examine the body for trace evidence. At his request, she had been at the crime scene the night before, too. Eunice was the best, and Alves couldn’t risk one of her newer criminalists missing an important piece of evidence.
“Find anything yet?” Alves asked Eunice.
“Nothing.” She was all business today. None of the usual harmless flirting, not during an autopsy, and certainly not in front of Belsky. She walked over to another metal table where she had laid out John Doe’s clothing on large individual sheets of brown paper torn from a roll. As always, she was careful to keep each item separate for further analysis and storage. “I gave these a visual inspection before I removed them. I’ll go over them more thoroughly with an alternate light source when I get back to headquarters.” She rested her hand on a duffel bag at the end of the table. “I brought a portable light to go over the bodies before Belsky starts cutting.”
Alves watched as Mooney made his way to the autopsy table. The victim’s skin was discolored, taking on a greenish-black pattern, and his face and abdomen were swollen. He looked worse than he had the night before on the hill. Other than the damage caused by decay, Alves didn’t see any signs of trauma, except for the single bullet hole in the center of his chest. He hoped they’d recover a bullet inside him that wasn’t too damaged. A ballistics match could be another piece of evidence linking this case to the earlier homicides and eventually to a suspect.
“Is this the kid from Franklin Park last night?” Mooney asked the obvious question, not making any assumptions.
The medical examiner nodded. “John Doe. Jane’s in the other room.”
Alves’s BlackBerry vibrated. He removed it from his belt. “Alves,” he said. He mouthed the words “Sergeant Pratt” to Mooney and headed toward the window. Pratt did all the talking and Alves listened intently. It was news that he was hoping for, news that he needed to move forward in the investigation, but news that he dreaded. When Pratt was finished, he hung up on Alves without a good-bye.
“What is it?” Mooney asked.
“They think they’ve got an ID on the vics. Courtney Steadman and Josh Kipping. A couple of BC students who haven’t been seen since Saturday night. Their friends didn’t think anything at first. But when they saw the news reports this morning, calls started coming in. Pratt sent some cars out to their parents. They’re on the way to make a formal ID.” It was too bad IDs were made only through photos now. Parents were deprived of the opportunity to give their children a final hug, a kiss, the chance to run their fingers through their children’s hair one last time.
“Where’s the girl?” Mooney asked.
“What do you need from her?” Belsky asked, not much of his face visible beneath his safety glasses and mask.
“We think these victims may be related to some homicides from ten years ago,” Alves said. “Sarge was involved with the original investigation. We need to see the female to confirm that we’re dealing with the same killer.”
The ME led them into the adjoining autopsy room.
“We’re going to need you guys, too,” Mooney said to Eunice and the photographer.
The girl looked just as bad as the boy, her body showing signs of deterioration, her eyes open and covered with a cloudy, opaque film. He wondered if she really was Courtney Steadman. He prayed that she wasn’t, for her parents’ sake. But then, what did it matter? Someone’s parents were going to be devastated. For a moment Alves was back on the hill where he had seen her the night before, staring into his eyes, begging for help. She looked even worse now, lying naked on a cold steel table. A final indignity before being cut open, no longer human, just evidence.
Alves followed Mooney’s lead and put on a pair of latex gloves. Alves helped roll her onto her side and Mooney lifted the braid of long black hair off the back of her neck. He sorted through the hair at the base of her skull. Then he stopped.
Mooney shifted his body so Alves could see the base of the girl’s skull.
She had been stamped with black ink.
“Is that the Yin and Yang symbol?” the photographer asked.
Mooney nodded. “It’s called the Tai-ji.”
“What does it mean?” Eunice asked.
“It means we’re not dealing with a copycat,” Mooney said as he gently lowered Jane Doe’s head to the table. “I need to