A Merciful Promise (Mercy Kilpatrick #6)(28)

“Truman. Evan.” She shook both their hands and gestured for them to sit as she rounded her desk to her own chair. A slightly unpleasant odor of chemicals followed in her wake. “Thanks for coming in.” She sighed as she sank into her chair. “It’s been a long morning already.”

“What do you have on our John Doe?” Bolton got straight to the point, leaning forward in his seat, his hands clasped between his knees.

Dr. Lockhart raised a brow. “To start with, I have fingerprints for you. Do you have some possible candidates to compare them to?”

“No. I’ll start with a database search.”

“Bummer.” The examiner started to tap her keyboard, typing rapidly with only her first fingers. “I will send you my report when I finish writing it. The height I gave you yesterday was accurate, but the weight was light by two pounds.”

“Impressive,” mumbled Truman.

Dr. Lockhart grinned. “I like to see how close I can guess the weight. It’s hard to narrow the age range, but I’ve adjusted it to between forty and fifty-five. It’s very subjective. He has gum disease, which has led to minor bone loss in his jaw, half of his hair is gray, and there’s a loss of elasticity in his skin in a few places. But all those things can happen early or late in life. I took into account that he exhibits all three when I made my age estimate.” She squinted at her screen. “As you probably noticed, he’s Caucasian. And even though his belly was very bloated from decomp, he’s actually quite thin.”

“Was he . . .” Bolton paused. “Assaulted?”

“You mean sexually? No.”

“Why remove his clothing?”

Dr. Lockhart shrugged. “That’s your part of the investigation.” Her eyes moved back and forth as she read her screen. “Nothing in his stomach.”

“He hadn’t eaten?” Bolton asked. “You said he was thin. Was he being starved?”

The doctor tapped her chin as she thought. “I need lab results. His serum proteins will be off if he’s suffering from malnutrition. The labs aren’t definitive on their own. I have to consider the physical signs, and I’d say he wasn’t getting enough to eat. Or chose not to eat enough.”

“He was being held captive and not fed?” Bolton wondered out loud.

“No abrasions on his wrists or ankles to indicate he was restrained,” the doctor said. “We removed the dirt from under his nails for evidence, but his hands didn’t show signs of defensive wounds or have the broken nails that I’ve seen when someone is trying to escape out of something.”

“Did the evidence techs find fingerprints anywhere on the body?” Truman asked. Human skin was tough to print, but he knew it could be done.

“No,” replied Dr. Lockhart. “They tried several different ways but only found smears. I suspect whoever moved him wore gloves. I did recover the bullet. As you saw at the scene, there was only an entry wound, no exit. I sent the bullet to ballistics—it was mangled, but it was definitely from a smaller-caliber weapon. They should have a report for you soon. I hope it’s helpful.”

Bolton nodded and made a notation in his notebook.

“The shot was made very close to the head,” she continued. “I found stippling from the gunpowder in his scalp. I followed the path of the bullet through his brain and around inside his skull.”

Truman winced at the mental image.

“The angle of the path puts the gun at a steep angle, shooting downward.” She met Bolton’s and Truman’s eyes, her face solemn.

“You mean the victim was below the shooter?” Truman asked. “Like on his knees?”

“Shit.” Bolton tapped his notebook, scowling. “You’re saying—”

“Yes, like you’d imagine for an execution.” Dr. Lockhart turned back to her screen. “And as you’ll remember—”

“You made the same suggestion with the John Doe from a month ago,” Bolton finished. “His injury had an exit wound, but the angle was similar—from above. I recall you mentioned the stippling on that victim’s scalp too.”

Truman exhaled. Men are being executed?

“Do you see any other similarities to this case from the first John Doe?” Bolton asked.

Dr. Lockhart nodded as she typed. “I knew you’d ask about that.” She rested her chin on a fist as she studied her screen. “The first John Doe was younger. Late twenties or early thirties. He was also naked except for underwear. I couldn’t make as many exterior physical observations because he was in an advanced state of decomposition. Cause of death was the gunshot wound.”

“Same caliber?” Bolton asked hopefully.

She grimaced. “I will say it’s not impossible—gunshot wounds from the first victim indicate it was also a smaller-caliber weapon, but I can’t state more than that.”

“You have to consider they’re related,” Truman told Bolton. “Especially with the angle of the gunshots.”

“I do,” said Bolton. He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Shit.”

Do we have a serial killer?





TWELVE

Mercy tried the doorknob to the supply depot. Locked. She pounded on the door and stepped back to wait. Her thumb tried to spin her engagement ring, a new habit, but found nothing on her left ring finger. Her subconscious had forgotten she’d left it behind.