Инстинкт Зла. Возрожденная. Марина Суржевская

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СКАЧАТЬ at the body from behind his sunglasses. The early summer morning was already promising to be scorching, and the sun rippled across the water like flashes of silverfish. She was lying in the grass, her toes pointed toward the shore as if sunbathing. It didn’t take a medical degree to see that the woman had met a violent end delivered by the edge of a knife. It didn’t take a law degree to know that he was looking at a murder, not a homicide.

      “I thought she was pulled from the river?” The vic’s hair and clothing were dry, and her features didn’t carry the characteristic bloat of floaters.

      “No, although the body is slightly damp, probably from condensation,” McCarthy said. “She hasn’t been here long, either.” He gently pried open an exposed wound on the vic’s arm. “Temperature’s been above ninety degrees for three days now, and no blowfly larvae. They’re just starting to find her.” As if on cue, a fly landed on her cheek.

      Gray crouched next to the doctor, trying not to reel at the stench of death and grateful he’d received the call before breakfast. The victim’s face was frozen in a grimace, and her limbs appeared stiff. “The body’s in full rigor?”

      “Yes. She was most likely killed sometime overnight.”

      “Dumped here early this morning,” Officer Langley said, pointing to the earth. “No blood on the ground.”

      Gray frowned and surveyed the surrounding area. “Have you been able to locate the site where she was killed?”

      “Not yet,” said Langley.

      “Keep looking.” He nodded at the ME. “What about cause of death?”

      “I’ll perform a full autopsy, but it looks like what you’d expect.” He gestured with a gloved finger as he reviewed the evidence. “She was stabbed by a serrated knife before she died, and she saw it coming.” He pointed to the cuts on her forearms and hands—evidence she’d tried to block the attack. “There are a lot of wounds. Someone was angry about something.”

      Gray turned away to stare out at the Charles, where life continued as usual. White sails already billowed against the wind, pulling boats across the water. Not far away from this death scene, people were enjoying a pleasant Saturday morning.

      An unfamiliar voice cut through his thoughts. “Langley, you’ll want to look for gravel and clay.”

      Gray whipped around to see a woman coming from the stairs he’d just walked down. Her slender figure was clothed casually in jeans and a blue tank. Her hair was pulled away from her face and secured at the back of her neck in a messy knot, but auburn tendrils grazed her cheeks. With one hand she clutched a small stainless-steel travel mug, and with the other she shielded her eyes from the sun, leaving untouched the pair of sunglasses that dangled from the center of her tank.

      She pointed to the victim. “Her knees are torn, and there’s gravel and dirt in the cuts.” She pointed the same hand at the path along the Charles. “This path is asphalt. The injuries would be different if she’d been killed here.”

      “Excuse me.” Gray stepped in front of her, blocking her view of the body. No one was allowed on his scene unless authorized, and he’d never met this woman. “This is an active crime scene. What’s your role in this investigation?”

      She faced him, still shielding her eyes, and then lifted the pair of sunglasses and slid them on her face. “There, that’s better.” She reached into her back pocket and removed a business card. “I’m Dr. Mia Perez. I’m an associate professor of psychology at Northeastern.”

      An associate professor? She looked as if she was only in her twenties. He glanced to the top of the embankment. “Who the hell let you in here?”

      She set her jaw firmly but spared a tight smile. “The officers know me. I’ve done some work for the Boston P.D. It’s nice to meet you, too.”

      “What kind of work?”

      “Criminal profiling. I’ve provided some insight on cold cases that has led to convictions.”

      Gray squinted at the simple business card with disinterest before handing it back to her. “With all due respect, none of that answers my original question. What’s your role in this investigation?”

      Her mouth twitched. “In my experience, when someone says ‘with all due respect,’ they actually mean the opposite.” She nodded curtly at the business card. “Keep it. I have plenty of them. And as to your question, I was asked to be here.”

      Gray’s eyes narrowed. “By whom?”

      “Me, sir.” Officer Langley stepped forward, bobbing his head nervously. “She was working with Lieutenant Mathieson last summer on the Valentine case, and I heard this was a young woman, so...” He stood dumbly in place.

      “So what, Officer?” Gray knew he didn’t have to do much to appear physically imposing, and now he just pulled up to his full height, rested his hands at his sides and waited for the explanation. “You thought this woman might be one of Valentine’s victims? He hasn’t killed in nearly a year.”

      “About ten months,” said Mia. “Serial killers often take breaks in between killings. Officer Langley called me to the scene because this vic fit the profile, and because I might be helpful if this was Valentine’s scene.”

      Valentine. Blame the media for the stupid moniker. A little over a year ago, bodies began to pile up in Boston. Three bodies and one missing person later, a reporter started calling the perp Valentine because an anonymous source let slip that a single killer was suspected, and that this killer left flowers at the scenes. What the reporter couldn’t know was how apt the name truly was, because the police hadn’t disclosed that Valentine had removed the heart from each of his victims. A vile souvenir, no doubt.

      Officially, Valentine was a bogeyman, a figment of that reporter’s imagination. “Do we think this is the work of a single killer? It’s too soon to tell,” said the chief at a press conference when the Valentine article came out. No one at the Boston P.D. was prepared to utter the words serial killer, and a year later, no one had. Serial killers didn’t just generate hysteria in the public—they attracted the FBI, and Gray needed federal involvement in his cases like he needed another homicide file on his desk. When his predecessor retired, Gray inherited the Valentine file and the sleepless nights that came with it. All of his worrying amounted to squat, because once the chief denied Valentine’s existence, Valentine stopped killing.

      “Like that fairy in Peter Pan,” an officer quipped one day. “He dies if you don’t believe in him.”

      Someone should have named him Tinker Bell.

      “Valentine doesn’t exist. Not officially.” Gray kept his side to her and spoke to Officer Langley instead. “And we bring profilers on board only after CSU has had the chance to process the scene.”

      “That’s not always the best idea, Lieutenant.”

      He spun to face her, and Mia continued. “I’ve pointed out evidence that CSU has missed on more than one occasion. Once CSU leaves the scene, this evidence can’t be used in court because the chain of custody has been broken.” She shrugged. “That’s why it’s better if I see the scene while it’s being processed rather than later.”

      Gray bristled. No one told him what best practices were. “Now, wait a damn—”

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