Page 66 of The Drowned Woman
Finally, a cruiser appeared, pulling up to Luka, and a uniformed officer emerged. Luka gave an account of how he came to find the body to the Smithfield officer, Jon Mann. Mann called his corporal to the scene, Luka repeated everything, and then the corporal in turn called the coroner and the on-call detective. And then they waited—no one could touch the body until the coroner or one of his deputies examined it.
“Good thing the hot tub wasn’t actually on,” Mann joked. “Can you imagine the stink?”
“Would’ve found him faster,” the corporal replied. He was a man in his mid-forties to early fifties with a build that could only be politely described as “stout.”
“Can’t believe we’ve got a serial killer.” Mann stood straighter and rubbed his thumb over his badge, as if prepping to be featured on the evening news.
Luka answered their questions, but it felt strange, playing the role of reporting witness rather than detective in charge of the scene and investigation. As polite as Mann and his fellow officers were, they didn’t look at Luka like an equal, a brother in blue. Did he act the same way around witnesses and victims? Luka wondered. Simply because they stood on the wrong side of the thin blue line?
He took the first opportunity to step away and call McKinley to update him.
“I’m at the hospital with Dr. Wright; we’re starting Saliba’s interview,” McKinley told him. “What was your victim’s name again?”
“Patrick Rademacher. I think he’s connected to Saliba, but I can’t place him—”
“Wait, here she is.” There was a clatter as McKinley handed the phone over and put it on speaker.
“Risa, does the name Patrick Rademacher mean anything to you?” Luka asked.
“Patrick? Of course. He’s a photographer, we worked together for years.”
That’s why the name felt so familiar to Luka. He must have seen it on the bylines of the photos accompanying Risa’s articles. “And where is he now?”
There was a long pause. “He’s dead. A few years now. Was working on a piece about Syrian refugees. Why?”
“Did you work on his obituary?”
“No, this was before I got sick and started taking those assignments. What happened? Why are you asking about Patrick?”
“How did he die?” Luka asked, edging off the sidewalk to allow the coroner with his gurney to pass.
“He drowned. His boat was scuttled while he was filming refugees. His boat and two more, filled with families. They were able to retrieve his final shots—won him a Capa and a Pulitzer. Wait.” She paused and hauled in a breath, slow and heavy as if dragging a weight. “Wait. I didn’t write about him, but I did speak about him. At a memorial event for journalists killed while covering conflicts. It was a fundraiser for their families.”
“And no doubt advertised,” Luka said mostly to himself.
“He’s killed again, hasn’t he—is it Dom, is it really Dom doing this?” Her words came machine-gun fast, leaving her breathless again. “I just—I can’t believe it. I’ve known him for over a decade. I wouldn’t have a career if it weren’t for him. Who has he killed now?”
“A man by the name of Patrick Rademacher appears to have drowned. In Smithfield, on the same street as the nursing home that Trudy visited. And from the state of the body, I’m guessing he was killed the same day she was here.”
“The link. That’s why he killed Trudy. She must have seen him near the scene of the crime.”
More than a link, Luka thought. It meant that they needed to take Chaos’ list of possible victims much more seriously. If he killed Rademacher, then there had to be other true victims out there as well. He shook his head. Leah was right. Chaos lied. But how to tease the truth from the lies? Because only by finding real victims did they have any hope of obtaining the evidence they needed to locate and convict Chaos.
McKinley came back on the line. “I’ll coordinate with the locals, but Smithfield has such a small department, I’m sure they’ll punt it to the staties right away. Finish up there and come on home—Ahearn wants to form a taskforce with us and the state police and other local jurisdictions. He’s calling in the FBI to do a profile and the marshals to help us track Massimo. I need you back here to coordinate and give them your full cooperation in regards to your fiancée’s case.”
He hung up before Luka could ask any questions. Pretty obvious that Ahearn was doing some punting of his own—by forming a multi-jurisdictional taskforce, he’d get extra resources and avoid the bill, all the while keeping the fame and glory for himself.
Luka trudged back to the hot tub, just in time to watch them fish the bloated, crow-pecked body out from the stew of decomposition fluids. “Would a time frame of two days fit for time of death?”
The coroner wore a medical respirator, hiding most of his face, but he bore a remarkable resemblance to the corporal, making Luka wonder if they were related. “Got to do some calculations. Check ambient temps over the past two nights, larval development, what have you.” His gaze went distant as if he were doing the math in his head. “Could be. Definitely not too much longer or he’d be a lot more gone than what he is.” Then he shrugged. “Whatever I say, the state police’s forensic pathologist will have his own ideas. If were you, I’d wait for the report to be sure.”
Luka was halfway back to Cambria City when his phone chimed. Harper. “Jericho here.”
She answered in a near-whisper. “Wanted to update you.” In the background he could hear a woman’s voice, although he couldn’t make out the words. “On Cliff Vogel.”
“Aren’t you with McKinley interviewing Risa Saliba?”
“He has me monitoring from the observation room. I don’t think he likes the idea of a uniform working plainclothes.”
