Hour Game Read online

  Michelle watched as a slender and attractive red-haired woman in her late thirties carrying a black satchel and a rape kit arrived on the scene, knelt down and started examining the body.

  “That’s the deputy medical examiner assigned to this area,” King explained. “Sylvia Diaz.”

  “Diaz? She looks more like Maureen O’Hara.”

  “George Diaz was her husband. He was a very noted surgeon in the area. He was struck by a car and killed several years ago. Sylvia used to be a professor of forensic pathology at UVA. Now she’s a physician in private practice.”

  “And a deputy M.E. on the side. Busy woman. Any children?”

  “No. I guess her work is her life,” said King.

  Michelle put her hand up to her nose as the direction of the wind changed yet again, flinging the stench of the body directly at them. “Some life,” she said. “God, she isn’t even wearing a mask, and I’m about to hurl from back here.”

  Twenty minutes later Diaz rose, spoke with the police, popped off her examination gloves and started snapping pictures of the body and surrounding area. Finished with that, she stowed her camera and started to walk away when she noticed King. She smiled warmly and headed toward them.

  Michelle whispered, “And you forgot to tell me that you two dated?”

  King looked at her surprised. “We went out a few times a while back. How’d you know that?”

  “After spending close-up time with a dead body, you don’t get a smile like that unless there was a prior relationship.”

  “Thanks for the astute observation. But be nice. Sylvia’s really wonderful.”

  “I’m sure she was, but I don’t need to hear the details, Sean.”

  “Rest assured, you’ll never hear the details while there’s breath in my body.”

  “I see. You’re being quite the Virginia gentleman.”

  “No, I just don’t want to be critiqued.”

  CHAPTER

  4

  SYLVIA DIAZ GAVE KING A

  hug that lingered a bit past “friends” status, Michelle felt, and then King introduced the two women.

  The deputy medical examiner looked at Michelle with what the latter perceived as an unfriendly gaze.

  “I haven’t seen you in a while, Sean,” Sylvia said, turning back to him.

  “We’d been swamped with investigative work, but things have finally slowed down.”

  “So,” Michelle broke in, “do you have a cause of death on our corpse yet?”

  Sylvia looked at her with a surprised expression. “That’s not really something I can discuss with you.”

  “I was just wondering,” said Michelle innocently, “since I happened to be one of the first on the scene. I guess you won’t know for sure until you do the post.”

  “You’ll be doing the autopsy here, won’t you?” asked King.

  Sylvia nodded. “Yes, although suspicious deaths traditionally were sent over to Roanoke.”

  “Why no longer?” asked Michelle.

  “There used to be four official facilities certified to conduct autopsies in the state: Fairfax, Richmond, Tidewater and Roanoke. However, due to the generosity of John Poindexter, a very wealthy man who was also a past Speaker of the House in the state General Assembly, we now have a certified forensics substation right here.”

  “Strange donation, a morgue,” said Michelle.

  “Poindexter’s daughter was killed here years ago. Wrightsburg falls on the jurisdictional line between the medical examiner’s office in Richmond and the western district office in Roanoke. Because of that, there was a fight over which office would perform the autopsy. Roanoke finally won out, but during the transfer of the body the vehicle was involved in an accident, and vital evidence was lost or compromised. Consequently, the girl’s killer was never caught, and as you can imagine, her father was not very happy. When Poindexter died, his will left the money to build a state-of-the-art facility.” Sylvia glanced over her shoulder at the body. “But even with a state-of-the-art facility the cause of death on this one might be tricky.”

  “Any idea on how long she’s been dead?” asked King.

  “A lot depends on the individual, environmental factors and degree of decomposition. With a body dead this long the postmortem may give us some idea of a time frame, but that’s all.”

  “I see some of the fingers have been chewed off,” said King.

  “Animals, clearly.” Sylvia added thoughtfully, “But still there should have been more signs of invasion. They’re trying to get an ID on her now.”

  King said, “What do you make of the hand posed like that?”

  “Afraid that’s for the official detectives, not me. I just tell them how the victim died and collect any evidence during the post that might be useful. I played Sherlock Holmes when I first started doing this job, and I was quickly put in my place.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with using your specialized knowledge to help solve a crime,” commented Michelle.

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Sylvia paused and said, “I can tell you that the arm was braced up by the stick and that it was done deliberately. Beyond that, I’m out of ideas.” She turned to King. “It was good to see you again, even if it was under these circumstances.” She put out her hand to Michelle, who shook it.

  As the woman walked off, Michelle said, “I thought you said you used to date.”

  “We did. It’s been over a year now.”

  “I’m not sure she got the message.”

  “I really appreciate the insight. Maybe you can read my palm next. You ready to go? Or do you want to finish your run?”

  “Thanks, but I’ve had enough stimulation for one day.”

  As they passed close by the body, King stopped and stared at the hand that was still pointing to the sky, his face suddenly tense.

  “What is it?” Michelle asked, watching him closely.

  “The watch,” he said.

  She glanced at it, now seeing that it was set to one o’clock and didn’t appear to be running. “What about it?”

  “Michelle, it’s a Zodiac watch.”

  “Zodiac?”

  “Something tells me we’re going to see this person’s work again,” said King.

  CHAPTER

  5

  THE ISOLATED AREA ON A

  bluff overlooking one of the main channels of thirty-mile-long Cardinal Lake had long been a favorite place for the teenagers in Wrightsburg to gather and perform a variety of acts their parents wouldn’t approve of. The night being overcast and drizzly with a wind rattling the trees, there was only one car parked up on the bluff, but the occupants were putting on an energetic show nonetheless.

  The girl was already naked, her dress and undergarments folded neatly in the backseat next to her shoes. The young man was frantically trying to pull his shirt over his head while the girl was undoing his pants; it was tough going in the cramped quarters. The shirt finally came off about the time his pants and underwear were ripped down by the hard-breathing young lady, for whom patience, at least under these circumstances, was clearly not a virtue.

  He slid toward the middle of the front seat after putting on a condom, and she climbed astride him, facing him. The windows of the car were fogging up now. Over her shoulder he stared out the windshield, his own breath growing faster as he closed his eyes. It was his first time, though his partner appeared far more experienced. He’d been dreaming of this moment for at least two years, his hormones building to levels of utter agony. He smiled as she moaned and rocked on top of him.

  Then he opened his eyes and stopped smiling.

  The figure in the black hood stared back at him through the windshield. Through the thickening condensation on the glass he saw the shotgun muzzle come up. He started to throw the girl off him, instinctively thinking he would start the car and get out of here. He never made it. The glass exploded inward. The impact of the buckshot against her back slammed the girl into him, yet her body shielded him. Still
the collision with her head broke his nose, almost knocking him out. Awash in her blood but as yet not critically wounded, he clutched the dead body against his chest, as though it were a cherished security blanket capable of warding off the bogeyman. He wanted to scream yet couldn’t. He finally let the girl go as he slid toward the driver’s side. His movements were clumsy, his mind clouded. Had he been shot? He didn’t know it but he was suffering from shock, his rapidly rising and falling blood pressure dragging his body through levels of stress it wasn’t designed for.

  He started to turn the key in the ignition when the driver’s side door opened and there was the black hood again. As he stared helplessly, the shotgun muzzle glided at him like the deadliest snake in the world. The boy started to beg and then to cry, the blood pouring from his destroyed nose. He inched back away from the gunman, until he bumped against the girl’s body. “Please!” he wailed. “No, God, no!”

  The nine pellets of the shotgun blast hit him in the head with the collective force of a gigantic hammer, and he fell next to the dead girl. The front of her was unmarked; however, the other side was obliterated. Looking at the girl lying there on her back, one couldn’t tell what had killed the young woman. The cause of death of her boyfriend was far more obvious, considering he no longer had a face.

  The killer leaned his shotgun against the car’s passenger side, opened the door and reached in. He placed a watch on the young man’s wrist, bracing the arm up against the dash, finally wedging it between the dash and the door. Next he fiddled with the watch that the dead girl was already wearing. Then he pulled off the cheap amethyst ring the girl had on and put it in his pocket. He lifted a St. Christopher’s medal from around the young man’s neck. That also went into the hooded man’s pocket.

  Over the boy’s body he said, “I’m sorry. You’re not personally guilty, but you were part of the original sin. You didn’t die in vain. You righted a long-overdue wrong. Take comfort in that.”

  He didn’t bother praying over the girl. He took an object from his pocket and laid it on the floor of the car, shut the door and lumbered off. As the rain came in through the shattered windshield, the two dead and naked young people seemed to be clinging to each other.

  On the floorboard was the object the killer had placed there.

  It was a dog collar.

  CHAPTER

  6

  CHIEF WILLIAMS STOPPED

  by the offices of King & Maxwell located in a two-story brick townhouse in the heart of the small yet posh Wrightsburg downtown. The offices had housed King’s law practice before he’d taken down his legal shingle. The chief sat with his hat in his lap, eyes puffy and features strained as he filled in King and Michelle on the grisly double homicide.

  “I left the police force in Norfolk so I wouldn’t have to deal with this sort of crap,” Williams began. “My ex-wife got me to move here for the peace and quiet. Damn, was that woman wrong! No wonder we got divorced.”

  King handed him a cup of coffee and then sat down across from him, while Michelle remained perched on the edge of a leather couch. “Wait’ll the papers get hold of this one. And poor Sylvia. She’d just finished the autopsy on that girl, and then she had to do two more.”

  “Who were they?” asked King.

  “Students at Wrightsburg High School: Steve Canney and Janice Pembroke. She was shot in the back; he took it full in the face. Buckshot. When I opened that car door, it cost me my breakfast. Hell, I’ll be seeing them in my sleep for months.”

  “No witnesses?”

  “Not that we know of. It was a rainy night. Theirs were the only tire tracks up there.”

  Michelle perked up. “Right, it was raining. So if you didn’t see any tire tracks, the killer must have walked up to the car. You didn’t find any traces of that?”

  “Most everything was washed away. There was an inch of bloody water on the floor of the car. Steve Canney was one of the most popular kids in school, football star and everything.”

  “And the girl?” asked Michelle.

  Williams hesitated. “Janice Pembroke had a reputation with the boys.”

  “As being… accessible?” asked King.

  “Yes.”

  “Was anything taken? Could it have been a robbery?”

  “Not likely, although two things were missing: a cheap ring Pembroke usually wore and Canney’s St. Christopher’s medal. We don’t know if the killer took them or not.”

  “You said Sylvia finished the autopsies. I’m assuming you attended them.”

  Williams looked embarrassed. “I had a little problem halfway through Jane Doe’s post, and I got tied up while she was doing the other autopsies. I’m waiting on Sylvia’s reports,” he added hastily. “We don’t have an official homicide detective on the force, so I figured coming here and picking your brain wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

  “Any clues?” asked Michelle.

  “Not from the first killing. And we haven’t identified her yet either, though we were able to fingerprint her and we’re running those. We had a computerized facial composite done too, which we’re circulating.”

  “Any reason to believe the killings are connected?” asked Michelle.

  Williams shook his head. “Pembroke and Canney will probably turn out to be some love triangle thing. Kids these days will kill you in a second and think nothing of it. All the crap on TV they watch.”

  King and Michelle exchanged glances and then he said, “In the first killing either the murderer lured the woman into the woods or forced her to go with him. Or he killed her elsewhere and then carried her into the woods.”

  Michelle nodded. “If the latter, a strong man, then. With the killing of the teenagers the person might have followed them there or been waiting on the bluff.”

  “Well, that area is well known as a make-out place, if they still even call it that,” said Williams. “Both victims were naked. That’s why I’m thinking it was maybe some boy Pembroke dumped or a kid who was jealous of Canney. The Jane Doe in the woods will be the harder one to crack. That’s where I’m going to need your help.”

  King looked thoughtful for a moment and then said, “The watch in the first murder, did you really notice it, Todd?”

  “Well, it seemed a little bulky for the girl.”

  “Sylvia said the arm the watch was on was deliberately braced up.”

  “She can’t know that for sure.”

  “I saw that the watch was set to one o’clock,” continued King.

  “Right, but it had stopped, or the stem was pulled out.”

  King glanced at Michelle. “Did you notice the make of the watch?”

  Williams looked at him curiously. “Make of the watch?”

  “It was a Zodiac watch: circle with crosshairs.”

  Williams almost spilled his coffee. “Zodiac!”

  King nodded. “It was also a man’s watch. I think the killer put it on the woman.”

  “Zodiac,” repeated Williams. “Are you saying…?”

  “The original Zodiac serial killer operated in 1968 and 1969 in the Bay Area, San Fran and Vallejo,” answered King. “I think that Zodiac would be a little long in the tooth. But there have been at least two Zodiac copycat killers, one in New York and another in Kobe, Japan. The San Fran Zodiac wore a black executioner’s hood emblazoned with white crosshairs in a circle, the same symbol that’s on the Zodiac watch. He also left a watch on his last victim, a cabdriver, if I recall correctly, although it wasn’t a Zodiac. However, the man suspected of being the Zodiac in San Francisco owned a Zodiac watch. They believe that’s where he got the idea for the crosshairs-in-a-circle logo he wore that earned him his nickname. The case has never been solved.”

  Williams hunched forward in his chair. “Look, this is all really speculation on your part, and quite a stretch at that.”

  Michelle glanced at her partner. “Sean, do you really think it’s a copycat killer?”

  King shrugged. “If two people copied the original, who’s to say
a third person couldn’t? The San Francisco Zodiac wrote to the newspapers in code—one that was finally broken. The coded letters revealed that the killer was motivated by a short story titled ‘The Most Dangerous Game.’ It’s a story about hunting humans.”

  “A game about hunting humans?” Michelle said slowly.

  King asked, “Did either of the bodies in the car have a watch on?”