Chapter Eight
Savannah, Georgia
Five a.m. was early for anyone. But for Detective River Chastain and his partner, it was damn early. A quick fifteen-minute drug raid at ten the night before had led to six arrests, several more leads, and four hours of processing and paperwork. Then he’d fallen into bed for two and a half hours of sleep before his cell had rung, news of a murder victim dragging him from slumber and out into the predawn.
River eased his smoke-colored Malibu into the alley behind a local theater, bits of debris crunching beneath the tires as it rolled to a stop. Just ahead, a parked police car’s lights sliced through the predawn darkness with flashes of blue and red.
He stifled a yawn, his jaw popping.
“Why do you think they called us in on this?” Dauscher rubbed a hand over his stubble-coated cheeks.
“Don’t know.” River set the car in park. “But it must be a pretty big deal since we just took down a meth house a few hours ago.”
“A few hours ago I was asleep in bed,” Dauscher grumbled. “Wendy wasn’t too happy about my cell ringing.”
The car keys jangled as River switched the engine off. “A detective’s work is never done.”
He looked through the windshield at the alley beyond, giving the outskirts of the scene a quick once-over. A dozen or so spectators had lined up for the show. No one appeared twitchy or nervous, but that didn’t hold much weight. They all needed questioning. If they were out on the street before five, they might have seen something.
“She was going to make me pancakes,” his partner lamented. He balanced a cardboard carrier with two cups of coffee on his knees while he juggled condiments for his drink. A commercial creamer yielded a soft pop just before he dumped the contents into one of the cups. A familiar and invigorating aroma filled the car. “Hot off the griddle, man. With butter melting on top, and syrup running down the sides of ten golden disks stacked in fluffy perfection.”
“Is Wendy a late sleeper?”
The big guy snorted. “Aren’t all women?” Pouring a second creamer into the cup, he stirred, the skinny wooden stick scratching against the cup’s sides.
River didn’t know about the mass population of women, but his ex-wife had always been up before the sun peeked over the horizon. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been the pancake-making type. More the packing-her-crap-and-leaving type.
“We get this done,” River said and pushed open the car door, “maybe you can get home in time for those hot cakes.”
“Sounds good.”
Closing the door, he paused to let the crisp morning air wash over his face, hoping it would take his sluggishness with it. But instead, it brought tightness to his jaw and the beginnings of a twist in his gut. Not a good sign.
“You want?” Dauscher held an oversized coffee out to him.
“Yeah.” Taking the cup, he took a swallow of the hot, bitter liquid as much to settle his nerves as for the caffeine jolt. This was his third day with the Savannah-Chatham Police Department, and already his gut was tangled tight. Not a good sign at all.
After Dauscher grabbed a couple sets of gloves and booties from the car, they ambled toward the crime scene. River noticed the location of the police tape along with the lone officer handling the spectators—several who held up cell phones, taking pictures or videos they probably planned to post on the Internet. “Don’t these guys know how to rope off a crime scene?”
Dauscher wagged his head. “Doesn’t look like it.”
“You push back the line. I’ll take the mess.” River shoved through the group of spectators, flashed his badge at the attending cop, and ducked under the yellow police tape. Dauscher followed, pausing to tell the officer the yellow line and people behind it needed to move farther back.
“Don’t know why we bothered.” Dauscher joined him. “Any evidence left has already been trashed.”
“We might get lucky.” River bent to put on his forensic booties then scanned the back wall of the movie theater. Brick and mortar. Savannah was all about preserving the past, which meant the wall was probably original. As he straightened, he glanced to his right. A row of businesses lined the opposite side of the alley. The construction displayed similar brick and doubtless laid by the same hands.
“Shortens the list of potential witnesses.” Dauscher followed River’s gaze to the second story. “But unless someone worked most of the night and just happened to look out one of those windows, we probably won’t get much.”
“Probably not.”
“Still.” Dauscher took out his notebook, flipping it open to make a note. He held the pad and coffee cup in one hand while he wrote with the other, his casual manner suggesting he’d done it a few times. “I’ll get a couple guys to ask around. You never know.”
“Might get lucky.” River checked to see if the officer had moved the gawkers back, but it seemed the guy was struggling against the growing crowd.
Grimacing, Dauscher turned to two uniforms who stood chatting near the theater’s rear entrance. “Why don’t you two go help with the mob?”
The dark-haired guy shrugged. “Owens has it under control.”
“Yeah. He doesn’t need us,” the older one chimed in, not bothering to hide the smirk on his round face.
“Seems I recall reviews coming up again.” Dauscher’s eyes narrowed. “Wonder how many asses the captain’ll kick when he gets wind of how a bunch of spectators trampled the evidence at a crime scene?”
His well-aimed words seemed to do the trick. Without further comment, the two hustled to handle the situation.
Dauscher stepped back, a devious gleam lighting his face. “Owens told me it was his first week on the job. No need making it a complete living hell.”
River grinned. Give ’em hell, Theo. Easy going most of the time, but mean as hell when necessary. The big guy did what needed to be done and did it by the book. Within less than a week as partners, Theodore Dauscher had earned his respect as a law officer and fellow human being.
“We should talk to the witness who discovered the body.” Dauscher gestured toward the guy sitting on the theater’s rear entrance steps.
River crossed the alley. “Detectives Chastain and Dauscher. What’s your name?”
“Pete.” The young man raised his head. His shadowed eyes indicated the indelible memories of something he should never have seen. “Peter Kensington.”
“You talk to anyone yet, Pete?” Dauscher said.
The young man nodded. “One of them.” A shaky hand peeked from beneath the blanket wrapped around his shoulders and pointed toward the officers near the dumpsters. “Don’t remember which. Sorry.”
“No problem,” Dauscher assured him.
“Why not just tell us what you saw,” River suggested.
Pete shrugged in a motion of hopelessness. “Came in early. To clean. Organize. Went to take out the garbage, and there she was.” Lifting his chin, he peered up at River, his eyes glassy with memory. “She just lay there, you know? Not moving. Not doing anything. I ran back inside. Called 911. Been here since.”
“So, you knew her?” Dauscher flipped open his notebook and performed his balancing act with his coffee. “What was her name?”
“Penny Newhouse. She drives….” His face filled with an abrupt mixture of horror and surprise. “I mean she drove a horse and carriage. Did tours. History. Ghosts.”
“Lived here all my life,” Dauscher said, “and still haven’t done one of those tours.”
“I asked her out,” Pete murmured. “She was nice, you know? But we never went.”
“Anything else you can tell us about her?” His partner drew a line across his notepad. “Family, places she went, friends she hung out with?”
“I’m not sure about family or friends. But I know she was a SCAD student.”
“Savannah College of Art and Design?” River clenched his jaw. That opened a huge list of possible suspects.
The kid nodded. “She was a Fashion Design major. I met her at the student center about a month ago, I guess. That’s pretty much all I know.”
River patted the guy’s shoulder. “Thanks for talking with us.”
“I can go?”
“Yes,” River said, and Pete rose onto shaky legs to open the theater’s rear entrance door. “By the way. What’s your major?”
He paused, twisted toward them. “Film and Television.”
“Of course.” Dauscher made a note.
The door closed behind Pete with a sharp click. The kid’s story sounded reasonable. And his distraught expression and reactions seemed to corroborate his words.
River took a gulp of coffee. He needed a few moments in preparation for the next part. Penny Newhouse. Just thinking of her prompted the knot in his stomach to double in size.
“Hey.” Dauscher’s eyes cut to the right. “What the hell?”
River turned toward the distinctive grind of a zipper. A steel gurney stood next to the dumpster, awaiting a passenger. The rear doors to the coroner’s van stood open. Someone had been busy while he and Dauscher were speaking with Pete.
“Hey, hey.” The big guy was on the coroner in three long strides, grabbing the man’s arm and pulling him around. “What is this? Taking the vic before a proper inspection?”
“The site was shot.” The lanky coroner wrenched his arm free and pushed his tortoiseshell-framed glasses up his hawkish nose. “Standard procedure.”
“Did you not see us interviewing a witness, Curt?” Dauscher ranted.
Two officers placed the deceased on the gurney and stepped back.
“Look. I’ve already got three other calls, two across town, one on the far side of Tybee.” Curt placed his hands on the gurney, preparing to move it to the van. “And the day hasn’t even officially started.”
Dauscher moved between the coroner and his van.
“I’ve got to get her on ice.” Curt adjusted his glasses with one hand, the other on the gurney. “The photos’ll be uploaded.”
“Photos are so impersonal.” He gripped the edges of the stretcher, balancing his coffee between thumb and forefinger. “Detective Chastain likes the personal touch. You and your guys already moved the guest of honor.” He frowned and wagged his head. “At least let him give some consideration to her.”
The coroner glared at Dauscher, but the bulldog detective met him head-on. The standoff lasted less than five seconds.
“Okay.” Huffing in frustration, he straightened. “You got ten.”
His partner nodded.
“Bennett,” Curt barked toward the rear doors of the van. “Run down to the corner. Get us some coffee.” He pulled a clipboard from a bin and sat down to do paperwork.
River moved next to his partner. “So that’s the coroner.”
Dauscher shrugged then handed him a set of gloves. “He’s okay once you get to know him.”
“I’m sure,” River said. The quick twitch of his partner’s cheek told him the smoothness of his sarcasm hadn’t been missed.
From behind the truck, the coroner’s assistant hurried off on the errand. Something about the gangly figure caught his attention, and he glanced a second time. But the guy kept to the shadows.
Dauscher elbowed River. “Alrighty, Detective, let’s meet our vic.”
As River pushed his hands into his latex gloves, the deep grumble of the zipper brought his focus to the black body bag. His partner unzipped the large plastic bag holding the remains of Penny Newhouse and pulled the full-length oval flap back. The white sheet used to cover her had shifted, leaving her head and shoulders exposed.
The first thing River saw—the first thing he always sought out—was the victim’s face. Maybe he needed to imagine what the vic had been like before death. Maybe it personalized the case for him. Could be it helped create a critical connection, enabling him to find the murderer each and every time. Or maybe it’s all bullshit and I just see the face first because that’s where I look. No rhyme. No reason. No supernatural hero powers. I just see what I see.
This time, River spied wavy brown hair. Gray and white eye shadow had been evenly applied along with slightly smudged black eyeliner. Her full, coral-painted lips matched the color on her cheeks. She’d been a pretty girl who’d taken care with her appearance.
He brushed back a shaft of hair that had shifted over her face. His respectful act sparked a tense reaction in Dauscher, his edginess radiating like a space heater. River knew his partner had seen dead bodies, even touched them. But late the night before while on stakeout, the big guy had admitted dead bodies weirded him out. River understood. If he let them, the soulless husks weirded him out, too.
Penny’s eyes remained open, staring at nothing—at least not anything anyone earthbound could see. A distinctive red tinge stained the whites, surrounding her green irises. She’d been strangled.
“That’s some serious bruising.” Dauscher’s stubby finger indicated Penny’s throat.
“Yes, it is.”
“Rope?”
“No.” River leaned closer. “The bruises are shallow and broad like a rope, but the edges are too clean. See? Blood’s been brought to the surface where it cut in. Straight lines, but it’s clean in between.”
“So, maybe a belt?”
“Could be.” River’s gaze trailed over the center of one of the bruise lines. “But it would’ve had to come from a pretty large man. It was wrapped around her neck three times. He would’ve still needed something to hold on to so he could pull.”
“Guess it’s a possibility.” Dauscher rubbed his jaw. “But a girl this pretty? She wouldn’t let some Sumo guy get near her much less wait around while he removed his belt.”
He glanced up. “Not exactly how I’d have stated it, but yeah, probably not.”
His partner snorted and took a swig of coffee.
River straightened just as Dauscher held out his empty hand. River surrendered his cup. He’d been partnered with the man for less than a week, and already he anticipated his actions.
Next came the part that was both professional and personal. The part that helped him solve crimes. Because, even though the pictures had been taken and the vic bagged, River still needed to touch the body. The murderer touched her. I’ve got to touch her, too.
It wasn’t like Penny would whisper the name of her killer in his ear—were it only so easy. Somehow, the physical contact forged a distinct connection between him and the elements of the case, giving him a unique insight. Hell, he didn’t understand how it worked himself.
He reached inside the body bag, his fingers brushing against Penny Newhouse’s skin. A sharp electric tingle invaded his hand, a million straight pins impaling his fingers and palm.
“What the—?” River yanked away from the bag.
“You okay, Riv?” His partner’s grumble held concern.
His stomach lurched, acid rising in his throat. The ground pitched beneath his feet. The knot in his gut grew, squeezing the air from his lungs.
“River?” Dauscher grabbed his shoulder, his firm grip grounding him and setting the world aright.
“Yeah. I’m fine. Just tired,” he lied. What the hell just happened?
“I hear you.” He offered River’s coffee to him. “Maybe this’ll keep you from falling asleep on your feet.”
He took the cup, forcing his hand steady. In two gulps, he emptied half the contents then took a moment to catch his breath. He’d never had a reaction to a vic. A connection, yes. But not a physical reaction. Not like this.
The immense knot remained in River’s gut but loosened its hold on his lungs. He glanced down at Penny Newhouse. He still needed to inspect the corpse. And time was limited.
He handed his cup back to Dauscher, steeled himself then reached into the body bag for Penny’s hand. When he touched her, the sharp tingle returned, but he’d prepared for it this time.
Her skin felt unnaturally cool, her fingers stiff. Inspecting her palm first, he found it well shaped with light abrasions. The fingertips were purple but otherwise unremarkable. He turned her hand over. Long fingers ended with several broken nails painted a deep shade of pink. He leaned closer.
“Trace under the nails?” Dauscher asked.
“Unless the murderer was careless, it’ll be Penny’s.”
“How can you be so sure?”
He showed him the dead girl’s hand. “Broken nails.”
“So, she fought back. She could’ve tagged him in the struggle.”
“She was struggling all right.” He pointed to her neck. “To breathe.”
Dauscher moved closer to the gurney for a better view.
“The scratches and bruises above the garroting lines?” River tapped the jagged nail on the vic’s index finger. “Made by Penny herself while she clawed at whatever was wrapped around her throat. At least until she passed out from oxygen deprivation.”
“Damn.” He drew the word out as he squinted at the deep purple lines on her neck.
River placed Penny’s hand back inside the body bag. He lifted the bottom of the sheet up to her thighs.
“Check out her knees.” River indicated the cuts and dirt. “She’s been dragged from somewhere. Probably still clothed or at least still had her shoes on. Otherwise, her feet would’ve been cut up and bruised, too. This might be her final resting place, but this isn’t where she died.”
“He strangled her, dragged the body here, and dumped it. Then what? Stripped her down?” Dauscher frowned. “Maybe he took the clothes to hide trace evidence.”
“Most likely.” River reached for the sheet, intending to expose the torso for examination. But his hand stayed just above the cotton fabric. The knot in his gut intensified in warning, and for the first time in his career as a detective, he wanted off the case.
Something about Penny Newhouse’s murder set every nerve in his body on edge. His skin prickled. Severe dread seeped into his chest, like roiling waters after a torrential storm, threatening to drag him under.
He shook his head, focused, and yanked back the sheet.
“Damn,” Dauscher drawled. “Slice and dice.”
River stumbled back from the gurney, his gaze locked on the mess that used to be Penny’s chest and abdomen. Ah, shit.
“You finished with your inspection, Detectives?” The coroner ambled to the head of the gurney.
“What do you know about the vic?” Dauscher said.
Curt pushed up his glasses and threw his shoulders back. “Penny Newhouse. According to the witness, she was between twenty and twenty-three years of age and a SCAD student. Apparent cause of death is asphyxiation due to strangulation, after which she was mutilated with a sharp object such as a non-serrated knife. The cuts are clean but deeper than what a scalpel would’ve produced.”
“What about—?” River cleared his throat so his voice didn’t sound thready. “What about the internal organs?”
“Interesting question, Detective Chastain.” Curt tilted his head. “On initial inspection, I found one organ missing.”
“Out with it,” Dauscher growled. “Don’t keep us in suspense here.”
“Her heart.” The coroner rounded on the detective, one of his eyebrows rising above his glasses. “Her heart is missing.”
River’s jaw clenched. His stomach twisted into a writhing ball of snakes. Too close. This is way too similar to what happened in Texas.
Curt tapped at his watch. “You finished with her?”
“River?” Dauscher turned toward him.
He tore his focus from Penny. “Yeah.”
“We’re done.” Dauscher nodded. “Thanks, Curt.”
The coroner snapped the sheet over the woman and zipped the plastic body bag closed. Wheeling the gurney to the van, he pushed it inside, the steel legs jackknifing closed.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” His partner stared at him. “Here.”
River took the coffee he offered and downed the remaining contents in a single swallow. The guy would never know how close to the truth he was. “Thanks.”
Dauscher skimmed his notepad. “Okay, there’s the huge X sliced across her torso. The single stab wound above the X. The missing heart. Looks like satanic ritual.” After scribbling a note, he glanced up, his eyes dark with worry. “Hey, I hate to bring this up….”
River’s stomach flipped. “Then don’t.”
“I have to.” Dauscher shook his head. “The cutting, the missing heart. There’s a lot of similarities to the case you worked on out in Texas.”
“Yeah.” His throat tightened, the damned memories jumbling in his head.
“But the perp is dead. So, this must be a copycat.” He shrugged. “This area breeds that kind. I mean, with all the ghosts and murders and stories floating around here. What do people expect?”
Yeah, he’s gotta be right. Kent is dead. He forced his breathing to even. A ritualistic slaying didn’t mean another Valentine Killer was on the prowl. Satanic cults performed murders in similar fashion. “Where was the body found?”
“Over there.” Dauscher pointed toward a shadowy corner near two battered dumpsters. “CID already photographed the scene while the body was there, so we’re clear.”
Walking across the alley, River pulled out his flashlight and turned it on. He scanned the ground, searching for anything the killer had left behind.
“Looks like he just dumped her here,” Dauscher said.
“I agree.” River knelt for a closer inspection of the damp asphalt. “Not enough blood.”
“Yeah. Someone cuts her up and takes her heart out, that’s going to make a huge mess.” Dauscher glanced around the area. “So, assuming it was just one guy, he’d need a place where he could take his time.”
“That’s what I’m thinking.” He grimaced. It made sense. The Valentine Killer had a cave out in the scrub of the Texas Hill Country where he’d taken his victims. All eight of them.
“He takes our girl there, lights some candles, says some gibberish, and keeps her heart as a souvenir.” His partner scribbled as he spoke. “Then he washes up and drops her here for us to find.”
“Did they search the dumpsters?”
He gestured toward the huge green waste bins with his pen. “CID cleaned them out. Carried everything out in bags.”
River nodded. The Criminal Investigation Division would go through every scrap of garbage, searching for evidence. If the killer had left anything behind, they’d find it.
“Other than a little blood and Penny’s body, the site looks clean.” Dauscher flipped his notebook closed then stuffed it into his jacket pocket.
“Hopefully, we can get some evidence off the vic or from the trash. Prints, epithelial, a stray fiber.” River flashed his light across the brick wall above where the body had laid. Brick and mortar. He should have been relieved, but the knot in his gut remained taut. Ah, shit. Another eighteen months chasing another serial killer? He cast an eye over the area one last time then rose. “Maybe we can close this one quick.”
Grunting in agreement, his partner lifted his cup to drink but stopped. “I’m empty. I saw a diner on the corner. Why don’t you get us refills, since I bought the last round? I’ll get a couple boys in blue set up to canvas the area. Maybe we’ll catch a break.”
River took the empties, planning to drop them in a garbage can at the shop. When he reached the police tape, he removed his booties, handed them to the attending officer, then called to Dauscher, “Two creamers?”
“Make it three in the largest cup they got.” Dauscher walked toward three officers. “I’ll get the gawkers lined up. We’ll interview them together when you get back. We’re going to need the extra caffeine for this one. If you can, bring the pot.”