Choking, squeezing, tightening his fingers around the neck. Yeah, that was good.
But someone else was playing his game and that disturbed him.
He stewed on the matter during the night, disturbing images racing through his dreams like thoroughbred horses. Each culmination of the chase, the attack, the vicious ending – made his heart gallop and his groin burn.
He’d have to do it again. He confessed this during these dark-night fantasies, even while his day-time brain kept him acting normally – at work, doing the job, facing co-workers. Maintaining normalcy was becoming a herculean effort.
Chapter 35
By nature and profession Patch Wilson, the Bigler County medical examiner, was a meticulous man. His recent trip to the Mediterranean was the most spontaneous act he’d ever taken. His wife had died last spring, and although he had a son and a daughter, the loss of his life-long companion had left him bereft.
The vacation had been a bad idea. He missed his work more than he’d imagined. He missed his coworkers and staff, and the precision of pathology. Patch enjoyed the structure and accuracy, the DNA and medical evidence. He liked the infallible order of the profession.
Hell, he even missed odd duck Howard Casey, who was one of his technical assistants.
Back at work in the autopsy room, Patch felt more cheerful than he had in weeks. The varied instruments, the stainless steel table, the tubing and scales – all were items of exactness and surety. He could count on the results. The facts were immutable.
He glanced over at the row of body trays where his assistant Howard pushed an autopsied body back into the vacant drawer. The man had been Wilson’s lab helper for nearly eight months, and he still didn’t understand much about what made the inscrutable man tick.
He’d hired Howard Casey, of course. The technician had a stellar curriculum vitae, along with outstanding letters of recommendation. Howard had completed his training and work experience at various institutions on the east coast. Patch had been very pleased with the qualifications of his new hire.
Still, eight months later, he was no closer to understanding the man than he was before he’d begun working for the county coroner. Howard wasn’t a physician, but had very strong anatomical skills, a pleasant bonus for the very busy medical examiner’s office. He was confident, knowledgeable, and very competent. If an underlying arrogance tinged his personality, well, it was something Patch could work with.
“Howard, would you get the evidence report off my desk for this young lady, please?” Patch nodded toward the young female on the autopsy table. The external examination had already been completed, the body photographed and cleaned.
He never liked to begin an examination until he knew the name of the victim, whenever possible. It seemed ... disrespectful, otherwise.
“Certainly, Dr. Wilson,” Howard answered, retrieving and handing him the file. “Will you be needing an assist for this?”
Another odd quirk – Howard never called Patch by any name except his formal title and last name. Not that Patch was complaining. He rather liked when the younger generation showed proper respect for their elders.
He thought briefly of Sheriff Slater, who always called him by his nickname “Patch.” Wilson pretended to be annoyed by it, but he enjoyed the affection that went along with the appellation. He’d known Slater a long time.
“No, thank you, I can handle this one. After you clean up, you may leave for the day.”
“Whatever you want,” Howard answered mildly.
Patch scanned the first page of the report. The girl had already been identified – Valerie Hightower, a runaway from Richmond. She’d been reported missing by her parents two months ago, ID’ed by fingerprints and confirmed by several homeless people in Rosedale who recognized her from the street.
The pathologist examined her fingers, not yet displaying the dirt and wear of older denizens of the street, and thought what a pity her early death was. He looked sadly at the pale young face, the long hair flowing like grass over the end of the table, the hands lying parallel to her torso.
Snapping on his latex gloves, he picked up the long-bladed scalpel, and pulled the microphone toward his mouth, beginning his autopsy of seventeen-year-old Valerie Hightower from Richmond, California.
An hour later Patch stepped back from the autopsy table, his internal examination complete. Initially, he’d intended to do both autopsies back to back, the girl’s first, Dickey Hinchey’s second. Instead he called Slater.
The Sheriff arrived with P.O. Cruz in tow. Patch supposed what he had to show them would interest Cruz as well, since Dickey Hinchey was his murdered parolee, and the cases appeared related.