“But we are definitely dealing with the same guy?” Bryce asked.
“Unofficially, I’d say it’s the same guy,” Dr. Christopher said. “Note the way the scalpel imprint hooks sharply around the ear toward the cheekbone. It was the same in both cases. It’s an unintentional pattern or tell.”
The autopsy continued for another hour. The doctor confirmed the victim had not been sexually assaulted, and there appeared to be no signs of torture. He removed the plate from her ankle and wiped it. “I’ll have to clean it up to get the full serial number. I’ll track it.”
“Anything else?” Bryce asked.
Dr. Christopher shook his head as he looked at the body. “Until her death, Jane Doe had been a healthy young woman.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Bryce said.
“Yes, thank you,” Ann added.
Bryce met Ann in the changing room and noted she was quick to strip off her gown. Pulling off her gloves appeared painful, and he bet the latex had stuck to her wounds and was taking fresh skin with it. However, she did not complain and carefully, as if to prove she was fine, removed her purse from the locker.
Neither spoke as they made their way through the building’s lobby. He pushed open the main door, and he followed her into the bright sunshine. The air smelled sweet and pure.
“You okay?” he asked.
“When Gideon said he was taking Nate camping, I pictured a movie, wine, maybe reading a book for pleasure. I was thrilled because I don’t think I’ve had a moment to myself in a couple of years.”
He did not respond, letting her coiled emotions unwind.
She cleared her throat. “However, I can’t imagine doing any of those things now. As tragic as I find this case, I also find it fascinating.”
“Really?”
“It’s one thing to read journals and theorize about killers in a sterile office, but it’s another to see, smell, and touch their handiwork.” A faint smile tipped the edges of her lips. “I wonder what that says about me.”
“Maybe you’re more cop than scientist. Do you have conclusions?”
“I do.” She went silent, as if ordering her thoughts and assessments. “I don’t believe this killer was motivated by the fire. As we know, there are offenders who are sexually and mentally stimulated by flames. This killer used the fire to both destroy the victim’s identity and, as we have theorized, attract attention.”
“Go on.”
“The fatal cuts were to the heart and liver. The killer was standing close and thrust the knife upward quickly. She bleeds out in a manner of minutes. It’s quick and efficient. No signs of sexual assault, no broken bones, no apparent trauma that would have caused excessive pain. The killer was not motivated by the victim’s suffering.”
“What juices his batteries?” Bryce asked.
“Perhaps the victims look like someone familiar to the killer, such as a mother, wife, or girlfriend. The killer may or may not have stopped to analyze his motivations, but he keeps killing because the act is fulfilling.” She stared up at him. “All theory at this point.”
“Killer male or female?”
“Ninety percent of serial killers are male. But ten percent means a female is possible.”
“Local or passing through?”
“When I see the files of the Kansas case and especially the Knoxville case, I might know better.”
“Do you have theories regarding the removal of the face?” he asked.
“Our faces are a big part of our identity. All you have to do is look at social media. Destroying the victim’s face is stealing something very intimate.”
“The picture you found doesn’t appear to be a selfie. And it can’t be posted.”
“Maybe that’s exactly why the killer used a Polaroid camera. The images mark the event, but they are untraceable. He likely has pictures of his Helena victim.”
“The pictures are also trophies?” Bryce asked.
“Yes. That’s one of the easiest prizes to collect,” she said.
“I’ll deliver the picture to the lab now, and then I’ll head into Anaconda, visit the burger joints, and determine if anyone saw Jane Doe.” He nodded toward her hands. “How are they doing?”
She held them up and gave him a view of her palms. “They sting, but I’ll survive.”
They were scraped raw, and the right hand had a gash. “Damn. I have a first aid kit in my car.”
“They’ll be fine.”
He shook his head. “It’ll take five minutes to clean them and put on ointment. Car’s right here.”
The expected argument did not materialize, and she walked with him to his SUV. He opened the back hatch and reached for a red first aid tackle box he always kept stocked. Since the marines, he had been a stickler for having his kit ready.
He tore open a packet of cleansing wipes and motioned for her to extend her palms. She did, looking a little chagrined. Her uneasy expression vanished as soon as the pad touched her flesh. She hissed, and she tried to draw her hand back, but he held it steady, feeling the rapid beat of her heart thrumming in her wrist.
“That’s the worst of it,” he said as he carefully wiped around the largest of the gashes.
“Serves me right. If Nate had done something like that, he’d be in time-out until he was thirty.”
“Thirty? That’s mighty harsh.”
“Maybe, but it was stupid, and I’d hate to see him do something like that on this camping trip.”
“Gideon will keep a close eye.”
“You’re not saying anything I haven’t told myself one hundred times since they left. He needs to get out and enjoy himself. He needs to be a kid.”
He discarded the wipe and opened a second, and this time she raised her other hand without prompting. This palm was not as badly scraped as the first.
He smoothed antibiotic cream on her palms, careful to hit all the spots, before he replaced the cap. “Good as new. Do you have antibiotic cream at home?”
“I’ll grab some at the store this afternoon. I’m still stocking the new place.”
He handed her the tube. “Take this.”
“Not necessary,” she said.
“If you buy new cream, give it back to me. If you don’t, you’re covered.”
“You’ve done first aid before,” she said.
“When you command young men in the field, you’ve got to be ready for anything.” He shook his head, a grin tugging his lips. “They’re pros at finding ways to get hurt.”
“Do you miss commanding men?”
“Sometimes. Keeping up with that many eighteen- to twenty-year-old soldiers is a younger man’s game.”
“What about the travel?”
“For the most part, I’m right where I want to be.”
“Good.”
“And you?”
“Me?”
“None of my business, but I’m surprised you stayed in town after last year.”
She reached for her sunglasses. “This is my home. Nate’s home. And I don’t scare easily.”
“No, ma’am, I don’t believe you do.”
“You’ll call me if you pull a print off that photo.”