A Dangerous Game

She turned to head into the kitchen and almost plowed into a man.

He was about six foot two in height, sturdy in build. His eyes were almost like coal; his facial hair was dark, as well, though his head was shaved clean.

He appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties. She was certain that he would speak to her in a foreign language.

He did not. When he spoke, his English was perfect. Unaccented.

“I’m so sorry. I believe I nearly knocked you over.”

“No, my fault,” she said quickly. “Excuse me. I have to get more soup.”

“Of course,” he said.

She hadn’t seen him working the food bank—but neither did he seem like someone who would be in the food line.

But she’d seen other people there today who had come to see about hiring help for restaurants or other venues. There was some job placement support through the organization, who vetted possible employers so that no one was hired illegally or put in a position where they might find themselves deported.

Maybe this guy had a swanky restaurant somewhere and was looking for servers, cooks, busboys or -girls, and dishwashers.

There were all kinds of agencies to check up on what people were really doing, and they were ready, willing and able to connect people. But at the soup kitchen they only stepped in if their help was requested, since if they asked questions about the hungry men and women who visited, they might be scared off—and then not feel comfortable enough to come back.

Kieran headed into the kitchen, smiling at the mustached chef from a SoHo Italian restaurant, who offered her another big pot of the soup.

They chatted for a minute, then she turned to bring the soup out to be served.

The dark-haired man was watching her. He didn’t look away. He smiled, and it wasn’t an entirely nice smile. Then he headed out of the facility.

Kieran felt a shiver race through her.

Who the hell was that man? And who were the women? Had they really been whispering about her, watching her?

Should she trust her gut that something was not quite right? Or did she just need to get over herself?

CHAPTER FOUR (#u4d333f40-3d95-52fe-95c4-3a3e89b9b138)

The Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, or OCME, for New York City handled thousands of cases a year. Between Manhattan and the other four boroughs of the city, the population was massive, sitting at about eight and a half million, and in a population that size, quite a lot of people died.

Bodies weren’t brought in just because of murder; anyone who’d died alone was brought to the OCME, as were those who passed from accidental death or suicide. There were thirty-plus full-time medical examiners working for the OCME, along with another sixty-plus assistants and a multitude of support staff, such as forensic pathology, photography, criminology, lab work, tech, clerical and more.

With that kind of personnel, Craig hadn’t been expecting that the ME working the case would be someone he knew well. To his surprise, Dr. Anthony Andrews walked into the reception area to meet with them.

He, Mike and Detective Larry McBride had recently worked together during the “perfect” killings that had gripped the city. Young, energetic, detailed—Dr. Andrews was damned good at his job. Though Craig didn’t think there was much that the ME could say that would help catch the killer, he was still glad that this particular doctor was on the job.

“No one saw anything?” Andrews asked after greeting them. “She was stabbed in broad daylight—and no one saw anything?”

“The best I can figure it,” Craig said, “she was hurrying down the street. She was heading in an easterly direction. She had just shoved the baby into Kieran’s arms and fled the office. Kieran was running after her. She was, at tops, a block behind. Remember, it was rush hour—and that can mean a gridlock of people.”

“Someone snuck up behind the victim,” Mike said.

“Someone who must have followed her to the offices of Fuller and Miro,” Craig said. “The killer moved fast. Partner, you mind?” he asked Mike, taking him by the arm to move him around in front so that Craig could mimic the stabbing as he pictured it had to have happened.

He came up quick, hand strong on his imaginary knife.

“Then,” Mike said, arching, as if he had a knife in his back, “she swirled around. Possibly trying to face her killer.”

“But,” Craig said, “the killer delivered the knife without missing a stride and just kept walking.”

“Kieran said there were no screams—not until she reached the woman and screamed herself. She’d already called the cops and me...there was an officer in uniform there in a matter of minutes and a detective on the scene within ten. I arrived just about the same time as the detective.”

“That would be Lance Kendall—he should arrive momentarily. In the meantime, we’ll proceed as scheduled. One would think that the dead would wait patiently—which they do. However, their loved ones tend to be very emotional and impatient, so we do try to keep up. If you’ll follow me?” Dr. Andrews requested.

Craig was far too familiar with the OCME. The Manhattan offices were close to the FBI building which, in a way, made it too easy to be present for an autopsy, even when it certainly wasn’t always necessary.

Mike must have been thinking along the same lines.

“You know the French Revolution?” he asked Craig softly.

Craig glanced over at him. “Well, I know something about it. I’m not sure I’d want to teach a course on it.”

Mike nodded sagely. “They say that those who had to die, well, they were nobles, and thus they had to behave nobly—and so they went nobly to the guillotine. Madame du Barry screamed and cried and had a fit, and then the people saw how ugly it was. It was only after that they—the people as a mass—began to protest the sanctioned murders.”

“Good thought,” Craig murmured. “We’ve seen enough death. We could have left the autopsy to Lance Kendall.”

“No, I know you. We had to be here no matter what. It just always takes me longer than I’d like to get rid of the feel of this place.”

That was something Craig understood. They worked hard at the morgue—very, very hard. Every floor, every table, every instrument in the place was cleaned and cleaned again; antibacterial agents ruled.

And still the scent of death was strong.

They were offered paper suits and masks; two minutes later, they were in the room where there were actually two autopsies in process.

Their victim waited for them, tragically naked but clean, ready for the knife.

Anthony Andrews adjusted the mic he wore and cleared his throat. He identified their Jane Doe by date and circumstance and stated the date, his own work as the ME, Jerry Sanders as his assistant, and Mike and Craig as witnesses.

And he set to work.

Y incisions were, to the layman—and to Craig this many years into his work—little less than horrendous. The sound of the ribs breaking seemed extremely brutal.

But Craig was also passionate in his belief that the dead did speak. Autopsy was incredibly important. He believed in God or a higher power, and that when the soul was long gone, the body could no longer be hurt. But, it was still hard to watch sometimes.

The process today was the usual. Andrews and his assistant worked over the body. The organs were studied and weighed; samples of blood and stomach contents were taken.

Lance Kendall arrived sometime soon after the first hour. He stood as Mike and Craig did—still and listening. Craig hadn’t met Kendall before he’d arrived at the scene of the murder on Friday, though he did know many of the men with the Major Case Squad of the NYPD. At the crime scene, Kendall had been thorough and detailed—polite to Craig, and making no comments about not needing the FBI for a murder on the street. He was, Craig imagined, ambitious, but didn’t seem the kind to put ambition before results. Of course, Craig had no idea how the man felt about it all now that the case had been handed to a task force and the FBI was taking the lead.

“This is something you need to see,” Dr. Andrews said.

He was inspecting the corpse’s mouth.