Detective Melissa Humble pulled her car into the Pattersons’ driveway for the second time that day, arriving even as the coroner’s van departed with the homeowners’ bodies. She got out of the car and started toward the house in search of Dr. Otto Rictor, a former medical examiner and the senior CSI officer on the scene.
She opened the farmhouse door and stepped inside. The odor of decay had diminished, but the grisly display of dry blood on the far wall left the lingering impression of death, even without Mrs. Patterson’s body present.
Melissa found Dr. Rictor stooped over the kitchen counter, studying various Polaroid photos of the bodies and jotting notes into a ledger. Earlier, he’d led the photographers throughout the house and garage, making certain every detail of the crime scene got captured on film.
Rictor glanced up and smiled when the door springs announced her entry, an act that caused the lines sprouting from the corners of his eyes to triple in number. He pushed his half-lens reading glasses higher up on the bridge of his pudgy nose and said, “That was quick. You weren’t even gone an hour.”
After contacting and questioning the victims’ remaining family—two sons, both living out of state—Melissa had gone out to check the surrounding farms, searching for anyone who had either seen or heard from the Pattersons prior to their deaths. “Feels more like three hours,” she said. “How about you, having fun yet?”
He frowned but it didn’t change the amicability in his eyes. “Just the other day I was telling my wife it’s been a while since I’ve had a real challenge. I should’ve kept my damn mouth shut. Coffee?”
Melissa laughed and leaned against the counter beside him.
He handed her a paper cup from Starbucks. “One of Cocoran’s finest did a java run. I figured you could use it. Soy mocha latte.”
“You know me too well,” she said. “So, what’s the challenge?”
Rictor marked his page in the ledger and motioned her toward the blood-streaked wall. “Take a look at this first.”
She followed, sipping the coffee while he indicated specific areas of the scene. His pointing fingers darted from one detail to the next like long-necked birds pecking at breadcrumbs.
Various pins and labels now marked the rust-colored bloodstains smeared over yellow and white wallpaper, blotting out intricate little pictures of barns and hay bales. The labeled pins, Rictor explained, identified which holes had been made by each of the items that pierced the victim’s body and embedded in the plaster wall.
“We found thirty-two knives out of the total amount of utensils lodged in the corpse,” he said, “but only six of those were long and sturdy enough to penetrate the body and hold it in place. Now, look at where those knives were located.” He placed himself in a stance similar to the one in which Mrs. Patterson had been found. The reconstruction wasn’t perfect; unlike the victim, his feet remained on the floor.
“We have two blades in each arm, one through her left trapezium muscle in the neck, and the other in her right shoulder. None of those stabs would be instantly fatal, and you can see how much blood there is on the floor and wall.”
“So, you’re saying that she was alive when it happened, that her heart was still pumping?”
“Correct.”
“What about the other utensils?”
“Superficial anterior musculature damage. That many wounds would’ve killed her in time, no doubt, but the true mortal blow came from one of the cooking spoons in the eye sockets, which happened last, as indicated by the blood loss.”
“And there were no other traces of blood throughout the house?”
“None that we could find. We’ve used Luminal and ultraviolet light on some of the rooms, but nothing’s turned up. We’ll have to wait until nightfall to do the property, of course, but I’m not expecting to discover any new areas of interest.”
“Then this wasn’t just set up as a display.”
“No. I’d say this is where she died.”
Melissa stared at the blood on the wall, appalled by the brutality implied by Rictor’s findings. “Shit.”
“We still need to wait for the M.E.’s toxicology report to see if there were any chemicals or drugs in her system,” he reminded her. “It could be that she was unconscious before the killer attacked her, but somehow I doubt that anything will turn up. This looks like the work of good old-fashioned rage.”
“I have the same feeling,” Melissa muttered. “What about Mr. Patterson? Anything new?”
Rictor’s folded his arms in a contemplative posture.
“What?” Melissa asked.
“That’s the challenging bit,” he said. “Follow me.”
He led her out of the house.
Melissa had already surveyed the stage on which Mel Patterson’s final act in life had been played out, having come to its finale in the theater of the couple’s detached utility garage.
Mr. Patterson’s corpse had been found partially trapped beneath his green Ford Windstar, where he’d been crushed between the front bumper and the garage’s main door, thus causing the damage she’d observed when she arrived.
“There’s something a bit puzzling about the man’s death,” Rictor said once they were inside the building.
“Let’s hear it.”
“Well, if you remember, it appeared Mr. Patterson had been struck twice by the vehicle.”
Melissa nodded in agreement. “The first hit sandwiched him between the garage door and the minivan.”
“Which broke his hip, but didn’t have the force to kill him.”
“Then the killer backed up, collided with the workbench, and peeled forward again as Mr. Patterson tried to get out of the way.”
“Catching him in the torso, ramming him into the door a second time,” Rictor said. “His legs were crushed beneath the van’s oil pan. We had to jack it up to get him out. The thing that troubles me is that it appears he’d been working on the vehicle moments before the attack occurred.”
“What are you getting at?” Melissa asked, wary of the doctor’s disconcerted gaze.
“Well, once we got him out from under the van, we found the vehicle’s battery beside him.”
Melissa gazed at the tape outlines that marked the areas where evidence had been collected from the floor and noticed an appropriately sized rectangle less than two feet from the body.
“When we looked under the hood, sure enough, it wasn’t there,” Rictor continued. “It seems he’d been working on the air filter’s mounting bracket and needed to remove the battery to get at some of the screws.”
Melissa’s stare returned to the vehicle. “Are you saying the killer pushed the van into him?”
Rictor took off his glasses. “With the gearshift in ‘park.’”
“Impossible.”
“All I can give you are the facts,” he replied. “There was no battery in the vehicle when it hit the man, and that was the only one we found.”
“What about fingerprints? Anything on the casing?”
“Just Mr. Patterson’s,” Rictor answered. “We’re still checking the house over, but if you’re suggesting the killer brought along his own car battery to carry out this specific act of murder, I’d say you’re stretching it a bit, even for you.”
Melissa smirked. “Thanks for the input, Doc.”
Rictor grinned. “I’m going to finish up in the house. If you need anything else, just holler.”
Melissa waved and gave him her thanks.
She walked around the garage, pondering what she’d learned of the situation so far: no forced entry in the house, no valuables taken, no fingerprints left behind, no witnesses to the crime. And the only motive appeared to be imitative lunacy, indicated by the letters etched in Mrs. Patterson’s forehead. In the end, it appeared her only hope of identifying the killer hinged on whatever clues the lab techs could harvest from his victims.
“Who are you?” she whispered to the empty garage. “And where are you now?”