, thinking, then replied, “Second victim's home. Still haven't interviewed his widow. Think you're up for it?” he asked, glancing sidelong.
Ilse bit her lip but nodded quickly. “Talking to survivors is more my speed, than... well...” she jerked a thumb back over her shoulder.
Sawyer seemed convinced enough as he led the way back out of the basement, up the steps, and towards the waiting car which would take them to the second victim's home.