“Also, since the punctures are quite deep, we know that the unsub used considerable force. If the killer used his non-dominant hand, the wounds would be shallower.”
“A remarkable observation, Miss Donovan, and one with which I concur.” Munroe smiled at her. He then crossed the room to the worktable, picking up the material she’d noticed earlier and shaking it out to reveal a powdery blue, silk evening gown. The bodice was cut low and sparkled with seed pearls and embroidered flowers.
Pretty, Kendra supposed, if you ignored the stain of blood and the tears made by the knife.
Munroe said, “I matched the bodily injuries to the slits in the material.”
“So she was dressed when she was attacked,” concluded Kendra.
“Yes. And she sustained no sexual injuries.”
Kendra walked to the table to scan the other items: a nude colored chemise and stays; matching hose; lacy garters. There were shoes that were little more than slippers, designed in pale blue silk, and decorated like the bodice, with embroidery and beads. They were ridiculously tiny, like a child’s.
“She definitely dressed up for someone,” she murmured.
“It certainly appears that way, yes.” Munroe walked back to the autopsy table. “Now I shall remove the material from her face. Miss Donovan, I am interested to hear your theories about this.” Without further delay, he removed the cloth and handed it to his apprentice.
Kendra was no stranger to death. As an FBI criminal profiler, she’d seen it in person and studied all manner of it in photographs. Yet her heart gave a queer jolt when she saw Lady Dover lying on a slab beneath the flickering light from the oil lanterns in such a state.
They hadn’t been friends. In fact, they’d barely spoken to each other. But Kendra remembered the other woman’s exquisite beauty, her golden hair and clear, ivory skin, paired with large blue, almost violet, eyes set below delicately arched, dark brown eyebrows. The Grace Kelly perfection had been a perfect foil for Alec’s dark good looks. At the time, Kendra had acknowledged that they’d made a striking couple, even though it had annoyed her to see them together.
Any lingering irritation fell away now. Lady Dover’s eyes were closed and her mouth was slightly open, but she would never be mistaken for sleeping. The killer had made two shallow cuts on the right side of her face. On the left, he’d slashed and gouged until the skin flapped down against the jaw, looking like an upside down U. In the raw pulp, Kendra caught the glimmer of white bone, possibly teeth.
“Good God,” breathed the Duke. Two words only, but they were filled with horror.
Kendra was silent for a long moment, letting her own horror wash through her. Acknowledge it, compartmentalize it, and move on. It was a trick she’d learned when she’d begun her training at Quantico.
“This was not done in a frenzy,” Kendra finally said. She pointed to the first two marks. “Those appear to be hesitation marks. Superficial. Like he tried to start something and couldn’t go through with it.”
Dr. Munroe eyed her curiously. “And the left side of her face?”
“He was obviously a lot more determined to complete the task. Was she alive when he did this?”
“No.”
“Thank God,” muttered Aldridge.
“The same weapon—the stiletto—was used here,” said Dr. Munroe. “’Tis why the edges of the injury are so ragged. Stilettos are excellent for thrusting, but they make poor cutters. He had to have spent some time to fillet the skin like that. If he’d used a better knife, he could have done this in a matter of seconds. Instead, I estimate that the injury took minutes—maybe even as long as five minutes to complete.”
“Why’d the bastard do it?” Sam asked, and everyone, including Barts, looked at Kendra. This reaction was, she supposed, some kind of validation.
“It’s not unheard of for a man to kill and disfigure a woman who’s trying to break off a relationship. But that kind of violence is usually done in the heat of the moment.” She considered past crime scenes, where the woman’s face had been obliterated, either by fists or a bullet. “He was already stabbing her in rage. He should have done the same to the face.”
She frowned as she examined the gruesome disfigurement. “This was calculated. It has a purpose. She was already dead. He could have walked away. Why didn’t he?”
“Pray tell, Miss Donovan, are we dealing with the same kind of monster that we dealt with before?” asked Aldridge. “Will more women turn up dead?”
Kendra dragged her gaze away from the damaged face to look at the Duke. She saw the fear in his eyes, and understood. The monster they’d dealt with a month ago had been a serial killer.
“No. No, I don’t think so.” She shook her head, and then her eyes returned to Lady Dover, scanning the puncture wounds piercing her chest and the grisly cut on her face. “Everything about this is . . . personal. He didn’t choose her because she fit his pattern. She wasn’t a stranger to him. She was involved with him, but something set him off.”
“I may have a theory . . .” Munroe hesitated.
Kendra looked over at him and saw something in his eyes that made her stomach clench and sent an icy shiver dancing down her spine. The moment seemed to hang suspended like Munroe’s lighting contraption. Kendra had an overwhelming, completely irrational desire to stop him from saying anything more.
Then it was too late.
“Lady Dover was pregnant,” he said slowly. “At least three months. I think such news may very well have set the killer off.”
6
Kendra, Aldridge, and Sam Kelly were seated in the Duke’s carriage, again rumbling down the street, taking them away from Covent Garden. The curtains had been drawn tight, a barrier against the night and, she suspected, the more unsavory elements that existed outside in that darkness.
“Alec was not the father of Lady Dover’s child,” the Duke insisted.
“You don’t know that,” Kendra said, and her voice, to her ears, sounded distant and hollow, like she was hearing it from the other side of a long tunnel. The news of Lady Dover’s pregnancy had shaken her more than she cared to admit. “We can’t ignore the possibility,” she forced herself to say. “The timing works out. He was involved with her—by his own admission—during that period.”
Inside the carriage, a small brass lantern had been lit, and in its feeble glow, she could see Aldridge’s quick frown, although he didn’t try to contradict her.
But then how could he? Unfortunately, there was no way to determine the paternity of the child in this era. Blood testing, an inaccurate method at best, wouldn’t even be available for another hundred years, DNA testing obviously much later.