Then he pulled out another photo of the crime scene, this one showing Alana Carmichael’s face and neck from the same overhead viewpoint, only in close-up. Like the photos of Rachel Friesen from the cranberry bog, it revealed deep ligature marks around the victim’s neck. Whatever the killer had used to strangle Alana Carmichael, it had been pulled so tightly that it had begun to cut into her skin. The blood vessels in her eyes had hemorrhaged from the force of the strangulation, just as Rachel Friesen’s had.
The next photo he removed from the pile was another close-up, this time a view of her left side. It revealed the neck tattoo he had seen in the backyard photo. At first glance, it appeared to be what he had observed before, a cluster of roses at a slightly odd angle. For some reason, beyond the fact that they were tattooed onto what was now a young woman murdered in a particularly vicious fashion, the image gave him a strangely uneasy feeling when he viewed it up close. He lifted the photo up and slowly rotated it around its axis. When he viewed it from a point behind the victim’s left ear, the now nearly upside-down tattoo suddenly revealed itself to be a cleverly macabre optical illusion. Someone viewing Alana close up and from behind would have been surprised, as Verraday now was, to see the roses artfully morph into a black-and-white skull surrounded by fronds and petals. He noticed something else not visible in the overhead shot: that the Cupid’s arrow pin that Alana Carmichael had been wearing in the backyard photograph was missing. He also noted that like Rachel, she had a piercing in her navel, but there was no ring or stud there in any of the crime scene pictures.
Then Verraday pulled out a photo taken at the morgue. It revealed that the victim’s back, buttocks, and thighs were heavily bruised and covered in welts, the same way Rachel Friesen’s were. According to the coroner’s report, the one major difference was that semen had been found on Alana’s panties, and it matched that of the accused, Peter Cray. It was an odd discrepancy. There was considerable forethought in the commission of both crimes. Whoever did this had chosen his victims, as well as his means of killing and disposing of them, with great care. Leaving traces of semen behind had been a major gaffe. Or had it?
Verraday set the coroner’s report down then pulled out Peter Cray’s file, starting with the mug shots. Verraday gazed at the photos and took an immediate dislike to him. Cray was a stocky man in his early thirties, with a neck that seemed bigger in circumference than his head. He had a pugnacious set to his jaw and gazed out from piglike eyes with a look that was simultaneously belligerent and stupid. It was an expression that Verraday had seen scores of times. It was the look of the repeat offender. Verraday’s instinctive dislike of Cray only increased when he read his rap sheet, a revolving door of charges and occasional convictions dating back to age fifteen. There were two arrests for beating up prostitutes and another for indecent exposure. Rounding out his record were several thefts, a robbery, a couple of assaults committed while intoxicated, and a few charges of receiving stolen merchandise that were dismissed because of lack of evidence. There was a break-and-entry charge that he’d beaten only because he was so drunk and high on OxyContin that he had fallen asleep behind the wheel of the getaway car while his partner was apprehended inside the victims’ home. When police questioned Cray, he claimed that he had no idea his friend was planning a break-in. He insisted that he had thought that the man was getting out to relieve himself, and that Cray had nodded off while waiting for him to return. Cray might not wind up on death row through his own efforts, thought Verraday, but he’d likely spend a lot of his life in prison for crimes not yet committed. Unless by some miracle, he rehabilitated himself, which seemed unlikely. Verraday’s eyes were beginning to sting, and his lids felt heavy. He took a sip of his brandy then closed them just for a moment to give them some rest. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sleeping when the motion of his head slumping forward jerked him awake. He pushed his chair away from the desk and headed to his bedroom, where he quickly peeled off his clothes and climbed under the covers before the effects of the natural melatonin could wear off and the misery and bleakness of the photos could creep back into his consciousness.
CHAPTER 10
Verraday entered the Trabant Café and reflexively checked the clock above the cash register by the front door. Ten o’clock sharp, just as they had arranged. Verraday was precise about being punctual and, without even consciously doing so, took one last look to make sure he wasn’t late. He didn’t demand such a level of fastidiousness from anyone else. It was, he knew, one of his quirks, probably something pounded into him by a grade school teacher whose face he couldn’t even visualize any more, but whose quirk had become his quirk.