Death Marks (The Symbolist) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Katy Walters
his support, as well as mine.'
'I don't need a psychiatrist again - I'm over it, okay?' His heart seemed to climb into his brain, pounding it to pulp. 'Let's just quit now.'
Debbie's voice toughened. 'We're dealing with feelings here Redd; they just don't vanish. This case is horrific. Can you cope?'
'Far better than mooching around behind a desk. Now, that would send me crazy.' He gave her a tight smile.
She gazed at him, compassion brimming in her eyes. 'We both know it will never close - you're still searching. Look I'm on your side.'
'Okay - I'm here -right? I'm talking to you.'
'I have to be sure—'
'I'm dealing with it.'
Seeing the anxiety in his eyes, she shrugged. 'Okay - fine.'
Shuffling through his notes, he said, ' Right, so let's get to the point. Our profiler, Dr Timmins, is ill - undergoing tests. D'you know of anyone?'
'I might. Dr. Tessa Davies, a psychologist, an American, from Alabama. She's come up with a new line of research in profiling - calls it Symbolism. It's more to do with the symbolic content of the crime than clear-cut behavioural analysis. It's original; I'll say that. She's at Chichester University.'
'Hmm - so does she have a success rate?'
'Well, she's helped out on a couple of cases with the FBI before coming over here. I thought she might fit. From what you say, the crime smacks of ritual - the parchment scroll, the ancient writing. You say it took place in Kingley Vale?'
'Yeah - spooky place, some of the yew trees are over five hundred years old.'
Debbie put down her cup. 'The place has got a history, goes back to the Bronze Age - ancient barrows - Devils Humps. Wiccans hold their ceremonies in the groves.'
'Maybe the perps picked the place for that reason - some kind of sick ritual. Perhaps this Symbolist could shed light on the case. Have you got her number?'
'I'll phone her now, no need to waste any time. That alright with you?'
'Sooner the better - thanks.'
Tapping in the numbers, Debbie frowned. 'She's left a message saying she's away on a conference for a couple of days.'
'Don't worry I'll phone Worthing - they may have someone free, failing that, I'll ring around the other stations.
***
Music thundered, as Redd and Dove entered the morgue. Mahoney chose poignant pieces. Today it was Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2 in C. Minor.
The pathologist waved a bloodied gloved hand. 'Come in, tis late ye are - no way to treat our relatives. Respect, d'you hear? Respect.'
'Sorry, got caught.'
Dove's stomach clenched, as she saw the bodies on two stainless steel slanted tabletops with perforated dissection grids, for drainage. She shivered seeing the drained fluids on the tray underneath them - it was necessary all bodily fluids were analy zed.
Seeing her hesitate, Mahoney waved them forward. 'Now first thing.' He picked up a small bowl. 'There were mistletoe berries in the male victim's mouth.'
Redd raised his eyebrows. 'Strange? Why the hell would they do that?'
Mahoney shrugged, 'First time I've come across it. Ye never cease to be surprised.' Pointing to two gruesome organs in a bowl, Mahoney said, ' D'ye see the liver here now?' He brought the bowl to the table. This is not natural - look - the indent right across the two sections. Buggers cut it open and then scored it; did the same to both livers.' Muttering, he turned his back and strode to another bowl, picking out a heart, 'They cut this open along its length, that way they have sight of the valves. Again both hearts.'
Dove felt her own heart flutter, the one thing she never got used to was the bloody theatre of traffic scenes, and now autopsies. Try as she may, ants skittered against her stomach wall. She had to get a grip on herself. She'd worked damned hard to get to DS and now partner to the DCI. There was another reason for her not losing her job - him. She'd never looked at another man since death so spitefully snatched her husband - eight years of celibacy and silent grief. With Redd, she felt a
'I don't need a psychiatrist again - I'm over it, okay?' His heart seemed to climb into his brain, pounding it to pulp. 'Let's just quit now.'
Debbie's voice toughened. 'We're dealing with feelings here Redd; they just don't vanish. This case is horrific. Can you cope?'
'Far better than mooching around behind a desk. Now, that would send me crazy.' He gave her a tight smile.
She gazed at him, compassion brimming in her eyes. 'We both know it will never close - you're still searching. Look I'm on your side.'
'Okay - I'm here -right? I'm talking to you.'
'I have to be sure—'
'I'm dealing with it.'
Seeing the anxiety in his eyes, she shrugged. 'Okay - fine.'
Shuffling through his notes, he said, ' Right, so let's get to the point. Our profiler, Dr Timmins, is ill - undergoing tests. D'you know of anyone?'
'I might. Dr. Tessa Davies, a psychologist, an American, from Alabama. She's come up with a new line of research in profiling - calls it Symbolism. It's more to do with the symbolic content of the crime than clear-cut behavioural analysis. It's original; I'll say that. She's at Chichester University.'
'Hmm - so does she have a success rate?'
'Well, she's helped out on a couple of cases with the FBI before coming over here. I thought she might fit. From what you say, the crime smacks of ritual - the parchment scroll, the ancient writing. You say it took place in Kingley Vale?'
'Yeah - spooky place, some of the yew trees are over five hundred years old.'
Debbie put down her cup. 'The place has got a history, goes back to the Bronze Age - ancient barrows - Devils Humps. Wiccans hold their ceremonies in the groves.'
'Maybe the perps picked the place for that reason - some kind of sick ritual. Perhaps this Symbolist could shed light on the case. Have you got her number?'
'I'll phone her now, no need to waste any time. That alright with you?'
'Sooner the better - thanks.'
Tapping in the numbers, Debbie frowned. 'She's left a message saying she's away on a conference for a couple of days.'
'Don't worry I'll phone Worthing - they may have someone free, failing that, I'll ring around the other stations.
***
Music thundered, as Redd and Dove entered the morgue. Mahoney chose poignant pieces. Today it was Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2 in C. Minor.
The pathologist waved a bloodied gloved hand. 'Come in, tis late ye are - no way to treat our relatives. Respect, d'you hear? Respect.'
'Sorry, got caught.'
Dove's stomach clenched, as she saw the bodies on two stainless steel slanted tabletops with perforated dissection grids, for drainage. She shivered seeing the drained fluids on the tray underneath them - it was necessary all bodily fluids were analy zed.
Seeing her hesitate, Mahoney waved them forward. 'Now first thing.' He picked up a small bowl. 'There were mistletoe berries in the male victim's mouth.'
Redd raised his eyebrows. 'Strange? Why the hell would they do that?'
Mahoney shrugged, 'First time I've come across it. Ye never cease to be surprised.' Pointing to two gruesome organs in a bowl, Mahoney said, ' D'ye see the liver here now?' He brought the bowl to the table. This is not natural - look - the indent right across the two sections. Buggers cut it open and then scored it; did the same to both livers.' Muttering, he turned his back and strode to another bowl, picking out a heart, 'They cut this open along its length, that way they have sight of the valves. Again both hearts.'
Dove felt her own heart flutter, the one thing she never got used to was the bloody theatre of traffic scenes, and now autopsies. Try as she may, ants skittered against her stomach wall. She had to get a grip on herself. She'd worked damned hard to get to DS and now partner to the DCI. There was another reason for her not losing her job - him. She'd never looked at another man since death so spitefully snatched her husband - eight years of celibacy and silent grief. With Redd, she felt a
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