LITMIR.BIZ

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crime. There would be little, if anything, she could tell him. Still, he would speak with her himself for a moment. Later.

      For now…

      The victim.

      “Where’s the M.E.?” he asked.

      “Right over there, talking with Pentillo, who was first officer on the scene. The M.E. is Tristan Gannet. Mandy’s taking the last of the pictures he requested right now.”

      “Good. I’m glad we’ve got Gannet and Nightingale.”

      Mandy Nightingale, one of their best photographers, was snapping photos as they carefully approached the position of the body.

      “Hi, Jake,” she said, acknowledging his arrival with a quick nod before she snapped another photo.

      “Mandy, good to see you here.”

      They had worked together many times. She was thin as a wraith, with steel gray, close-cropped hair, and a strong, Native-American facial structure that defied age entirely. She was quick and efficient, careful to snap a crime scene in its entirety, to make sure that she not only got excellent photographs of the body but of the surrounding elements as well.

      “Thanks, Jake. I’ll be out of your way in just a second.”

      “Take your time, Mandy,” he told her. “There’s no hurry for this one now.”

      “I think I’ve gotten just about everything I can and everything that Dr. Gannet specified,” she assured them, squatting low to focus on a last photograph. “I’ll be over with Pentillo, hanging around ’til the M.E. moves the body and I can take the rest of the shots,” she told them.

      “Thanks, Mandy.”

      She nodded. “I think Dr. Gannet knows you’re here. I’ll send him right over.”

      Jake hunkered down on the balls of his feet to study the body in the position in which it had been found.

      He didn’t need the medical examiner to tell him that the woman had been dead for some time. She had been exposed to the elements and to the small animals that called the area home. There were places where she was down to no more than bone, and places where flesh clung precariously to the body. It appeared that she had been left without clothing of any kind. A quick look, using his pen to shift fallen foliage for a better view, showed that unfortunately the hands had decomposed almost fully, as had much of the face.

      Another murder in the county. It happened. Put millions of people together, and murder happened.

      But he knew exactly why Martin had been so tense when he had called him, urging him to reach the scene as quickly as possible.

      The face, though maintaining few of the qualities that marked men and women as human, had apparently not taken the same abuse as the hands.

      And it was apparent that what had once been the ears had been slashed.

      A chill crept through him, along with a bitterness he could actually taste.

      Déjà vu.

      Peter Bordon, also known as Papa Pierre, had been locked up for a long time now. Five years. But even a seconds-long, cursory inspection of this body was eerily reminiscent of the victims that had been discovered during Bordon’s reign as leader of the bizarre cult called People for Principle.

      “Yes, he’s still in prison,” Martin said, reading his partner’s mind.

      “You’re sure?”

      “Yeah. I called and checked the moment I saw the body, right after I called you,” Martin said. “He’s in prison—whether it really matters or not, that’s where he is.”

      “Sorry,” Jake murmured. He couldn’t quite help having a tense attitude on this one. Peter Bordon had garnered a group around him as if he had been a true modern-day prophet. He had preached about community, working for the benefit of all mankind and giving up the luxuries of a sinful life. For most of his followers, that had meant donating everything they had ever worked for to Bordon’s own bank account.

      Three of his alleged followers had wound up dead. Discovered in fields and canals.

      With their ears slashed.

      No weapons had ever been found. No real leads had ever been discovered. Bordon had been the only suspect, but there had been nothing whatsoever to prove he might be guilty. The police had managed to obtain a search warrant for his holdings, but nothing had been found except for some illegal financial activity, which in the end had been enough to earn him jail time.

      Late one night, an itinerant man had come bursting into one of the small precinct stations, confessing to the murders.

      While homicide was being notified of his arrival and confession, the young man had hanged himself with his belt in his cell.

      And that should have been it.

      But Jake and most of his task force hadn’t believed that one crazed man had been responsible for a series of killings that had been so meticulously carried out. The case had never been officially closed, but with the death of the man who had confessed, the imprisonment of Bordon based on what they were able to bring into court, and the fact that no more bodies had been discovered, they had been forced to move on to new investigations.

      Jake had never been satisfied, though. For him, it had never ended.

      They hadn’t gotten Bordon on murder.

      Bordon had been involved. He was sure of it. But there was no proof. Jake had never thought that Bordon had physically carried out the crimes; they had been done at his command.

      Now he was in prison, but there was no reason in hell why he couldn’t be calling the shots from his cell.

      Bordon had a power far greater than strength or any material weapon. He had the ability to manipulate men and women. To get into their minds.

      He didn’t need to dirty his own hands with the blood of others.

      Planning a murder, however, could bring the same penalties as the act of carrying out the deed. But complicity had to be proven.

      Five years ago, the task force had plowed through Bordon’s records, desperate to get him on something. They had never gotten him for ordering the killings, but just as, decades ago, the law had managed to put away the infamous Al Capone, they had at last gotten him on tax evasion and fraud.

      Unsatisfactory, but at least he’d been locked away.

      The murders had stopped. Most people seemed to assume that had been because the man who had confessed to the killings had committed suicide in a jail cell.

      But now it seemed that the killings hadn’t stopped.

      There had just been a hiatus, because here was another body, jarringly reminiscent of those they had found in the past.

      “Jesus, Jake, don’t look like that,” Martin said softly. “Maybe you shouldn’t even be on this case.”

      Jake stared at him, dark eyes hard as coal.

      “All right, all right. Sorry.”

      “Gentlemen, may I get back in there? I’ll give you my initial findings.”

      Jake turned. Dr. Tristan Gannet made his way back over to them. Jake was glad that it was Gannet on the case. He had been with the M.E.’s office almost twenty years and had had experience with the previous murders.

      “Glad to see you, Gannet,” Jake said. He quickly scanned the scene again himself before joining Gannet down by the body. No apparent materials or fabrics. No sign of footprints, but if they were right and the body had washed down here with the rain, there wouldn’t be. No obvious sign of cause of death, most likely because the body was so decomposed. Victim was most probably a young woman, a few strands of long dark hair remaining. The first patrolman to arrive on the scene had done a damned good job of taping the scene off and keeping it untainted. This was no

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