"I'll be good." With the ease of long practice, Chris pulled on the white coveralls while Gwen tied the strings of his mask. "More of TLC's handiwork, damn his black soul," he muttered as he slipped under the tape.
"It certainly looks like it. But ..." The doubt in her voice made Chris glance sharply at her. "There are a 10 couple of things you need to look at," Gwen went on as they stood gazing down at the body, ignoring the electronic flashes as her partner photographed the scene with a digital camera.
"I see what you mean." Chris placed a gloved finger against a suspiciously erect breast and gently jiggled it. "She's had breast implants. Like the last one. Only this time the killer hasn't ripped them out."
The third victim's breasts had also been surgically augmented, and that had driven the killer into a frenzy. Both breasts had been savagely slashed until they lay slack and flat against her chest.
"There's more. I put the hands back the way they were, but look at this." Gwen tugged at the clasped hands, stiffened by rigor mortis.
"The cross is on the wrong hand." Chris frowned as she turned the right hand palm up. "It should be on the left."
"I know. That could be very significant, or not significant at all. The cross looks the same. Traditional. An upright and a cross bar. It's the same length as the others—eight centimetres. Lightly incised with a very sharp, thin blade. Possibly a razor blade."
"What about rape?"
"Violated. But not raped. Like the others. The usual foreign object. Not a bottle, though. Too deep for that. From the look of things, it penetrated her colon. That would have killed her as well. In a matter of hours if she didn't receive surgical attention."
"As our distinguished colleague Steve Mason would say, the creep probably couldn't get it up. It could also be that he didn't want to risk leaving his DNA behind."
"He could have used a condom."
"Not completely safe. If you'll forgive the pun. There's always the risk of semen leaking out on with-drawal. Or one of his pubic hairs might get caught up unnoticed with hers. I remember one case where the guy shaved his pubics for that very reason."
"I know the one you mean." Extracting a rectal thermometer, she held it up. "Rigor mortis is well established. That and her liver temperature tell us she's been dead for eight to ten hours. The night was cool, so it's probably closer to eight. Depending on how long she's been out here."
Pointing down at the purplish path on the left side of the victim's ribcage, Chris said, "That tells us she wasn't killed here. She would have been transported here in a vehicle of some kind."
"We'll spray the top of the hill and check for tire prints. But the grass is real dense, so I don't hold out much hope. Al and Dennis should be here soon, and I'm going to have the scene secured all the way across the field over to the road and down to the base of the hill."
"It's the same story from the top down to here. He would have carried her down, as the bruise under her right knee tells us." Chris mentally chided himself for automatically assuming the killer was male. Still, all the psychological evidence pointed to the killer being a man, and not many women would have the physical strength to carry a body weighing at least fifty-five kilos for a distance of fifty metres down a steep incline. Male or female, the rocky terrain offered no clue.
Gwen and her team would be working the site for another three hours or so. Knowing he could depend on her to fill him in on anything of interest, Chris decided to go back to headquarters and open a file to begin the formal investigation. The first step was to identify the victim. There was no ID, but as Gwen had remarked, "It doesn't take long for people to start looking for someone like her."
The media was waiting in the parking lot across the river. They were held back by four uniformed police officers but were close enough to shout questions at Chris. "TLC strikes again. Right, Detective Crane?" It was more a statement than a question. The killer's chilling pseudonym, one he had conferred on himself, an acronym for "tender loving care," had become public knowledge. It was a cruel, mocking reference to BTK—"bind torture kill"—the infamous signature of Wichita's serial killer who had tortured and strangled ten victims from 1974 to 1991 and who'd escaped detection for years.
Most of the eager faces were familiar to Chris. He had dealt with them before as the serial killer story gathered steam. Tim Mahoney from the Herald was there in the front row, standing beside Bill Clarke, the crime reporter for CTV television, and a cameraman recording the scene. Pat, short and rotund, whose last name Chris didn't know but who was from the Calgary Sun, was taking pictures with a digital camera; behind him stood Phil Dummett, a freelancer who wrote think pieces that were attracting an increasing amount of attention, and Amanda Fraser, the local stringer for the Globe and Mail. The others he didn't know.
As expected, his standard disclaimer that it was too early to divulge any information was greeted with groans of weary resignation. Partly hidden by the open door of the cruiser, Chris methodically finished stowing his gear inside, then eased himself into the driver's seat. He stared straight ahead as he inched forward through the forest of out-thrust microphones and importuning faces.
Morris Pettigrew, senior partner of the corporate law department of the McKinley law firm, glanced uneasily around the boardroom table. The meeting had been called for 8:30 and it was now 8:ffl. Clearing his throat, he said, "I can't imagine what's keeping Adrienne. She has a thing about punctuality."
"There's no point in starting without her," the general counsel of the client oil company remarked. "She's been in charge of the file since the get-go."
"I'll see if I can track her down." Jeff Ingram got up from his chair. The young lawyer, just four years out of law school and three years at the bar, was working with Adrienne Vinney on the Madison Energy share prospectus.
"Do that." Pettigrew nodded. "While we wait, we'll have some coffee." At his nod a white-jacketed server moved around the table, refilling cups.
The four executives seated with Pettigrew at the polished mahogany table—the president and CEO of Madison, together with the general counsel, the vice-president for exploration, and the chief financial officer—were the picture of corporate success and the rewards that went with it. And those rewards were due for a handsome increase when the new share issue hit the market. Buoyed by the spectacular success of its drilling program on the Lost Horse Block, Madison's shares had climbed steadily in recent months, and the new issue was bound to sell at a premium. Despite this, there was a palpable air of tension in the conference room. The company lawyer nervously tapped a pen against his teeth until a glare from the president made him put it down.
In a few minutes, Ingram, looking puzzled and upset, returned with the news that Adrienne hadn't arrived at the office. Nor had she called in.
"I just don't understand this," Pettigrew muttered. "She knows how important this meeting is." Looking at Ingram, still standing in the doorway, he asked, "Did you try her at home?"
"Her assistant did. Fifteen minutes ago. No answer."
"She could be caught in traffic," Madison's president offered, but without much conviction.
"Not Adrienne." Pettigrew frowned. "That lady plans ahead. Knowing her, I would have expected her to be in her office two hours ago, preparing for this meeting."
"So would I," the general counsel agreed. "Adrienne is conscientious to a fault." Giving Pettigrew a worried look, he said, "I don't like this, Morris."
The senior partner looked at his watch. "I suggest we give her another fifteen minutes. If she doesn't show up by then, Jeff should contact the hospitals, and ..." he added after a moment's hesitation, "the police."
Ingram's phone calls to Calgary's three hospitals drew a blank. There was no record of any Adrienne Vinney having been checked in at either Emergency or General Admissions. Nor anyone fitting her description. Doing his best to seem