Double-Edged Detective

“She was most likely on her feet. Her attacker was behind her, chasing her.” Dave pushed the magnifier away and raised his arm, demonstrating. “He stabbed her with a downward motion. The blade entered between her shoulder blades, angling toward the right. He held on to the knife as she jerked and probably stumbled or fell. In any case, the blade exited at about a thirty-degree angle from where it entered.”

“That’s forking? I remember the term from Forensics, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a wound like that.”

“How many stabbing deaths have you investigated?”

“Only one—two years ago. The weapon was a fireplace poker.”

“Messy.”

“No kidding. Especially after Crouch got done with

it.”

Dave didn’t comment. Another point in his favor. Ryker wanted to bite his tongue. It was never good practice to talk about a colleague, present or former.

“This upside-down V is typical of a stabbing,” Dave continued. “It’s unusual for a victim to remain still while being stabbed.”

“What are those marks on the edges of the cuts?”

“The knife’s guard. The attacker struck with force. He buried the blade up to the guard. It bruised the skin.”

“The guard? Is that like the hilt?”

“Yep. Hilts refer to swords, but it’s the same thing. It’s always good to have those marks on a wound like this. If I had a weapon to compare it to, that contusion could give us a match.” Dave pulled the magnifier down again and peered through it. “Now I need to concentrate.”

“Sure. I’ve got to write up my report. Let me know as soon as you know anything.”

“Definitely.”

As Ryker pushed open the door, Dave called out to him.

“Oh, Ryker, your victim had breast cancer.”

“Yeah?”

Dave nodded. “Double radical mastectomy, and evidence of radiation.”

“Is that relevant?”

“Hard to say. I’m curious to see if they got it all, and how much of the lymph nodes they got. I’ll order her medical records, and take a biopsy, just in case.”

“Thanks, Dave.”

Ryker headed to the precinct and wrote up everything he’d seen and done at the crime scene. Then, in a different document, he wrote his impressions of the murder, and how it fit his theory of a serial killer, from the date to his concern that the weapon used could be Nicole’s missing knife. He included Dave’s information about Jean Terry’s cancer, although he had no reason to think it had any bearing on her death.

Twice he was interrupted by phone calls. The first was from one of the deputies who’d run the kid in the other night, telling him that the boy was seventeen, had no priors, not even as a juvenile, but that he’d given them a tip that helped in a drug ring case they were trying to put together.

“Great,” Ryker had said. “Glad to help. Do me a favor and get your sergeant to tell my boss, will you?”

The deputy had laughed and said he’d try.

Then, before Ryker could get back to work, his twin brother, Reilly, called.

“Hey, old man.” Reilly’s nickname for Ryker referred to the fact that Ryker was older by seven minutes.

“Kid. What’s up?”

“I heard about the murder. Another notch on your serial killer’s belt, eh?”

“Yeah. I’m hoping this one will give me something concrete I can take to Mike.”

“Maybe so. Did you see Mom’s e-mail?”

“Nope. Been a little busy to follow the Delancey soap opera.”

“Well, it did ramble a bit, but the gist was reminding everybody about the anniversary barbecue.”

Ryker winced at Reilly’s implication. Their mother tended to ramble when she drank, whether talking in person, on the phone or via e-mail.

“I haven’t forgotten about the party.”

“Well, take a look at her message. She’s changing the date because Dad’s got to meet with his parole officer on their anniversary.”

Ryker cursed under his breath. How many ways could his dad’s skewed loyalty interfere with all their lives?

“I’ll check it,” he growled.

“So, you going to bring a date?”

“What do you think? If I can’t even check my mail, when do I find time to date?” Ryker tried to ignore the mental image of Nicole’s beautiful naked body that rose in his brain. “What about you?”

“Not only do I have no time, I have no prospects.”

“That’s sad, kid. Truly sad.”

“Yeah, well.” Reilly sent a few choice and colorful words across the airwaves.

“Same to you,” Ryker said, deliberately changing the subject from their dysfunctional family. “How’s SWAT?”

“Pretty slow right now. We’re doubling up on exercises and drills.”

“Good. See if you can learn how to aim better.” It was an old joke between them. Although they were identical twins, Reilly had inherited the sharpshooter gene. It was Ryker who’d had to work at his marksmanship.

“Right. Call me if you want me to take your handgun proficiency test for you.”

Ryker winced at the faint bitterness in his twin’s voice. Reilly had wanted the detective position that had been given to Ryker.

“Trust me,” Ryker said wryly. “You couldn’t shoot bad enough for them to believe you were me.”