The Christmas Killer by Jim Gallows Page A

squatted down. It was part of a tooth. Picking it up with the tweezers he looked at it carefully: it came from a good tooth, uncapped and without cavities. She had taken care of her teeth. The two roots of the fragment were intact, and showed no signs of decay. Interesting. What would cause a healthy tooth to shatter in this way? A blow with a blunt object? Maybe, but it wasn’t like anything he’d seen before.
    He stood up and took two steps towards the body. Now he was standing a foot from her face, and he squatted again.
    He tried to focus on anywhere but her eyes. Hestarted with her hair: immaculately cut and styled, a fact obvious despite the gaping wounds in her face, and the blood and mud. Short, which Jake took as a confirmation that the victim was pushing forty, if she hadn’t already passed it. He could see a little diamond stud earring. No zirconium for this woman; he would stake his salary on that. And a gold chain with a little pendant was still around her neck.
    He tried to look underneath at the other side of the face. But it was resting on her outstretched arm and he couldn’t see. He looked around. He was far enough away from the others, and half-concealed by the rubble. He gently put a hand on the woman’s blonde hair, and turned her face.
    Though he was expecting it, he still recoiled. Her second eye socket was also just a dark smudge of congealed blood, blackened by exposure to air. Her second eyeball dangled from the deformed socket, tethered by a tattered optic nerve. It hung down, staring at the ground.
    If you cared for her, why did you do
this
to her?
    He forced his eyes back to her clothing, and focused on her blouse and belt. The silk of the blouse was thick and the cut expensive. The belt was real leather not synthetic, and carried a Gucci label. Not a knock-off either.
    What possible connection could there be between this rich socialite and Marcia Lamb, Jake wondered.
    ‘What can you see, Detective?’ asked the colonel from the top of the ditch.
    Jake said nothing so Asher jumped down and took a look for himself.
    Asher muttered, ‘Shit,’ under his breath. He took a quick look at the body, then busied himself searching the ground.
    Jake could make out Mills interviewing the foreman, and he guessed forensics were about five minutes away. The assistant medical examiner would be another half an hour. But the site perimeter had been secured by a ring of cops. Just in time too; reporters were beginning to circle. Jake could make out at least four print guys over by the site office, and a big truck from the local television affiliate was unloading equipment. He couldn’t see Chuck Ford yet, but where there was carrion the hyenas were never far behind.
    ‘They are going to be on us non-stop,’ said Asher, motioning to the press behind them. ‘They’ll say we let the suspect go and he killed again.’
    ‘They can say what they like,’ said Jake. ‘Sonny didn’t do this.’
    Asher glanced nervously at the press, then lowered his voice. ‘Then who did?’
    Jake was stumped. He was picking up very little. Detective work was a grinding slog, collating interviews, clues, alibis and opportunities. But you needed luck. And Jake needed a feel for the killer. He looked at the body again.
    ‘Serial killers – if that’s what we’re dealing with – are like serial daters. They target a certain type,’ said Jake,‘and they almost never cross the colour line. Our guy has crossed social class
and
colour, like he doesn’t give a damn who he kills. And, to be honest, Colonel, that kinda scares the shit out of me.’
    He looked down at the body again and the undisturbed jewellery.
    ‘Robbery doesn’t account for any part of it,’ he muttered. ‘It’s all about the power and violence with this one. For him the life he takes is enough of a trophy. No need to bother with possessions.’
    ‘This one will have a swankier address than our previous victim,’ Asher said. ‘He’s spreading