Chuck Morton walked down the long cold corridor of the city morgue, his footsteps sharp as gunshots. Of all his duties as a cop, he hated this one the most. As he approached the middle-aged couple at the end of the hall, huddled together, desperately clinging to one another, he recognized the body language. He'd seen it more times than he cared to remember. He took a deep breath as he got closer. The woman was transfixed on the plate-glass window in front of her, but the man turned his head toward him as Chuck approached. On his face, ravaged by worry, was written an unspoken plea Chuck had seen too many times: Tell me this isn't happening-isn't it possible you've made a mistake? Chuck looked through the window at the sheet-draped body on the steel gurney and braced himself for the inevitable flow of grief that would follow.
"Mr. O'Donnell?"
"Yes?" His voice was wary. He was tall, with thick sandy hair.
"I'm Detective Chuck Morton. We need you to-"
The woman interrupted, her voice shrill with pain. "It can't be her! Not Annie-who would want to hurt her?" She clung to her husband's arm, as if that were the only thing preventing her from collapsing onto the floor. Her eyes searched Chuck's face for any hint of reassurance. Her curly dark hair-just like her daughter's-was in disarray, and she looked as if she hadn't slept for days. Her skin was pale, and under the green glow of the fluorescent lights it was a pasty, unhealthy color.
"I'm so sorry, Mrs. O'Donnell," he said. His voice felt disembodied, as if it were coming from someone else. "But we need you to identify your daughter."
The husband turned to his wife. "Look, Margie, if you'd rather not, I can-"
"No!" She cut him off sharply. She turned to Chuck. "I'll stay with my husband."
Chuck nodded to the medical examiner's assistant, who had been waiting next to the body. He was a young Asian man with thick dark glasses. His straight black hair, plastered to his skull, gleamed wetly under the fluorescent lights. He pulled back the sheet, revealing the girl's face. Chuck was relieved to see that he avoided showing any of the rest of her mutilated body. Those details had not been released to the public or to any of the parents.
There was a sharp intake of breath from Mrs. O'Donnell, and silence for several moments-and then it started, a low, keening wail that began at the bottom of the scale and slid up to the high notes in one long gliding crescendo.
"No-o-o-o-o! No-o-o-o-o! Not my Annie, not my girl, my baby, not her! No-o-o-o-o!"
Chuck looked at Mr. O'Donnell, who had folded his wife in his arms as if she were a child. He stood there, rocking her, whispering to her, while Chuck watched miserably, hands at his sides. He hated the sheer senselessness of it all and the impotence he felt, but most of all he hated being a witness to these people's grief. It felt like an invasion of their privacy, as if they were being violated all over again. It ran counter to his own deep longing for privacy, his reticence toward any public display of emotion.
He laid a hand gently on the man's shoulder.
"I have to go-stay as long as you like, and someone will see you out. I'm so sorry."
O'Donnell looked at him with glazed eyes, clearly in shock. Morton knew this, but he also knew there was nothing more he could do for them now-except to find their daughter's killer.
Chuck's cell phone rang.
"Excuse me for a moment," he said, grateful for the interruption, and ducked around the corner to answer it. "Morton here."
"Chuck, it's Lee."
"What's up?"
"There's a new twist-"
"What is it?" Chuck said in a lowered voice. The last thing he needed was the victim's parents to overhear his conversation.
"The priest found blood in the communion wine."
"What?"
"The priest at Saint Francis Xavier went in to prepare for the service tomorrow, and when he went to fill the communion wine carafe, he noticed something odd about it. Turns out there was blood in it."
"Oh, Jesus. So CSI never vetted that-"
"Well, they searched the whole church, but that room was way in the back, and it was locked, with no signs of tampering. I mean, they can go back and dust for prints, but if he didn't leave them at the crime scene, I doubt he got sloppy when he tampered with the communion wine."
"Good lord. Send it to the lab for DNA analysis to find out if it's her blood."
"Butts already did that." There was a pause. Then, sounding reluctant, Lee added, "You know what this means."
"What?"
"He's evolving."
Chuck clicked off his cell phone and looked around at the shiny, antiseptic walls of the morgue, his forehead burning with rage. For the first time, he thought of the killer by the name Butts had picked out for him. You sicko, he said under his breath. You goddamn psychopath Slasher…I'm coming for you, ready or not.