The Esther Code Read online

  “You think he posed as a deliveryman? What kind of flowers were they? Could you tell what florist it came from? Any clues there.”

  “Actually, the flowers are fake. Silk. They were already taken to the crime lab.”

  “What else? Did you find anything else that could help us catch this guy?” Jamie persists, pulling her Nalgene bottle out of her suitcase pocket. She takes a long drink.

  “Not really. I was hoping you’d found something,” Phil confesses, deflating a little.

  “Hah,” Jamie says humorlessly. “I visited five different crime scenes. Spoke with five different detectives. Not one of them has a lead. Not one of them has any good trace evidence, except Abilene. They found some women's hairs that seem to have been planted.”

  “So much for Locard's Exchange Principle.”

  “What?”

  “You know, Locard’s Exchange Principle. When any two people meet they exchange trace materials, like hair and fibers.”

  “Oh gosh, it’s been too long since I’ve heard that term. I don’t have the photographic memory that you have,” Jamie says with a laugh. There is a lull in the conversation. Then Jamie shares, “The guy is really good. Thorough. I’m not sure how he does it. And he doesn’t take any souvenirs like a lot of serial killers.”

  “He did leave the flowers behind,” Phil points out, “but don’t get your hopes up. There was a glass vase, and the note, but no fingerprints. Not even from the victim. No trace evidence that looks even remotely specific or useful. Nothing we could pin on the perp right now. They combed for the usual fibers, but it’s not like the Forensics team walked away with anything to be excited about.” Jamie can hear Phil’s frustration, which mirrors her own.

  “None of the neighbors saw anything?”

  “Atlanta P.D. knocked on doors yesterday. I asked around today. It's been all over the news. No one has come forward who saw a van or anything. Once you see the house, you will know why there wouldn’t be witnesses even if they were looking. The house is on a big lot with a long driveway, so you can barely see the house from the street. The neighborhood is old, with a lot of big trees. There’s nothing to see.”

  After a brief pause, Phil snaps his fingers and adds, “I forgot, we are going to the M.E. tonight. They finished their autopsy and said we could come by, ask questions.”

  “Wonderful!” Jamie confirms with an actual grin. She had not been looking forward to meeting with another police detective. They simply do not have the larger picture. It will be a relief to get the information straight from the source.

  “I talked to Fredericks earlier today...” Phil begins, then trails off.

  “How’s he taking this?”

  “Fit to be tied, as they would say down here. The good news is, once it gets out that there’s a serial killer, we will have a dozen people calling to confess,” Phil speculates with an eye roll.

  “It’s sad, really…” Jamie reflects, frowning, “Strange that people can hear about a case so much they think they have done it themselves. Then there’s the other half, those that think they should be punished for past sins, and, of course, the plain crazy people who want attention or who should just be in a mental hospital. I’m not excited about getting a bunch of calls that I will have to look into. But, you never know, one of them could be the call that gives me a suspect.”

  “So true.” Phil pauses before changing the subject. “So what did you find out?”

  “Not much, but a start. The answer has to be with the victims. These aren't random at all. It’s almost as if they are all part of a secret society or something. Maybe they pulled off a bank heist or some white-collar crime thirty or forty years ago, and one of them snapped or something. Maybe one's conscience got to him, and he was going to come clean. You know, nark on the others.” Jamie pulls out her tablet.

  Phil exits the freeway. “So tell me about the names on the notes. I’m still confused about that.”

  “The names on the notes are straight from the Bible. They are the ten sons of the villain in the book of Esther. Not only that, but two murders were on the Jewish holiday of Purim, which is also based on Esther. I’ve decided absolutely that it can’t be a coincidence,” Jamie elucidates, looking at the notes on her tablet. “The first victim was found leaning on the Shushan post office. Shushan is also mentioned in the Book of Esther. And, in Abilene, the perp signed in as Esther Shushan. Also, two murders took place on an even-lesser-known Jewish holiday called Hoshana Raba.”

  “Interesting. What does it all mean?”

  “I think it means that the killer is Jewish.”

  “You're sure?”

  “No. But I’ve thought about it a lot. And I think that’s the best explanation.”

  “Well, that's something. Were any of the victims Jewish? This last guy wasn't,” Phil adds. He pulls the car into the parking lot of the Fulton County Medical Examiner’s Office.

  “No, but there has to be something linking them.”

  Phil turns off the car. “Maybe our killer is a hired gun and not a serial?”

  “I’m starting to think so as well,” Jamie concedes. “He’s professional enough.”

  “Yeah, but then who’s calling the shots?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  Jamie sends a quick text to Chris before getting out of the car.

  “Gone to Atlanta for my case. I’ll be away a few extra days.”

  Walking into the Fulton County Morgue, Jamie reminds herself that she has never succumbed to the nausea triggered by a case. No matter what she sees, she will uphold that tradition. She checks her phone, but Chris still has not texted her back. Jamie suddenly realizes that it is Wednesday night. Chris is post call and would have been spending the night with Jamie, if she had been home. Jamie suspects he will be chafed at her for only telling him about her extra trip at the last minute, especially via text message. It is too late to fix that now.

  Dr. Alphonse Davis is in his late fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and eyes as dark as his skin. He extends his arm and shakes first Jamie’s, then Phil’s hands. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Thanks for squeezing us in. I really appreciate it,” Jamie tells him sincerely, as they follow him down the stairs to the coroner's office. “I wanted to see the body before it was released to the family for burial. And I very much wanted to know what you, as the Medical Examiner, think about the body.”

  “Well, I’ve been an M.E. for a long time. You wouldn’t believe how many murders I have seen and how many autopsies I’ve done. This murder was very clean, very professional,” Dr. Davis apprises them, leading the way to his office. “Did you fill out the paperwork with the receptionist?”

  “Yes sir,” Phil assures him.

  “Great, then we can go see the body.”

  Jamie and Phil follow Dr. Davis down the hall to the large county morgue. The room is much colder than the rest of the building. The walls are covered with the pale green tiles distinctive to the 1970s. Inside, there are several autopsy rooms with long slabs of cold metal. White sheets cover some of these tables. Jamie assumes these bodies are waiting for their turns. Across the room, on the wall, is an immense refrigerator with drawers containing the dead. There are techs transferring bodies from the fridge to the tables and back again. In some rooms, you can see through the glass, at the bodies being inspected and dissected.

  Dr. Davis approaches the fridge and slides out the gurney on which lies Martin Rossi’s body. The stiff body is wrinkly and old. Jamie looks immediately at the neck and sees the familiar and deadly wound.

  “Martin Rossi, age 89, cause of death: asphyxiation via strangulation. Nice furrow from approximately ten-gauge wire wound around the neck, petechiae in both eyes, and evidence of congestion in the cheeks. The killer stood behind the victim. Snuck up on him, or put the wire around his neck as he turned. Internal exam did not show anything except advanced atherosclerosis of the aorta, with a small, three-centimeter abdominal aortic aneurysm.” Dr. Dav
is pauses, then adds, “Not unusual for a man this age. There is no head trauma or blunt trauma. He did not fall from a sitting or standing position, but was carefully placed on the floor. Blood work was drawn for toxicology. Gastric contents have been sampled and sent to crime lab, as well as a urine sample. Now, his wife gave us a list of the drugs he was taking regularly. One cholesterol and two blood pressure meds. Nothing unusual,” Dr. Davis remarks, finishing his report.

  “Any signs of a struggle?” Phil inquires, looking across the body at Dr. Davis.

  “Yes. A small amount of blood on his fingers and under his nails. Probably his own, from where he would have reached up to loosen the ligature. He might have scratched his assailant, though.”

  “Can you estimate the killer’s height from the neck wound? Based on what I've heard, there’s a good chance the victim was standing up when attacked,” Jamie asks.

  “The victim measured out to be six-foot-two." It appears the killer was shorter or that he came at the victim from a lower angle and from the rear. The two sides of the wound angle slightly downward at the sides,” Dr. Clark explains, pointing to the neck wound to indicate the curvature. He resumes, “The killer is most likely right-handed; the marks on the left side are deeper and more uniform.”

  Phil takes a closer look at the neck wound. “And the time of death? His wife said she left at 9:00 a.m.”

  “Without that knowledge, and based solely on the conditions of body temp, rigor mortis, and lividity, I would say the victim died between nine and eleven a.m. I arrived at the scene at three p.m. Rigor mortis had not fully set in, so that means less than eight hours had passed. His temp was thirty-three point two. That's puts it around five or six hours after his death. He had a decent amount of lividity on his right side, which had time to form and then to shift to his shoulders and sacrum. He was on his right side a good two hours and wasn't moved, then was rolled over, onto his back. His wife claims she found him on his right side and rolled him over around 12:45 p.m., when she came home. Her story holds up against my findings—she told the cops that he had egg, toast, and black coffee for breakfast, and that’s what we found in his stomach.” Much of this, Dr. Davis reads from his notes, adding his own editorials, as needed.

  “I doubt she did it. I’m certain we've got a serial here. There are at least five others victims, almost exactly the same, all over the country. I’ve spent the last two days visiting all of them,” Jamie discloses, examining the dead face in front of her.

  “The word is not out about the nature of these murders yet,” Phil reminds her furtively, nudging her with his elbow.

  “I think it will be now,” Jamie counters, as she gestures to Mr. Rossi’s cold body.

  “Well, you don't have to worry about me letting it out,” Dr. Davis assures them bluntly.

  “Thanks,” Jamie nods, recognizing that she can trust Davis. He has nothing to gain by sharing that information. Besides, Jamie is sure that, with the murders still occurring, the FBI is going to have to inform the public soon.

  “Anything else?” Dr. Davis inquires.

  “Was there a good transport of the body? I mean, this perp does not leave much; we are going to have to nab him on next to nothing.”

  “It was very clean. Totally by the book. We bagged his hands, bagged the body, crime lab was at the scene. Everything was done correctly. Combed the scene for trace. We get a lot of murders here in Atlanta,” Dr. Davis reminds her staunchly, his look challenging.

  “Anything special about the ligature used?” Jamie asks, ignoring Dr. Davis’ stare.

  “I cut out a sample of the neck wound here,” Dr. Davis points out, indicating a square of neck with no skin. “Approximately ten-gauge wire, like typical piano wire. You can buy it at any music shop or hardware store.”

  “Nothing else about the body?” Phil queries, putting his hands in his pockets.

  “All of the evidence was sent to the GBI crime lab in Decatur. Ask for Rudy.”

  “Thanks,” Phil replies, as Dr. Davis returns the body to the fridge and closes the door.

  With a nod, Dr. Davis walks away, holding his file.

  Jamie and Phil make the fifteen-minute drive to the GBI Crime Lab. They ask the first white coat they see about Rudy. She points him out where he stands, in a glass room, surrounded by machines used for various types of analysis.

  Jamie guesses that Rudy is in his late twenties. He is black, of medium height, and dressed casually under his lab coat. Two wires lead to the earbuds in his ears. Jamie knows the music is playing because she can hear it as they approach.

  “Rudy?” she calls.

  He hears, but waits for the chorus to finish before he takes out the headphones and responds. “Let me guess, FBI? I can always finger the Feds,” he tells them proudly. “Which case y’all working on?”

  “Rossi.”

  Rudy pulls up the file on his computer, singing a few bars while it loads. He motions to the agents to come around his desk, so they can see the monitor. “I personally combed the body, clothes, and body bag for any trace evidence,” Rudy asserts cadently, still in the flow of his music.

  “Let’s see, prelim toxicology is negative for the basic ‘drugs of abuse’ panel, the narcotics, benzos, barbies, alcohol, and so forth. Looks like the comprehensive panel will not be back for another seven days. But I can tell you that the blood under his nails was his own. Tissue samples aren't ready yet,” Rudy reads out from his file.

  “Doubtful we'll find anything useful from the victim. We know how he died. What's going on with trace? What did they remove from the scene or find on the body? Who's working on that?” Jamie fires at him, scanning the information on the computer screen.

  Rudy shrugs then hollers across the room, “LaShondra! You started on the Rossi trace yet?"

  “Yeah, got the footprints, just printed my report,” the black woman hollers back. It happens to be the same woman who helped them to locate Rudy.

  “Footprints?” Jamie echoes with surprise.

  She glances at Phil, her face registering shock. Swiftly she crosses the room to talk to LaShondra. The black woman is in her early thirties, super skinny, and painted with a ridiculous amount of makeup.

  “I forgot to tell you we got some good footprints on the freshly-vacuumed carpet,” Phil says apologetically as he approaches Jamie.

  “So what about the footprints?” Jamie asks.

  “Men’s twelve. Converse All Stars. The easiest sole to recognize. Classic pattern, hasn't changed since the ‘40s. And this shoe seems brand new. No sign of wear at all,” LaShondra explains.

  “Can I see some photos from the crime scene?”

  “Sure,” LaShondra replies and pulls out several photographs, taken at the scene, showing impressions in the plush carpet. There are different angles with measuring tape next to them.

  “Here is where the uniform impressions of the pattern enforcing the shoes are new. One interesting thing: the person who made the prints walks more on the balls of their feet. Not uncommon, but particularly noticeable here,” LaShondra elaborates as she shows them how the clearest impression is near the ball of the foot. She is obviously proud of her work.

  “There were no similar footprints anywhere else in the house. Only in the living room, just off the foyer. Nothing is missing. It looks like the perp came in, did his thing, and went right back out the front door,” Phil reflects aloud, examining the pictures over Jamie’s shoulder.

  “Any other trace evidence being processed?” Jamie asks eagerly, looking to LaShondra.

  “We are running samples from within the footprints and have some samples from the outside of the residence as a control. Hopefully they won't match, and we will have something that the perp brought with him from outside the scene.”

  “What about the silk flowers?” Phil inquires, as an afterthought.

  “Ah, yes, we received a silk flower arrangement, and that is being thoroughly checked over,” LaShondra expounds to Phil. “No fingerprints found
on the vase, though, or any of the flowers. The thing was scrubbed well. A few fibers and strands on the arrangement. They are being processed and recorded, but we do not have a control to compare them to yet.”

  “You won't get one either,” Jamie grumbles under her breath.

  “What was that?” LaShondra pursues, flashing a suspicious look at Jamie.

  “Oh, nothing. I just said there probably won't be any. The perp is really good.”

  “Rudy said the killer came from behind. Do we have any trace on the back of the victim’s shirt?” Phil continues hopefully, in an attempt to draw LaShondra’s attention from Jamie.

  “Yeah we got some fibers and hairs. They are all being processed and recorded. Again, we have no comparisons.” LaShondra pauses then remembers, “Wait, not true, we did get some control hairs from his wife. But I figured you knew that and were asking about something else.”

  Jamie thanks LaShondra with a smile.

  “Anytime,” is LaShondra’s friendly reply before she returns to her work.

  Jamie and Phil go back to Rudy’s office.

  “Here’s my contact info if something turns up.” Jamie hands Rudy her business card. “If you could, fax all reports as they come in and a full copy of the file when it is complete.”

  “Sure,” Rudy nods, still moving his head in time to an inaudible beat.

  Jamie and Phil leave the crime lab and walk out to their car in the parking lot.

  “Too late to head to the Rossi’s, I presume,” Phil submits with a grin.

  “Yeah,” Jamie sighs, looking at her watch and frowning. “I sure wish we could, though.”

  “I’ve got the number to the Rossi house. I’ll call the wife first thing in the morning and tell her we are coming,” Phil offers as they approach the car.

  “Perfect. I want to see that crime scene as soon as possible,” Jamie states adamantly. She feels grateful to have Phil as a partner. After working so long together, they seem to understand each other very well.

  “No problem.” Phil unlocks the car doors and slides into the driver’s seat.