“Talk to me,” he said, hearing the frustration in his own voice.

“First, this killer used a much less effective tool. Maybe a small garden saw or even some sort of kitchen utensil.”

“He was in a situation where he had to use what was available.” Even as he offered the explanation, he discounted it. The Handyman had planned his acts carefully, not leaving things like tools to chance. That much had been obvious.

Elizabeth went on, expression sympathetic. “This cutter was obviously uncertain of himself. Look here.” Adjusting the light and magnifier, she used clamp tweezers to draw what was left of the tissue away from the bone. “See those marks on the bone? They’re false starts.”

“In your opinion.”

She lifted her gaze. “My expert opinion. Yes.”

“What else?”

“The amputation shows no skill, the cutter just sawed and hacked away. The City Park Jane Doe’s was slick, very professional.”

Spencer frowned. “A couple of the original samples displayed the same unskilled cuts. Could be he’s gotten rusty in the past couple of years? That along with not having his usual quality equipment, could account for the clumsiness, couldn’t it?”

“It might,” she conceded. “But here’s the kicker. I think this killer’s left-handed, not right.”

This just got worse and worse.

“Sorry, Detective, just calling it as I see it.”

“Show me.”

She retrieved seven photos from her briefcase and spread them out on the nearest work station. “Here are photos from all the previous victims. These first three represent the ones we assumed were the Handyman’s earliest attempts. Notice the false starts.”

“Just like this victim.”

“Yes, but with one difference. Do you see it?”

He studied the images, frowning. “You’re the expert, you tell me.”

“Here, the cutter pulls the saw from left to right. That’s evidenced by the depth of the cut, where it starts and how it finishes. Let’s look at today’s victim again.”

Spencer saw what she meant right away. “Dammit!”

“Sorry. Really, I am.”

He searched for an explanation. “Could this be bogus?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Could he have used his left hand even though he was right-handed?”

“That would certainly explain some of the clumsiness. But why?”

“To throw us off. To make us question whether he was the Real McCoy or not.”

“Anything’s possible, Detective. Although I think it’s a stretch. On many levels.”

“Such as?”

“Keeping in mind that my specialty is bones, not behavior, the human animal is one who falls back on the automatic or innate.

“Being right-handed or left-handed is innate. The killer would need an incredible amount of control to consciously use his ‘wrong’ hand, especially during a time of elevated adrenaline or excitement.”

She was right. In addition, serial killers were creatures of ritual. The Handyman took his victim’s right hand. He would do it exactly the same way each time, refining the ritual as he went. The act, the way he played it out, was meaningful to him-emotionally and intellectually. Often sexually gratifying as well.

So what now? It didn’t mean Tonya hadn’t been a victim of the Handyman, but it certainly wasn’t the slam dunk they had expected.

“When can you have an official finding?”

“I’ll coordinate with Ray. Certainly within the next couple of days.”

He nodded. “Until then, can we keep this between us?”

“Absolutely.” She frowned slightly. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure. But this is an especially sensitive case, and I want to make certain all my ducks are in a row before I present anything to the brass.”

Elizabeth agreed and stayed behind to catch up with the pathologist; Spencer headed to his car. As he slid into the Camaro his phone vibrated. It was Tony.

“Pasta Man,” he said. “I was just going to call you.”

“Great minds, Slick. Got news. Jessica Skye’s family has been located. Small town in Alabama. Daphne. They’ve not heard from her since before Katrina.”

“Have they tried to find her?”

“Got the sense that wasn’t high on their priority list. Apparently Jessica and her family weren’t on great terms, though her mother sounded really shook up when I asked if she’d be willing to look at a photo, see if she thought it was her daughter.”

The forensic sculptor’s reconstruction.

“She agreed to do it?”

“She did. I contacted the Daphne PD,” Tony went on. “Promised me they’d do the honors as soon as they received a jpeg image of the reconstruction.”

“I’m heading in now, I’ll do it. You got a name?”

“Detective Fields. You want the number?”

“I’ll look it up. How’s the condo search coming?”

“Progressing. So far, nothing’s jumped up and bit me in the ass. The techs are applying Luminol now.”

The chemical mixture, when sprayed on areas where blood was suspected but not seen, reacted with iron in the hemoglobin and fluoresced. Many a criminal thought he had expertly mopped up the scene of the crime, only to be tripped up by Luminol.

“By the way, there’s a photo of Messinger on her bathroom vanity wearing the Tonya necklace.”

“It’ll do until we can get a positive ID. I have news, too. Messinger may not have been killed by the Handyman.”

“You’re shitting me, right?”

“Wish I was. Dr. Walker found some major differences between the old amputations and this new one. The most stunning, she believes the original samples were made by a right-handed killer, this one a left-handed.”

“You going to tell the captain this happy news?”

“Actually, I was going to let you.”

“Fat chance, Slick. You’re family, she won’t kill you.”

Before Spencer could argue the truth of that, Tony hung up.

55

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

6:35 p.m.

Yvette bent over her bathroom sink and splashed her face with cold water. It snapped her out of the fog she had been in since Patti told her.

Tonya was dead. Murdered. In her heart, Yvette had known it all along. But now it was real.

He shot her. Twice.

And removed her right hand. His trademark.

She straightened. Gazed into the mirror.

Her fault. Tonya was dead because of her.

She stared at herself, suddenly light-headed. Her knees went to rubber and she clutched the vanity for support. She breathed deeply through her nose, exhaling through her mouth. Letting go. Of the guilt. The fear.

Her life had spun completely out of control, her with it. Morphing her into a person she was afraid to know.

“You okay?” Stacy called softly, tapping on the bathroom door.

Anger surged up in her. She fisted her fingers. “No, I’m not okay! I’m pissed. At you. At your stupid boyfriend. If you’d done something right away when I told you about the Artist, Tonya would be alive.”

“You don’t know that. He may have targeted-”

“I turned to Tonya for help…and now she’s-” Yvette fought the urge to cry. “It’s your fault, not mine. You hear me? Your fault!”

The other woman didn’t respond. The seconds ticked awkwardly past. Yvette went to the door, rested her palms and forehead against it. “Say something, dammit!”

“I’m sorry, Yvette.” She said it softly, her voice thick. “I really am.”

“Sorry doesn’t mean jack!”

Make the hurt go away. Make this nightmare end.

Stacy cleared her throat. “If you…need anything, let me know. I’ll be right out here.”

Yvette squeezed her eyes shut against the need that welled up inside her. For comfort. Companionship. The urge to spill her guts and pour out her heart.

“Just leave me alone,” she said instead, harshly. “Go away! I don’t want you h-”

To her horror, the words choked off on a sob. A terrible, broken sound.

Biting back another, she crossed to the commode, flipped down the lid and sat. She curved her arms around herself and rocked back and forth.