Mike drove to the medical examiner’s office in Plattsburgh, wishing he could tell Bobbi Noelle that they had another potential victim, one they were having a hard time linking to Steve Pritchard, let alone an ex-boyfriend of hers. But he couldn’t. Not now. Plus, it wasn’t out of the range of possibility that this was some violent ex of hers; that he’d gotten into the wrong car and slashed up Harriet Fogarty by mistake.

Mike called the state police captain, Gary Walker, along the way.

“We could post someone near her residence,” Walker said, “but it would be a short-lived detail. Resources are tight, Mike. And as you know from zero hundred to oh five hundred all cars are double-manned. I can’t have two troopers sitting outside this woman’s house all night because she had a bad breakup.”

“How about a local guy? I’ll call Placid PD,” Mike said.

“Do that. If you can’t get anybody, call me back. We’ll figure something out.”

---

He reached the medical examiner’s office, turned in, and parked in one of the available slots. Overton was supposedly on her way. The body had been at the morgue for four days. He’d seen emails from the examiner, Bernard Crispin, on the external autopsy, and what he’d told Bobbi was sound – the victim had definitely faced her attacker at some point, given the wounds. It was hard to imagine a killer realizing he’d gotten into the wrong car and still completing the murder, but then, like Bobbi had said, maybe by then it had been too late to turn back.

In her picture on display at the memorial, Harriet was beautiful, her short dark hair blowing around her face, the woods out of focus behind her. Mike, something of a novice photographer, had asked Victor about the shot. Victor, who had been rigid and quiet since Friday, had thawed for a moment, explaining that he’d been the one to take it, a few years prior. “Mom always loved that shot,” he’d told Mike. “So when I suggested we blow it up and use it, Dad thought it was a good idea.”

Victor Fogarty struck Mike as a serious person, even outside the circumstances. He was twenty-eight, seemed highly intelligent, had a good job, and was about to marry a surgeon from Sloan Kettering. Mike hadn’t met her yet – she’d already come and gone, surgeries scheduled for the week. According to Terry Fogarty, Elizabeth, the fiancée, had attempted to move things around but Victor had implored her not to, to stick to things as they were, and she’d abided by his request.

“Come on in, Mike,” Crispin said from inside his office. The medical examiner had white hair, liver spots, eyebrows a bit unruly above half-rimmed glasses. He was pushing retirement, temporarily filling a vacancy after the previous pathologist had left. They’d met a month ago on another case – Crispin had worked in Chicago but moved back east after his wife became ill.

“Thanks, Doc,” Mike said, and took a chair.

“You want to see it?”

“I thought we’d just talk, if that’s alright with you.”

“That suits me fine. Haven’t had my lunch yet. You mind if I eat while we do it?”

“Not at all.”

Crispin opened the kind of lunch box Mike thought city construction workers might use: black, shaped like a mailbox. The doctor pulled out an unblemished apple, then a sandwich cut in a perfect diagonal – evidence, perhaps, of his exacting nature.

“Here’s the full report,” Crispin said, “external and internal,” and he pushed the file across his maple-topped desk. Behind him was a wall of books and there were copious plants in the office, making the place almost tropical.

“That a Boston fern?” Mike asked, looking.

“It is,” Crispin said with an approving raise of those considerable eyebrows. “They say it removes air pollutants.”

“I do a little gardening.”

Crispin took a bite of his sandwich and nodded. “That’s right,” he said after swallowing. “I heard that about you – you like your hobbies.”

“Not that the work doesn’t have me running. I have open cases right now – got one B&E I haven’t been able to crack since last October.”

Crispin nodded, swallowed, looking thoughtful. “I’ve always kept busy too. But I had this friend, Marcus, died a few years ago. Anyway, near the end, he said to me, ‘Bernie, take it slow.’ I sort of nodded, said, ‘Yeah, yeah,’ you know, like you do when someone tells you that life is short.”

Mike smiled, enjoying the sound of Crispin’s voice. Like his father’s used to be.

“Marcus says, ‘You never know when it’s going to hit you. But it hit me one day when my kids were all zipping around and jumping everywhere… and I just sat there.’ That’s what he says to me – ‘I just sat there,’ he says, ‘and I got it.’ He goes, ‘Otherwise, I was always on the move, and the whole thing went by in a blink, it went by too fast, and I wish I had more moments like that, just sitting there.’” Crispin chuckled. “So, what do I do with this pearl of wisdom? I get some plants. I figure, plants are slow. They’ll slow me down.” He paused and added, “I never had kids. You have any kids?”

“One. A daughter.”

Crispin nodded and took another bite, and with a mouth half full of food, waved his hand in the air. “Sorry; none of this rambling is why you’re here.”

“No, please,” Mike said, but he flipped through the file and scanned the external report first to refresh his memory.

He lingered over the line on the report where the number of knife wounds were indicated. Time to get into it. “Twelve is a weird number,” he said.

“You think?”

“I do.”

“You ever worked a stabbing before?”

“Two of them. People say a lot of things about stabbings.”

“People do.”

“That they indicate intimacy. That there’s pathology tied to the method.”

Crispin dabbed his face with a napkin. “Crime of passion. And what do you think?”

“I think a knife doesn’t necessarily indicate something significant in and of itself. Sometimes it’s just lack of access to a gun. But the number usually means something. Twenty, thirty stab wounds show a lot of anger – the passion you’re talking about. Only a few stabs might mean it was utilitarian. It depends on the victim, though. You’re trying to kill somebody with a knife, there’s a big difference if it’s a small person or some 250-pound guy with a lot of meat on his bones.”

Mike bent and read the report in more detail, noting the depth of the wounds and the differing classifications. There were more incised or “cut” wounds than there were stabs or punctures. It made some sense, given the killer’s position. And the depth of the three wounds classified as stabbings was important because it gave some character to the murder weapon.

“And then there’s the intent,” Mike said, half to himself, half to Crispin. “To what extent is inflicting pain the MO, to what extent is the death itself. Is this a display?”

“I wouldn’t think so,” Crispin said.

“A knife like this, death is going to require either precision or multiple stabs. Pain is guaranteed…”

He and Overton had gone over this a little already, and were searching for a jackknife with a six-inch blade. The murder weapon would have Harriet Fogarty’s DNA all over it, even if the killer wiped down the blood. It would be nice to locate Jamie Rentz and check out his collection.

“I feel like you have an idea,” Crispin said.

“Well, I’m anxious to hear your view on things,” Mike said. “But yeah, I’m wondering about the possibility this was a mistake. It’s just one angle we’ve got on this – that she’s an accidental victim – and I’m wondering if the evidence – this number, twelve knife wounds – supports that.”

Crispin nodded and Mike said, “But, whenever you’re ready. We can wait until after you’re done eating.”

Crispin shook his head. “Good to go. So, the first laceration we see is here, along her forearm.”

“Like he surprised her in the back seat, she tried to get away, and he took hold of her.”

“Probably that, exactly. He grabbed her arm then made a lateral incision, about three inches across, here.” Crispin dragged a finger across his forearm.

“The second incision began here,” he said, and pointed to his upper lip. He made a diagonal motion toward his jaw. “Four and a half inches.”

Mike remembered Terry sobbing when he saw his wife, the way she was disfigured. Victor had just stood there, his initial emotion hardening somewhere inside. “So by this point,” Mike said, “she’s facing him. Maybe looking at him. Can’t really reach around for this, right?”

“I would say no. Given the depth, the trajectory, this is head-on.”

“No sign of strangling, right?” Mike asked. “Nothing to show that he grabbed her neck.”

“Correct. No petechial papules, no bruises behind the ears, nothing like that. No involuntary urination, either. But we found some hairs were pulled.”

“So she’s trying to escape again,” Mike said, “and he does a downward stroke across her back, from her scapular, down at an angle. Then grabs her hair, yanks her back. What does she do? She reaches back, like anyone would…”

“Yes, exposing her underarm, where there was a deep gash.”

“She probably let go immediately. I know I don’t have to ask you…”

“Nothing under her fingernails but some of the same material we found on her arm which we sent to your lab; some type of leather. Maybe cheap leather, the kind you get at a department store. I’m sure you’re looking into that – sales of leather gloves in the area.”

Mike nodded. “Or they’re older gloves, sort of disintegrating.” His thoughts returned to the recreation of the crime. “He’s just sort of randomly striking, depending on where she is, but then he gets her neck, the fifth strike with the knife. He’s going for the kill here.”

“Severing the carotid.”

“There was blood everywhere,” Mike said.

“Yes. Her heart is really pumping, and that blood would be getting loose.”

“And you found that same material, the leather, on her lips. Probably, he clamps his hand over her mouth at some point when he goes for the neck, or maybe to stifle the screams… Okay but there are more cuts on her torso. You note here that you think these came after.”

Crispin said, “With this type of sharp force injury, mostly cut or chop wounds, these are the shallowest across her chest, her upper legs.”

“So it’s almost like she’s not dying fast enough for him. Or maybe there’s anger. Anger at her because of who she is, or maybe even anger that he’s made a mistake; she’s the wrong victim. I mean, to some extent, this is planned. Witnesses said they thought Harriet usually locked her car. I’ve suggested the killer programmed a second key fob, but that wouldn’t work if it was the wrong car… Maybe it’s just unlocked…”

“Maybe she knew the guy,” Crispin said, right on point.

“There’s that. Someone close enough to get her key fob, clone it, or maybe even someone who used a spare…” His mind wandered back to Pritchard.

“Or, I meant, she let him in.”

“Hmm. But if she knows him, why is he in the back seat? Someone you know, and you agree to talk, maybe give them a ride or something, they sit up front, not in back.”

“He wants to surprise her,” Crispin said. “Make her jump.”

“Unless there’s tension,” Mike said, still following the Pritchard thread. “Someone who knows her well enough to copy her fob, but not well enough he’d be invited into the front…”

And so now, he thought, Pritchard or whoever else is sitting there in the back seat. What’s he planning at this point? Take her somewhere? Force her to drive? Or just flat out kill her?

If he’s expecting to get her to drive somewhere, what’s he done with his own car? Is it sitting up on River Street, or not? Is it a white four-door sedan? Or is he on foot, like Pritchard, and Marlene Blackburn picks him up on River Street after the crime, swerving around a surprised real estate agent – Darlene Bilger – as they speed away?

The whole thing was a mess, in more ways than one. Mike flipped to the internal report, which had just concluded that morning. It showed the contents of Harriet’s stomach, among other things. She hadn’t eaten anything since lunch that afternoon. Her blood draw indicated no drug use. She was a healthy woman in her mid-fifties.

He closed the file and set it on the desk, looked across at Crispin, whose kind eyes held a glint, as if he knew what Mike was about to ask.

“Well, Doc, you’ve seen far more of this type of thing than I have, I’m sure…”

“You said on the phone you could be linking this to a disappearance; another caseworker. So, I’ll tell you – if this is a serial case, and I’ve seen a few of those, there’s usually a methodology, something repetitive the killer does. Is he a knife killer? Are you going to eventually find this other caseworker sliced up? I don’t know. Maybe more important – and I’m sure you’re asking yourself – is this going to keep happening?” Crispin shook his head, remorseful. “I’ve been at this for four decades, and I’ve never been able to wrap my mind around it.”

“There’s some thought that a killer like this, they had something happen, usually in youth. They were abused, maybe humiliated, and they carry it with them.”

Crispin scowled. “Or there’s something wrong with their neurotransmitters. They don’t have the same emotions. And so that’s why there’s the ritual. To make it special, because their brain doesn’t let them feel like it’s special, and they want it to be.”

Mike was silent, thinking, and Crispin said, “If these two women are linked… you know, you’ve got to look at it like the first one, she’s taken away somewhere, and if she’s killed, it’s in secret. This one, though, she’s left right there for people to see. It’s a deviation from previous methodology; it might be what they call, you know, a ‘quickening.’”

Mike looked out Crispin’s one window, flanked by two towering ferns. “So if there’s another one,” he thought out loud, “this guy’s liable to raise the stakes again. How? Multiple victims? Gun? Something else?”

Mike looked back at Crispin, realizing it wasn’t the doc’s job to figure out such things, it was his. “And you’ve found nothing on Steve Pritchard. No prints, no DNA, nothing under her fingernails.”

Crispin shook his head, no.

Such a mess. Even if Crispin said yes, and they had Pritchard nailed, Pritchard’s motive seemed personal and left out Lavoie. They had one definite victim, one potential victim, several possible motives, numerous possible suspects, and unless they found Lavoie or some physical evidence at Harriet’s crime scene, there was no way to narrow any of it down.

Crispin said, “He grabbed her, this guy, he was rough with her, but he didn’t leave many crumbs behind. I’d say he was young, maybe on the big side – but then, there wasn’t much to her: she’s 110 pounds. In my report I’m saying he’s right-handed. Which doesn’t help much either, I’m sure. You got nothing from her vehicle?”

“We’re running every test we’ve got. Sweat secretions, hair follicles, you name it. This guy, yeah, he’s strong. Either he’s bald with no sweat glands or he’s not in the system. There was a partial boot print that looks like a logging-style boot, the kind with a thick sole, raised heel. But…”

“Well, I’d say the whole thing took less than one minute, Mike. For the killing – I don’t know how long he waited in the car. And the car would have been hot.”

“Yeah, exactly.” Mike stood up, nodded at the file. “That’s mine?”

“Yes, sir, that’s your copy.” Crispin rose from his chair, showing his age a little when he winced at the effort. He reached a hand across the table and they shook. Mike started for the door.

“How long you been with the state police?” Crispin asked.

Mike paused with his hand on the doorknob and looked up, thinking. “Well, I’ve been with BCI for twelve years. I was a trooper before that for a while.”

“Haven’t wanted to retire yet?” Crispin asked. “I thought you had that option at twenty years.”

“You do,” Mike said. “But the longer I stay in, the better the pension, the better the benefits for Kristen.”

“That’s your daughter?”

“Yeah. Plus, you know…”

Crispin smiled. “Yeah, I know.”

“Thanks for talking to me on your lunch hour,” Mike said.

---

Outside in the heat, Mike called the Forensic Investigation Center in Albany to check in on the vehicle processing, hoping for something new. Nothing yet.

Lena Overton swung her car into the parking lot and got out. She was wearing a pair of reflective aviator sunglasses, hair pulled back, a light-colored skirt and jacket over her white blouse. Her shoes made crisp sounds across the parking lot as she came toward him.

“You’re all done?” Overton asked.

“Nothing revelatory from the internal, just what Harriet Fogarty had for lunch. We went over the wounds a bit.”

Overton looked in the direction of the medical examiner’s office, asking, “Anything Crispin say that puts Pritchard in place?”

“I’d be jumping up and down.”

“What about Perkins? Heard from tribal police yet?”

“Not since this morning. But he said they’re going to talk to Marlene Blackburn. And if there’s a knife in her place, or something, they’ll tell us. But…” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

She faced him, her eyes hidden behind the lenses. “You worried about something?”

“Ah, you know. They’re not obligated to help. And the Kahonsie are pretty effective at keeping their controversies contained. I got a little bit of a feeling.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Pritchard is an outsider, she’s an American Indian. If he was sleeping with her or something… you know? Anyway, if we don’t hear back from him later today I think we could at least drop by the casino where she works, talk to her there. The casino is outside the res.”

She tipped her head forward and clocked him over the ridge of her sunglasses.

Mike shrugged. “Yeah, I know – they like to be the ones policing the casino.” He turned over his hands. “I have no issue with that; state police have been letting them handle that area for years. I just want to confirm an alibi, maybe find a murder weapon. You want to get lunch?”

She just looked at him then pushed her glasses up with a finger.

“I’m buying,” he said. “Crispin was eating and made me hungry. We can continue arguing over burritos at Chipotle.”

“I’m not arguing. And I don’t eat burritos.” She started toward her car.

“Yes, you do.”

She stopped, looked over her shoulder at him. “What – did you pull my file?”

“Your burrito-eating skills are legendary.”

“Fine.” She reached her car, opened the door, stopped. “How about we take a drive instead?”

“Okay. Let’s take a drive.”

“Corina Lavoie went missing in Watertown. Her sister still lives in the house they shared. Let’s ride out, talk to her, talk to Detective Corrow. That’ll keep us busy while everyone does their work and we don’t have to get into a jurisdictional issue.”

“Hey, like I said, there’s no issue.”

“Mike?” Her eyebrows went up.

He asked, “We taking your car?”

“Get in.”

“Getting in, ma’am.”