Vendetta in Death (In Death #49)(20)

“The support group?”

“Remember Mr. Mira’s cousin? A conspiracy of female vics turned revenge killers. It’s not impossible we have something similar here, so let’s take a look at the group. Contact the vic’s transpo service, a driver, from Po’s files. No way he risked a cab getting Lester from the office to his residence, so if he headed out to a club last night to hunt, he probably didn’t take public transpo.”

“I’m starting to think the morgue and a dead, mutilated body’s easier.”

“Make lieutenant, then you can call the shots.” Eve whipped to the corner. “Out.”

“At least this way I can grab a street dog before I go in.” Peabody climbed out, beelined for the cart as Eve bullied her way back into traffic.

She ran through questions in her head along the drive.

Could one person, working alone, have lured McEnroy, incapacitated him, transported him to an as yet unknown location, tortured, mutilated, and killed him, then transported the body back to the dump site?

Not impossible, but it seemed more likely a partnership of some sort.

Alternately, had McEnroy left his residence to go to that as yet unknown location voluntarily, most probably expecting sex? And there the killer incapacitated him, and the rest, before transporting the body to the dump site? If so, a stronger case for working alone, but still …

Even as she walked down the white tunnel of the morgue, she ran other scenarios. The one point that stuck in any and all: The murder, the method, the victim had all been meticulously planned.

When she swung through the double doors of the chief medical examiner’s theater, she found Morris sitting on a stool at one of his counters, munching on soy chips as he studied a comp screen.

He still wore the clear protective cape over a stylish suit of steely blue with a sharp-collared shirt of the same exact tone. He’d chosen a tie the color of warm apricots, twined his long black braid with a cord to mirror it.

He swiveled on the stool, smiled. “A fine day it is for the living. Where’s our Peabody?”

“Central. Verifying and so on.” She walked to the steel slab where McEnroy still lay spread open by Morris’s Y-cut. “Bad end for him.”

“Bad, long, painful.”

“Did you get tox back yet?”

“Just now.” Rising, Morris walked first to his cold box, took out a couple tubes of Pepsi. He tossed one to Eve, cracked his own.

“Thanks.”

“We’re here to serve. The unfortunate Mr. McEnroy had traces of Rohypnol mixed with a very dry martini. More traces of a drug, street name Black Out. Both of those chemicals, or the results of them, would have worn off before the torture began.”

“Roofied him—that’s the lure—then knocked him out in order to get him where he/she/they wanted him. The roofie? The killer would consider that justice. It was one of his favored tools in what’s looking like serial rape.”

“Ah, so a bad end for a bad man. From the ligature marks on his wrists—you see here?”

“Yeah, clear enough.”

“He was hung by the wrists, arms above the head, as you deduced on-site. His weight caused the restraints to dig into his flesh, and also put considerable strain on his rotator cuffs, arms, shoulders. There are, as you also noted, no defensive wounds. He would have been incapable of attempting to defend himself. The facial injuries, some from a weighted sap, some from an electric prod. Much the same with the torso, the back, the legs. Some wounds, the prod straight on, like a jab, others a lash, like a whip. All would have been excruciating. The prod had to be on high voltage to cause burns this severe.”

As a matter of routine, Morris picked up two pairs of microgoggles. “The torture, given the extent of the wounds, went on for between three and four hours. He would have lost consciousness off and on. There were traces of Alert on and in his nostrils.”

“No fun torturing an unconscious man.”

“No indeed. He was still alive when his genitals were—quite efficiently—severed with a sharp blade.”

“Medical training? A scalpel?”

“Medical training’s possible, or someone who spent some time practicing. A sure hand, in any case. But the blade used wouldn’t have been a scalpel. You’re more likely to be looking for a knife with a slight rise in the center of the blade. See here.”

He put on the goggles, leaned over the body, so Eve did the same.

“Not a hesitation mark,” he pointed out, “not a stop and start again, but the slight deviation in the blade, cutting across the root of the penis.” He swiped a hand to demonstrate.

“Hold it up, lop it off.”

“In plain words, yes. A killing blade, but also, I think, ornamental. Perhaps ceremonial.”

“Ceremonial would fit. Same method on his balls. Not going to leave him anything.”

“Punishment for the rapist. You’re thinking one of his victims or someone attached to one.”

“It leans that way. So far. Did you read the poem?”

“I did. Lady Justice. Well, hell has no fury, after all.”

“If there is a hell, he’s burning in it now, so he probably figures there’s plenty of fury.”

She took off the goggles, laid them aside. “Opinion. Could a woman have done this, alone?”