“How were they killed?” Aidan asked bluntly.
“Strangulation. Manual strangulation. That should help you. Of course, with the chop job—sorry about that—it’s difficult to get a complete picture. But I couldn’t find ligature marks and there was heavy bruising around the neck. Now, the trauma could’ve come from the, er, removal of the heads.”
He paused. “I worked in the city for years and saw just about every form of murder out there, although some sick bastard will always find a new twist. In my opinion, however, they were manually strangled, something that takes a significant amount of strength, especially considering the size of a man like Highsmith. The heads were removed afterward, probably for effect, for theatricality—but that kind of theorizing belongs to you investigators. I’m merely stating the obvious here.”
“Or what appears to be obvious,” Aidan murmured.
Mortenson hiked up two bushy white brows. “Yes, well, as I said, I leave theorizing to you gentlemen.” He walked to one of the gurneys in the room. Both bodies had, mercifully, been covered with sheets.
Now Mortenson rolled back the first.
Aidan winced inwardly. He didn’t want to see what was revealed. He had to.
Mortenson started with the female victim.
“Female, between the ages of twenty-eight and thirty-five. Approximately five foot seven in life, 135 pounds. In excellent shape and health, judging by the state of her heart and organs, muscles and bones. She was a blue-eyed blonde, no contacts, highlights in her hair. We’ve done a computer mock-up of what she looked like before the tissue and muscle damage to the face. We’re turning that over to the police now.”
Mortenson glanced at his clipboard and his notes, then pulled out several sheets, handing them to Aidan, Van Camp and Voorhaven.
Aidan studied the woman’s face. She had nice bone structure, large eyes, a small nose and a pert chin. But there was no life in the image; he wasn’t sure he would have recognized her even if he’d known her.
“What about her clothing?” Van Camp asked.
“Her personal effects are boxed and ready for you and the lab,” Mortenson said. “But due to the blood on the outfit and various fluids stiffening the fabric, I believe she was killed and then beheaded in the suit you saw on the body, under that big coat. I’ve rushed everything, and the lab has, too.”
“Thanks,” Aidan said.
“Now, as to Mr. Highsmith...” Mortenson began.
Aidan felt his muscles tighten. He steeled himself not to flinch, not to show emotion. He didn’t want to be hauled off the case.
Mortenson rolled the sheet back.
And there was Richard, the head placed where it should have been but showing not just the trauma of death, but of autopsy, too. He was almost unrecognizable.
Mortenson was all business, his gloved hands showing what his medical eye saw as he pointed out the bruising caused by the strangulation that had ended Highsmith’s life.
Aidan stared at the corpse on the gurney. Richard Highsmith looked like something created by a master of bizarre special effects.
Mortenson’s voice droned on and on, until finally the sheet was drawn back over Richard.
“I’ll keep you posted,” Dr. Mortenson said. “But I’m not sure what else I’ll be able to tell you.”
“Toxicology reports,” Aidan said. He was quiet for a minute. “The timing here seems to be virtually impossible. Richard was seen, then he disappeared—but he wasn’t put on the headless horseman until the very early hours of the morning. Whoever killed him must have gotten him out of the convention center and held him somewhere—dead or alive.”
“Well, we need to find the crime scenes, too,” Mortenson responded. “Both victims were dead when they were beheaded, but you’re still going to have blood somewhere.”
Aidan nodded, then indicated the bags of clothing and personal effects. “Wallet, cash, ID?” He already knew they were there; he’d checked before the medical examiner had taken Richard’s body from the vault.
“Yes. Of course, I’m not a detective, but...no robbery. He had about a hundred in cash on him, several credit cards and his New York State driver’s license.”
“No cell phone?” Aidan asked. “It didn’t show up in a secret pocket or anything?”
Mortenson shook his head. “No cell phone.”
“Purbeck was going to get a fix on its last location,” Van Camp murmured.
“It’ll be the convention center,” Aidan said. “If this killer is a psychopath, he’s a smart one.”
“Call us,” Voorhaven said, “if you get anything, anything at all.”
“We need an ID on Jane Doe as soon as possible,” Van Camp pointed out.
“I’m on it. Like I said, I’ve done dental impressions and taken her fingerprints. Swabbed her for DNA, but of course, we have to have something for comparison,” Mortenson said.