head. “Ben says no. Postmortem mutilation yes, sexual assault no.”
“Any more information on the knife?” Alex asked.
“Nah, but you should see the pile of blades Ben has accrued for comparison. It’s gonna take a bit.”
“I thought about a hunter,” D.D. announced. “The autopsy report on Christine Ryan categorized the ribbons of skin as being expertly cut. Only people I can think of who have a lot of experience skinning is hunters. So last night, I watched a bunch of YouTube videos on how to skin game, you know, rabbits, squirrels, deer, elk.”
Alex was regarding her strangely. As if just now realizing his wife had gotten out of bed sometime after midnight. She wondered which was worse, not noticing her absence, or now picturing her padding through their darkened home to watch bloody home films of carved-up wildlife. The videos had disturbed her. She hadn’t thought they would, given how much of her life she’d spent staring at carved-up humans.
And yet . . . She hadn’t gone to bed for a while afterward. Instead, she’d sat in Jack’s room, watching her son sleep peacefully in the comforting glow of his night-light.
“I’m not a hunter,” she continued, “so I’ll confess I didn’t know anything about it. But having watched a dozen how-to videos . . . The experienced hunters don’t even really use their blades. I mean, a couple of incisions around the anus, removal of the head; then most of them peel the entire hide from the animal’s body using their bare hands. Which I gather is how it’s supposed to be done, as you don’t want to damage the skin. It’s most valuable as one large piece.”
Phil was staring at her blankly. “You did what?”
“I Googled skinning; then I watched some videos. Come on, we gotta start getting into this guy’s head. You got any better ideas?”
“You’re on medical leave.”
“For an injured arm, not an incapacitated brain. Tell me the truth. For the past few weeks, you’ve been pulling hunting licenses and cross-referencing names.”
Phil flushed, shifted from foot to foot. “Maybe.”
“Exactly. Because you think of skinning, you think of hunting. Makes sense. Except I’m telling you now, I don’t think this guy is a hunter. Their technique, it’s totally different. Not to mention their blades. The knives of choice are large, fixed blades, at least an inch or two across in width. Hunters are purchasing for strength and durability, the classic Ka-Bar knife that can skin a deer, gut a fish and dig a hole. I don’t see how you can excise fine strips from a woman’s torso using such a blade, let alone wander the streets of Boston without gathering attention.”
“I’ve seen hunting knives that fold,” Phil countered. “And I’ve got some buddies who carry multiple blades. Ka-Bar has its uses, but they have smaller, lighter knives they also take into the field.”
“But do they remove the skin of their catch in long, thin strips?”
“No,” he admitted grudgingly. “That would be a new one. Though, after curing a hide, some guys will cut it into strips for making cords, that sort of thing. Given the current trend of paranoid preppers, God only knows the amount of people now studying pioneer-era survival techniques.”
“He’s not a prepper,” D.D. stated.
“No,” Alex agreed. “This is about domination, control. Not someone looking to practice fieldwork.”
“And he’s not practicing,” Neil said dryly. “The use of chloroform, the unique manner of asphyxiation, the methodical removal of skin . . . This guy knows exactly what he’s doing. Our killer’s not learning as he goes. Our killer’s already a pro.”
• • •
THE FRONT DOORBELL RANG. The sound, so ordinary and mundane, happening at the scene of a murder made them all jump. They shared chagrined expressions.
“Russ Ilg, my physical therapist,” D.D. guessed.
Alex went to let him in.
“Sure you want to do this?” Phil asked, the second Alex was out of earshot.
“Yes. Why wouldn’t I?”
Phil and Neil exchanged a look. D.D. interpreted it correctly and shot them an annoyed one of her own.
“You don’t have to cover for me,” she bit out. “We go through this . . . reenactment, and the most logical conclusion is that I’m an out-of-control fruitcake who discharged her weapon for no good reason, well then, that’s what you should report back to FDIT. I’m not looking for handouts. I want the truth.”
“We’re behind you,” Neil murmured. “Whatever happens. Squad is family; you know that.”
“Please, I’ve met your family.”
That made them smile. Neil’s family was a bunch of Irish drunks. He often joked