The remaining skin on Christine Ryan’s torso tested positive for basic antibacterial soap. However, her arms and lower legs did not. Now, assuming the victim bathed as part of her bedtime ritual, the skin on her entire body should retain traces of the same antibacterial residue. Given that’s not the case, I think it’s safe to assume the killer himself wiped down the victim’s torso with a basic cleaning solution, most likely prior to the skinning process.”
D.D. frowned. “Like a surgeon would do? Preparing the skin for incision?”
“True surgical prep would involve ‘painting’ the incision site with an official prep solution, most of which are alcohol based. The skin on our victim was washed but definitely not treated with a prep stick.”
“So the killer made an effort to clean the target area but not sanitize it.”
“I believe so. Also, to finish answering your previous question, I didn’t find any traces of formaldehyde, so negative on a preserving agent.”
“Okay.”
“Though that doesn’t preclude the killer from attempting to preserve his trophy after the fact,” the ME continued, his voice warming to the subject. “A savvy killer could place the strips of skin in a glass jar containing a formaldehyde solution, or even dry the strips using a salting process. Really, the choices are endless.”
“Good to know.”
“You’re the one who asked.”
“Occupational hazard. So, to recap your findings: Our killer incapacitated the victim with chloroform, then asphyxiated her via compression. Then he removed the victim’s clothing and wiped down her skin with basic antibacterial soap, before he proceeded with the main event, which involved delicately removing long strips of skin from her torso and upper thighs. A process you believe may involve a scalpel. Then the killer exited the scene, after helping himself to some of the victim’s excised skin as a particularly morbid trophy. That sound about right?”
“Couldn’t have summarized it better myself.”
D.D., still thinking out loud: “Meaning our killer has some experience with surgery and/or prep, but also is comfortable with dead bodies. In fact, given the main elements of the crime occur postmortem, may even be most comfortable with dead bodies.”
“Jeffrey Dahmer?” the ME supplied. “Wasn’t he a necrophiliac who felt compelled to keep body parts from his victims? He claimed to be seeking the perfect lover—one who could never leave him.”
“Except last I heard, our two victims didn’t show signs of sexual assault?”
“No evidence that I could determine.”
D.D. nodded to herself, then remembered to speak into the phone. “Okay, this has been most helpful.”
“You’ve identified the killer?”
“Not yet, but I have an idea of possible occupation.”
“You’re going to investigate hospitals and/or medical schools?”
“I’m going to have Neil pursue hospitals and/or medical schools. Personally, I’m going to check out funeral homes.”
The sensible thing to do would be to wait for Alex to return home after work. He could assist with proper wardrobe, then help load her into the car. But D.D. wasn’t feeling sensible. She was feeling stubborn, not to mention as resentful as hell toward her arm, shoulder, Melvin. She was a strong woman. An independent woman. And a detective on a case.
She would dress her own damn self and Melvin could stick that in his pipe and smoke it.
Melvin, of course, had other ideas.
It started when she tried to remove her scooped-neck yoga top. She went to pull the spandex top up over her healthy right shoulder and somehow twinged her left. Then there was the matter of trying to slide the shirt down her left arm, once she finally got it over her head, let alone the matter of sliding off tight-fitting black exercise pants. Definitely no reason to be using her shoulder muscles to shimmy down yoga pants, and yet her left arm burned in response and she could feel sweat starting to bead her upper lip.
It was as if the more she tried not to jostle her left side, the more every movement jarred her neck, shoulder, upper arm. She gritted her teeth, grabbed dark-gray slacks from her closet and determinedly stepped into them. Then began the painful process of yanking them up, inch by inch, with only one good hand. She finally got them slid over her hips, only to be stymied by the fastening button. She tried it four times without luck.
Oversize top, she thought wildly. Or a jacket. She’d wear a long top to cover the open waistband of her slacks; no one would be the wiser.
It made so much sense, she sat on the edge of her bed and cried.
She hated this.