A Deeper Grave

But he would never be Newt.

Inside, the house wasn’t permeated with the usual smells related to violence. No bloody metallic odor, no hint of gunpowder in the air, but there was the lingering essence of death—that distinct uneasy impression that something bad had happened here. The living room, dining room and kitchen were one large open space. The furnishings likely cost more than the house. Every throw pillow was in place, every knickknack and piece of art expertly arranged. Two evidence techs were going over the space. Even the tiniest fragment of trace evidence could make all the difference to the case. Fortunately, MPD had a damned good forensic team.

A staircase went both up and down from the west side of the main living area, creating the three levels. The house sported ’70s style paneling, popcorn ceilings and parquet wood flooring. She imagined the Parkers hadn’t lived this modestly in several decades, if ever.

“The laundry room, a bathroom and a small den are next to the garage down there,” Devine said, indicating the seven or eight descending steps. “Three bedrooms and two baths are up.”

“Let’s see the bodies.”

Devine pointed to the second floor and Bobbie followed him up the carpeted stairs. She had a look at the first bedroom they passed. The purple walls were plastered with posters of rock bands and rap singers. The open doors of the closet showed a wardrobe of mostly black. Unlike the order she’d encountered so far, discarded jeans and sneakers were scattered across the floor. The laptop on the desk was open and displaying a stream of photos showing teenagers drinking beer and smoking God only knew what. Sweat formed on Bobbie’s skin as she crossed the room. The sixteen-year-old daughter’s bed was still made. Wherever Fern Parker was, she apparently hadn’t slept here. Maybe last night she’d decided to run away with a friend. Sixteen-year-olds were prone to impulsive behavior.

“Let’s put the laptop into evidence.” No one wanted to believe a child was capable of murder, but it happened.

“Yes, ma’am.”

While Devine called a tech up to the girl’s bedroom, Bobbie checked the closet and dresser drawers. She took a look behind the curtains and spotted what she had hoped not to find. Damn. Few teenagers went anywhere without their phones. “This may be her cell phone.”

Devine joined her at the window. He blew out a breath. “Damn. I missed that.”

Bobbie examined the phone. No text messages, no emails. “That’s why we always take a second look.” Even the best detective wasn’t infallible.

Devine reached for the phone. “We’ll start calling her contacts list now.”

Bobbie moved across the hall. The boy’s room was located opposite the sister’s. Blue walls and loads of Legos set the theme for the space. Shelves were crammed with books and superhero action figures. Bobbie reminded Devine to take the boy’s laptop into evidence, as well. If the younger Parker had a cell phone he hadn’t left it behind. Like the sister’s bed, this one hadn’t been slept in, either.

Down the hall the bathroom was clear. Bobbie hesitated at the open door to the parents’ bedroom. The room was elegantly decorated, the furnishings unquestionably from their former residence. The massive bed took up most of the floor space. Bobbie entered the room and moved closer to the bed. Both victims had been marked with what appeared to be blood on their foreheads. Heather was marked with an A, likely for adulteress. Nigel’s forehead bore a T, probably for thief. Both appeared to be sleeping peacefully but the ashen skin and blue lips belied the facade of serenity. Heather’s long blond hair spread across her pillow. She wore a lacy black nightgown. Nigel’s brown hair was tinged with gray along the temples and looked as if it had been neatly combed after he was placed in the bed. His upper torso was bare. A cream-colored silk sheet was turned down at their waists.

Bobbie drew back the covers to reveal the rest of their bodies. Heather’s gown hit the tops of her thighs. Her husband wore paisley print silk boxers. Beyond the strokes of blood on their foreheads, there was not a single speck of blood visible on the vics or the linens, no immediately observable physical injury. Not the first defense wound on their hands or arms.

Devine joined her at the bedside. “Brace yourself for what you’ll find under those high-end nightclothes. It’s been a day or two since I saw anything this bizarre.”

“Has the coroner given any preliminary conclusions on cause of death?” Her partner hesitated and she shot him a look. “I’m hoping your hesitation and that look on your face isn’t about me.”

Like everyone else, Devine knew her history. Poor Bobbie had been broken to pieces by a depraved killer who destroyed all that she loved. She still saw the looks and the questions in the eyes of some. Had time and all the surgeons and shrinks been able to put Bobbie back together again? She might never be the same woman again, but she was damned well as good or better at being a cop.

He shook his head. “It’s me.” Her partner passed a hand over his face. “The victims were taken to the garage. Based on the blood and...other stuff left behind down there that’s where the murders took place.”

Bobbie considered the couple posed in their bed. Heather was average height and had a slim build, but her husband was tall and likely weighed a good one-seventy-five or -eighty. The killer had to be strong enough to handle getting the bodies down to the basement, and then back up to the bedroom again. Otherwise they had two killers on their hands.

“Each vic,” Devine continued, “was disemboweled through a horizontal incision to the abdomen.” He tugged the waistband of Parker’s boxers down just enough to show a neat row of sutures. “All the organs were removed, including the lungs and heart. After the killer was finished, the incisions were closed, the bodies washed, dressed and placed as you see them now.” He gestured to the woman. “Hers is the same.”

A year ago Bobbie’s first inclination would have been to wonder what kind of sick animal would do something like this. Now she knew the answer all too well, so instead she asked, “Were the victims conscious during this procedure?”

“Don’t know yet. If so, there’s no indication of a struggle. The arterial spray patterns suggest their hearts were still beating at the time the primary incisions were made.”

Jesus Christ. “What tools did he use to do his work? Were they here already or did he bring them with him?” Her voice was steady when she spoke though her heart pounded a little faster. Cops weren’t expected to be immune to this kind of horror, but Bobbie’s actions were still under the microscope. She couldn’t afford the slightest outward indication of being shaken. “Are the organs still here?”

There had to be one hell of a mess in the garage.

“Whatever he used, he took it with him. I found a couple of steak knives in the kitchen but nothing that would do this with any efficiency.” Devine glanced at the victims as if he hated to discuss what was downstairs in front of the couple, and then he looked Bobbie straight in the eye. “The organs are here. He—whoever did this—took a bite out of each of the hearts.”

Bobbie surveyed the Parkers once more. Something about the MO felt familiar. Hadn’t she read about a similar case maybe eleven or twelve years ago? “We’ll need impressions made from the bite marks if possible.”

“Dr. Carroll mentioned that already,” Devine said.

“Seppuku.” The word rolled off the tip of Bobbie’s tongue as the old headlines flashed through her mind.

She had been in college—a sophomore if she remembered correctly. A serial killer had disemboweled his victims in a manner similar to the technique used in the Japanese samurai honor code ritual. The gruesome ceremonial death was carried out against those who, in his opinion, had shamed themselves. The killer had chosen victims from the local headlines—in Chicago maybe—who were suspected of gross wrongdoing. Bobbie vaguely recalled one had been a hedge-fund manager who stole from his clients—not unlike Nigel Parker. Another had been a teacher accused of having sex with two of her students—one of whom committed suicide during the trial.

“Wait.” Devine touched his forehead as if he’d experienced an epiphany, as well. “I remember that case. But the Seppuku Killer executed himself—” he shrugged “—ten or so years ago. He fell on his sword right in front of the detectives who’d cornered him.”

“His only shame was in being caught.” More of the details from those gruesome murders filtered into Bobbie’s thoughts. Like these, his victims had been posed in their homes or offices. She turned to her partner. “We should have a look at that case. I think he was active in the Chicago area. This may be a copycat.”

“I’ll make a call to Chicago PD.”

“Excuse me, Detectives.”

Bobbie’s gaze shot to the door where a uniform—Officer Leslie Elliott—waited. The younger woman looked pale despite her mahogany complexion. “You found something?”

“Officer Elliott,” Devine offered before she could answer, “was following up on the Parker children’s whereabouts.”

Elliott nodded. “The boy didn’t show up at his friend’s last night. They haven’t heard from him since yesterday afternoon. We just called the six contacts in the girl’s phone and not one of them has seen or heard from her since around ten last night.”

A new rush of cold slid through Bobbie’s veins. “Where’s the housekeeper?”

“She’s on the back deck,” Devine said. “She didn’t want to stay in the house.”

“Talk to her again,” Bobbie told her partner. “Since we can’t confirm the kids are okay we need to issue Amber Alerts. The killer may have taken one or both.” As Devine hurried from the room, Bobbie glanced at the other woman. “Good work, Elliott. Why don’t you show me to the garage?”

The officer’s shoulders squared and she nodded. “This way.”

Downstairs in the family room Devine had ushered the housekeeper back inside and the two were now seated on the sofa. Face crumpled in pain, Mrs. Snodgrass glanced at Bobbie as she and Elliott moved through the room. Bobbie wished she could provide some reassurance about the children, but at this point there was no way to know what to expect.

Best-case scenario the two had run away and hidden somewhere. Worst case...the killer had taken them.

A short hall at the bottom of the second set of stairs led past the laundry room–bathroom combo and a small den before exiting into the garage. As soon as Bobbie opened the door to the garage the stench of blood and feces had her holding her breath. In the two-car garage a refrigerator, its door ajar exposing the soft drinks and beer inside, stood in the storage area to the left of the steps. The paneled walls had been painted white long ago, age making them appear more off-white. One overhead light, a two-bulb fluorescent, flickered lending an eerie feel to the space.

A Mercedes SUV and BMW sedan were shoehorned side by side. Bobbie walked around the short wall that separated the parking area from the storage space. The first thing she spotted was the arterial spray on the dingy white wall. Streams of blood ran all the way down to the floor like crimson tears. Dr. Lisa Carroll, the coroner, was crouched near a large pool of blood.

“Be careful of the glass.” Carroll pointed to the fridge. “A beer bottle was dropped there. We haven’t gathered up the pieces yet.”

Bobbie glanced at the shattered brown glass. “I guess our perp got thirsty.”

“I imagine he did,” Carroll agreed. “This definitely took some time.”

Carroll and Bobbie had attended Booker T. Washington High School together. They’d never actually been friends, but Bobbie was happy to hear the younger woman had accepted the position left open by the retiring coroner last month. It was a part-time job and most of the doctors in the area didn’t want to steal the time out of their busy schedules. Carroll was hardly more than five foot two and probably didn’t weight a hundred pounds soaking wet. Back in school she’d been a wallflower and pretty much stayed to herself. Hard work and relentless determination had won her numerous scholarships. Bobbie wondered why a woman so focused and driven had chosen to be a general practitioner rather than a surgeon or some other specialist.

Carroll exhaled a big breath. “Well, everything appears to be here.”