Kylie Brant - What the Dead Know (The Mindhunters Book 8) Read online

  Returning his attention to the specimen, he prodded it with a scalpel. “That I’m not sure of. What I am certain of is that it’s a liver, at least part of one. And it’s diseased. Likely cancer, although it would require testing to be positive.”

  The news hit her like a hard left jab, summoning an immediate visceral response. Pushing the reaction aside, she asked grimly, “Anything else?”

  “Well, there’s this.” He pointed to the center of the mass.

  Keira leaned closer. She’d already noted that it was badly damaged. But there was something white there, nearly covered by the surrounding tissue. She could see the small slices in the organ now, surrounding the area he was indicating. “That looks like…bone.” A rush of bile surged to her throat, a response she hadn’t experienced since she’d been a rookie. Keira looked at the doctor. “Since when does a liver have bones in it?”

  With delicate precision, he used the scalpel to pry the item from the surrounding tissue. Once it was freed, he laid it on the counter. They both stared in silence for a moment. The bone at the end of it glistened white, but the flesh was badly mangled. Despite that fact, however, there was no mistaking it for anything other than the upper half of a human finger.

  _______

  “Dr. Carstens is on his way from the lab now.” Adam Raiker waved Keira to a seat and then rounded the gleaming desk to his chair. “I hope your trip down was uneventful. At least the weather is decent. The cold snap we had before Christmas set records.”

  She sank into the butter soft leather chair gratefully. It had already been a long day, and she still had the plane ride home tonight. “Compared to northern Michigan, the temps in the DC area are positively balmy.” She’d landed in Dulles, rented a car and driven the remainder of the way to Raiker’s compound in Manassas. The level of security she’d gone through—even as an expected guest—made the airport measures pale in comparison.

  Keira studied the man surreptitiously. She’d never met Raiker before, but there were few in law enforcement that hadn’t heard of him. The man had been a profiling legend at the FBI during his tenure there. The reason for his departure were evident in the scars on his hands and throat, and the black eye patch he wore over the eye that—according to rumor—had been carved out by the serial murderer he’d been trailing.

  “I appreciate the fast turn-around time.” It’d been only four days since she’d met with King, and she’d spent the first twenty-four hours examining all the angles before making a decision about how to proceed.

  Raiker’s shrug was negligible. “I know how it is working in the field. Waiting weeks or months for tests to be completed in the state labs. Time is an investigator’s most valuable asset.” His smile was slight. “And Raiker Forensics has the resources.”

  They certainly did. The man had cherry-picked the finest scientists and investigators across the nation to staff his company. It boasted experts in every possible forensic specialty, internationally accredited labs and investigators trained by Raiker himself. All these services were available to law enforcement agencies and select private customers. For a price.

  His laser blue gaze shifted as the door behind her opened. “Keira Saxon, Finn Carstens.”

  Keira twisted around to look at the man approaching. Six foot, streaky brown wavy hair and hazel eyes with the face of a martyred saint. The mental observation was immediate and instinctive. But the kick in her pulse was solely due to the laptop he had tucked under one arm.

  “Ms. Saxon.” Carstens gave her a quick smile as he headed to the conference-sized table to the right of Raiker’s desk. “I think I have the answers you asked for. And maybe a few more questions.”

  Something clutched in her gut as he fussed with the computer for a moment. There was a fleeting instant when Keira wondered if she wanted the answers at all. She had the feeling that whatever the man had to report was going to tilt her world on its axis.

  She elbowed aside the emotion and settled back into her chair. Anything had to be better than the gnawing uncertainty that had dogged her for the past several months. “Anxious to hear what you found. I didn’t want to send it to the state lab until I was sure of what we had.” That wasn’t the only reason she hadn’t involved the Michigan State Police. Not by a long shot. From the look in Raiker’s eye, she had an uneasy feeling that he suspected as much.

  “Here we are.” The content on Carsten’s laptop screen was now displayed on a huge screen mounted on the wall next to the table. He threw a quick look at her. “Hope you aren’t queasy.”

  Keira’s voice was wry. “I was a Chicago beat cop for six years. A homicide detective for five years after that.”

  The man nodded. “What you see first are the items you shipped down to us in their original state.” Both were shown close up from several different angles. It was the severed finger that drew her attention. Kept it. Given the size of the knuckle, it had probably belonged to a male. But like the size twelve footprints she’d followed a week ago, she couldn’t rule out a large female.

  “The organ is most definitely a liver, and human.” Regardless of her earlier words, Keira’s stomach gave a sudden lurch. “The portion you sent is from the right lobe.” He switched to the next picture, with several frames showing only the liver, this time in thin slivers, each magnified. “There’s evidence of advanced cancer here.” He used a penlight laser pointer to indicate a spot on the large screen. “Here. And here. Hepatocellular carcinoma, specifically. The most common form of liver cancer, but rare in this instance as there’s no accompanying cirrhosis.”

  The words hit her with the force of a runaway locomotive. She attempted to speak. Could summon no voice. Moistening her lips she tried again. “What about the blood sample I sent you?”

  Carstens turned to fully face her. “I ran a series of familial DNA tests triangulating between the liver, the amputated finger and the blood sample. The liver presented the most difficulty, as formaldehyde had degraded the organ to some degree. However, I was able to find a small sample suitable for testing. Short story is the liver results showed a 99.99 per cent probability of paternity to the individual who provided the blood sample. As for the severed finger…”

  There was a roaring in her ears. The rest of what he was saying was lost on her as her mind grappled with his revelation. The memory of her father’s voice drowned out the scientist’s.

  It’s advanced, Kee-Kee. And it’s aggressive. The radiation is just to shrink it before surgery. And I haven’t made up my mind about taking that step. We have to be realistic about my prognosis.

  Screw reality. She’d clung to hope long after the time her father had accepted his fate. He’d wanted to avoid a long drawn out death, and she’d wanted that for him, too. But neither of them would have chosen the way his life had ended.

  “Ms. Saxon?” The low timber in Raiker’s voice was no doubt linked to the jagged scar that traced across his throat. His tone was concerned. “Are you all right?”

  “The blood sample was mine.” It took effort to smooth the slight hitch in her words before continuing, her gaze on Carstens. “What about the finger?”

  The man shook his head. The sympathy in his expression was almost as brutal as his earlier words had been. “No match. Although DNA testing showed that it belonged to a male, it didn’t match your father. It had been disarticulated at the second knuckle, likely using a large bladed knife with a smooth edge.”

  “I’d assumed a male victim, given the size of the specimen, but appearances can be deceiving.”

  “It could have been female,” he agreed. “My great-aunt Edna had hands the size of small hams. Watching her shuck corn was a terrifying experience.”

  She recognized his attempt at humor for what it was. Couldn’t summon a smile. There was no way to lighten this news. It took everything she had to squelch the tumult of emotion frothing inside her.

  Carstens continued. “The hemorrhagic tissue present indicates the victim was alive at the time of amputation. The
nail had been removed some time before. At least a week from the signs of partial healing evident.”

  Raiker rose from his desk to walk across the room, his limp more pronounced than when he’d led her into the room minutes ago. A cane rested against the side of his desk. He hadn’t used it earlier, either. She wondered if the injury to his leg was yet another reminder of his time imprisoned by the killer he’d been hunting.

  The thought was a welcome distraction, and she seized on it gratefully. Anything to avoid thinking about the forensic scientist’s revelation. He’d validated her absolute worst fears. The ones too awful to share even with Phil Milestone.

  “Drink this.” Raiker pushed a short glass into her hands, and her fingers closed around it reflexively. “Fifteen-year-old Scotch made for sipping.” He headed back to his chair. “Although a good gulp wouldn’t be out of order. It’s not every day a person learns that their mystery home delivery consisted of their father’s liver and a stranger’s severed finger.”

  Somehow his brusqueness was easier to accept than Carstens’ sympathy. She took a long drink. The liquor scorched a path down her throat. She sipped again. Felt steadier.

  “There was no formaldehyde present in the finger.” Finn Carstens’ voice was quiet. “How long ago did your father die?”

  She swirled the amber liquid in the glass, her eyes trained on the resulting eddies. “It’s been nine months. One of those rare weekday afternoons he’d gone fishing.” Or rather, he’d had a doctor’s appointment and had taken leave the rest of the day. He’d been tolerating the radiation fairly well. She’d been glad at the time to see him taking an interest in his old hobbies. Tipping the glass to her lips, she continued, “He took his pole, his rifle and the same cooler left on my porch a few days ago. When he wasn’t home for dinner, I started calling.” Useless to berate herself for not checking in earlier. He’d deserved a few hours of solitary time she’d thought. There’d been no way of knowing that she’d never see him alive again.

  She raised her head, looked at Raiker. “I checked out all his favorite fishing spots. Found his truck, but no signs of him. I alerted his deputies, who organized a search party. It was later expanded to include a tracker and a scent dog. Took three days to find him, in the national wilderness area, nearly five miles from where he’d left his truck.” She hauled in a breath, mentally avoiding the image that threatened to rise. “Animals had gotten to the body. There was a bear’s den nearby. Coyotes in the area. The state medical examiner’s office conducted the autopsy. Findings were inconclusive, due to the damage from the scavengers.” The blood spill meant he’d been alive when he’d been attacked. She prayed every night to a deafened God that he’d had a heart attack and was unconscious well before… Her mind skittered away from the thought. Seized on another.

  “We recovered his pole, but not his rifle or, until last week, his cooler.” The missing cooler had always bothered her. It wouldn’t have been unusual for her dad to carry extra ammo packaged inside it along with his lunch. What had he encountered that made him think he’d need it? “Two shots had been fired from his weapon. The bear in the vicinity was caught and sedated.” , “There was a wound in its flank that could have been made by a bullet grazing it.” Her voice was as grim as her memory of the scene. “The area is overgrown and untamed. Didn’t make for a great crime scene.” With no evidence of foul play, there had been a few realistic, if gruesome scenarios to explain what had happened to her father. All of them were stomach churning.

  Finn seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “So the condition of his internal organs…” He let the words hang delicately.

  “The body was found on its side and had been disemboweled by the scavengers. The clothing chewed away. Much of the skin was missing. Some of the ribs and smaller bones.”

  “The reason I ask, Ms. Saxon…” Finn waited for her attention to shift to him. “The hole in the liver. The one that the portion of finger was inserted into. Examination of the surrounding tissue showed minute traces of gunshot residue.”

  Her fingers tightened around the glass until her knuckles whitened, the wash of shock almost numbing. Was it better to have answers at all if they verified the darkest fears that had lingered since May? “There was no brass found in the area..” No evidence that his predator had been human. But even with a metal detector, the evidence technicians had been faced with an insurmountable task. The Rock River Canyon Wilderness was over forty-five hundred acres in the Hiawatha Forest, and a roadless unit. The terrain was rugged. She couldn’t imagine what her father had been doing there. But whatever urge had caused him to hike five miles from his fishing spot had ended up killing him.

  Comprehension seeped in. Solidified. Her father had been murdered. Shock and anguish gave way to a surge of scalding fury. Nine months. That’s how long the killer had walked around free. She’d buried her father. Accepted condolences. Gone through his things. Bowed to the pressure brought to bear and accepted an appointment to fill out the rest of his term. And all that time, the killer had been doing what? Watching. Waiting. And given the severed finger, likely something even more sinister than that.

  A fierce ball of rage lodged in her gut. “He might have stumbled on something in the forest. Poaching. A meth lab. Or he was shot by accident, then the killer left him there to die.” She surged from her seat, the liquor splashing precariously close to the rim of the glass she held. “Unless…he was lured to that exact place. Deliberately.” To an area where it was all but certain that the territory, coupled with the nearby wildlife would destroy the crime scene. And then the killer had covered up his involvement by removing all signs that would point to homicide. Including removing the organ that the killer’s bullet had passed through.

  “Did your father have anyone in particular who would want him dead?”

  Keira gave a bitter laugh. “He was the sheriff for three decades. That list would number in the hundreds if I started looking at everyone he’d put away.” She knew because she’d already begun making a record. Some nights it was easier to focus on the unanswered questions she had about his death than it was to face the nightmarish possibilities that sleep would bring.

  “And now the killer is making it personal. He wants you to know what he’s done.”

  She nodded at Finn’s words, lifting an unconscious hand to her new shorter haircut that just brushed her shoulders. “More personal than you know. Four days ago my hair was six inches longer. When I got home after the attack and checked out my injuries, I discovered a chunk of hair missing.” Her gaze went to Raiker. “Whoever the killer is, he likes to take souvenirs.”

  The other man leaned back in his chair, his gaze fierce. “Finn, were you able to lift a print from that finger?”

  “No. It had been, for lack of a better word, skinned.”

  Keira returned to her chair, sank into it and drained the remaining Scotch. “Maybe the killer took something from me because he’d sent along something of his. Sort of a…exchange.” Perhaps it was the alcohol, but the shock was wearing off, leaving only the anger behind. Could it be that bold, that blatant? She could think of no clearer way to throw down the gauntlet.

  I’m here. I’ve been here all along. Come and get me.

  “It might be a warning,” Finn said quietly. His eyes were sharp. Shrewd. As if he could read her thoughts. “You could be his next target.”

  Keira smiled thinly. “If that’s what he has in mind he should have killed me when he had the chance. I don’t plan on giving him a second opportunity.”

  _______

  Boone expertly skinned and fleshed the last beaver. He had another name, but this one fit him better. His mother had wanted to name him after Daniel Boone, the famous trapper. That would have been a helluva lot more suitable than the one he’d been saddled with by his old man.

  There wasn’t much in season in February, but it had been a decent haul today. Fourteen coyotes, twelve beaver and eleven foxes. His catch would have been higher, but at one dam h
e’d released several of the beaver caught in his snares. A trapper with ethics didn’t wipe out an entire habitat. It paid to leave seed for future re-population.

  Finished with the task, he scooped the meat into a Ziploc and strode over to the chest freezer, carefully laying it flat on top of the other bags. He rarely ate anything other than game at home, although he did his share of dining out. Dizzy’s Bar did a mean steak, and Claire’s Diner had the best pie in the county, including his mother’s, not that he’d ever tell her that.

  It took discipline to become an expert trapper, and he had that, in spades. He was a hunter by nature, the best on the UP, and likely in the whole state. But he downplayed that fact. His hobbies demanded a certain amount of discretion.

  The VersaTube shed was the newest structure on the property. He’d erected it a few years ago and had eventually torn down the old barn that had once stood nearby. Spread the concrete pad beneath it with the help of a couple of buddies, and that, with the addition of the foot-wide grated floor drain that ran the length had set him back a couple years’ profit from selling furs. It was air tight, making the wood-burning stove he’d installed more than adequate heat.

  He carefully hosed down the area where he’d been working and gathered up the carcasses to dump in the bin by the stove. It had hurt to release the marten he’d caught today, but not only was it not in season, he’d already gotten his one allotment for the year according to the Department of Natural Resources regulations. DNR was God when it came to hunting or trapping, and it paid to make sure it was regularly pacified.

  When his work area was spotless he picked up his knife and cleaned it in the utility sink next to the freezer before turning his attention to his current guest. The man was slumped forward, naked, his arms shackled to the stout pipe running overhead. Over the past couple of weeks, he’d grown a patchy dark beard, and it contrasted sharply with the pallor of his skin, except for the dozens of areas of pink puckered flesh dotting his body. The bandage where his finger had been amputated was stained with blood and pus. The long strip of flesh removed from his flank was healing poorly. As Boone approached him, he could smell the infection oozing out of the man’s pores, and his stomach twisted in disgust. His captive had deserved his fate, but in the end, he’d been a disappointment. Boone was ready to be done with him.