The Silenced

Wong was a bright man in his early forties, clear and concise in his manner. He looked at Matt and nodded. “The throat was slashed. It would’ve taken the victim time to exsanguinate, and some of the slicing on the body was performed before death, but she was so heavily drugged that I don’t think she felt anything, including the slash to her throat.”

“I understand it was a right-handed killer,” Detective Hunter said. “That’s correct, Dr. Wong?”

Carl’s voice sounded scratchy. Matt understood. Carl was a good guy; they’d met during a few earlier cases. The man was a dogged investigator, putting in long hours. He was nearing retirement, but hadn’t slacked off in the time or determination he gave a case.

He’d seen a lot.

This was still hard to tolerate.

“Yes,” Wong said. “He was right-handed and very certain in his movements. No hesitation marks at all. The guy’s done this before.”

“Were any organs taken?” Jackson Crow asked.

“The tongue is missing,” Wong said. He cleared his throat. “Bits of organs are missing—but that’s because the ripping of the stomach caused pieces to...fall out.”

Matt leaned forward to see the atrocity Wong showed them, setting a hand on the dead woman’s shoulder as he viewed her ruined mouth.

Her shoulder was cold, cold as ice. It was shocking what the body felt like when life was gone, so still and cold, as if the soul, the very essence of what had been human, had flown and left emptiness behind. “Same as the victim found on the Maryland shore,” Carl Hunter said, turning to Wong. “I talked to Jared Welch from the Maryland force before I came in. People might say that cops are territorial, but we’re both glad as hell that the feds are in. God knows, we might have got into this thing first, but we haven’t come up with anything. Both bodies brought in with no purses, no IDs, hell, no clothes. Just unidentified bodies, naked and ripped to shreds. We don’t have any leads at all and this killer...has to be stopped.”

Wong told them, “I haven’t seen the first body yet, but I have the report. The other victim will be transported here. As you requested, Special Agent Crow, we’re treating them as murders committed by the same perpetrator or perpetrators.”

“Right,” Jackson murmured. “The taking of the tongue—it’s a definite signature. I’m afraid it suggests this killer isn’t finished yet. We’ll need every law enforcement officer in the area on high alert.”

Two dead in less than a month, Matt thought.

“But we haven’t matched her up with anyone?” he asked.

“We’re working on fingerprints and X-rays and hope to have something soon,” Wong replied. “As I said, I didn’t perform the autopsy on the first Jane Doe, but I’ve studied the sheets. To summarize, I can tell you that the murders were performed the same way. I believe both women were taken by surprise—since there appear to be no defensive wounds. They were drugged with an inhalant, and then—” he paused to show them the inner right elbow “—injected with propofol, a drug commonly used in surgery. Actually, our tox reports aren’t back yet, but that’s what was used on the Maryland victim and I’m betting this is going to be the same.”

“Interesting. So you think they were unconscious when they were mutilated?”

Wong nodded.

“That means he didn’t get off on the cutting,” Jackson mused. “And no sexual assault?”

Matt knew that the first victim hadn’t been raped or molested. Not as far as they could tell. While the bodies were badly decomposed, medical science could still provide them with evidence.

Wong shook his head. “No. Probably not. Doesn’t fit what we’re seeing here. I’d say the killer takes them, sedates them, rips them from stem to stern, stuffs the bodies with stones and tosses them. They’re found naked and heavily compromised by immersion in the water. As you can see,” Wong said, lifting the sheet, “she’s been nibbled on by many creatures.”

Matt could see—far too plainly.

“She was about five-six or -seven in life.”

“Long blond hair, five-six and a half,” Wong said.

“Almost identical to the first girl, according to the Maryland reports,” Carl offered.

“So, that’s his type,” Jackson said. “We’ll get the warning out. Press conference. I’ll ask you to handle it, Matt. Dr. Wong, please keep us apprised of anything new.”

They left the autopsy room, discarding their masks in the proper bin. Matt felt as if the smell of decomposition clung to him.

Carl paused in the hallway. “I’m not shirking,” he muttered. “I know this might be my last case, and I’ll be out there, working it as hard as ever. But... God, I hate cases like this. Like I said, we’ve got nothing, and until we get identifications, we don’t even have anyone to question. The killer knew what he was doing, disposing of the bodies. No trace on them—or not any that forensics has found as yet. Dump ’em in the river and you pretty well destroy any clue there might’ve been.” He paused. “We all know that some killers get away with it. I sure as hell hope it isn’t this guy.”

“We won’t let it be,” Matt said quietly.

Hunter nodded, but his expression was uncomfortable. “Gotta tell you, I don’t get the shakes easy. But...”

Matt was curious. Carl was as practical as a man could be. He seemed jittery, though, and Matt sensed that it was due to something other—something more—than the sheer horror of the case.

“What is it?”

“I got this awful feeling that she...that she looked at me when I first got to the scene. Impossible, of course. Her eyes...well, soft tissue. You saw...”

Matt glanced over at Jackson.

He’d touched the body. Whatever soul, whatever essence of life there’d been, was gone.

Carl shrugged. “I’m on it—task force, anything you need. I seem to keep saying this, but I’m glad you guys are in on this one. And no, we can’t let him be the one who got away.” He lifted a hand in farewell and hurried down the hall.

Jackson turned to Matt. “Right now, we have to be careful. Really careful. We need to get on the air, though. Say as little as possible,” he said. “But we need a warning out there. And we don’t know whether he might choose another type, so all women in the District and the surrounding area should be especially careful.”

“You don’t want the media folk at headquarters to handle this?”

“I think we need to take it from the start. I’ll arrange for clearance.”

Matt nodded. Headquarters had a division to deal with the media. But sometimes the Krewe worked on their own. He knew that he was often chosen to give press conferences because, according to Jackson, he had the all-American football player look. He could seem both stern and stoic—and, most important, trustworthy, reassuring to a worried public.

He wasn’t sure how anything about this situation could be reassuring; whether it was their usual kind of case or not, it was exceptionally disturbing.

And now he knew why the Krewe had been called in. Carl Hunter would’ve been careful about what he said and to whom. His own coworkers would have ribbed him mercilessly if he’d said that a corpse had looked at him. But somehow, he’d gotten that information through to the right people.

“When is the press conference?” Matt asked Jackson.

“As soon as we can organize it,” Jackson told him. “We’ll call an emergency task force meeting, bringing reps from the area. Meeting won’t take long. We don’t have anything to say yet. Then we’ll get on the air. You’ll speak, along with representatives from the DC police, Virginia and Maryland. You won’t be on the hot seat alone.”

Matt didn’t care about being on the hot seat; he was used to it. There was the truth—and there was the matter of telling the truth so that it afforded the greatest protection to the public while suppressing enough details to make sure law enforcement knew more than any kooks or would-be psychics out there.

They’d keep a lot quiet, he was assuming. Grotesque details did nothing but stir up sensationalism—and sometimes provide a killer with the notoriety he sought.

Jackson and Matt reached the big black sedan set for their use. Jackson let Matt do the driving. He was one of the best things about the unit, in Matt’s opinion. He was half–Native American and well aware of the diversity of people and beliefs around the country. He also had an aura of calm about him and an ability to listen to those who worked with him. He wasn’t a micromanager, and yet he expected the best from those around him. If he trusted you, it was with complete confidence.

Matt liked to believe he’d earned the man’s trust.

He also liked to believe that he was worthy of it. He thought he was; while their backgrounds were dissimilar, they were also much alike.

He wondered if Jackson’s thoughts were similar to his. Jackson grinned over at him and said, “You still don’t look much like a Native American.” Matt grinned in return. He was, like many, many people in the United States, someone who could actually trace his ancestry back to Pocahontas.

“A heritage sadly diluted by time.”