Edge of Death

Edge of Death

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By Maura Sheridan

Dorchester Publishing

Copyright © 2004 Dorchester Publishing
All right reserved.
ISBN: 0-8439-5533-3

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Chapter One

The telephone rang at 3:00 PM, which was an hour before I'd planned to end my nap. Without moving my body or even acknowledging consciousness, I groggily picked up the receiver off the nightstand. The midafternoon sun pouring into my tiny bedroom seemed to have targeted only my eyes, and I squinted in response to the annoying intrusion.

I spoke meekly, as I was suddenly overcome with the inexplicable urge to check that my arms were still attached to my body. "Hello?"

"Agent Brantley?"

My eyes popped open and I shot to an upright position. I was more startled by the name by which I was addressed than the familiar voice at the other end of the phone. The nightmare that I had just been awakened from was now a distant memory, washed away into the depths of my subconscious.

"Joshua?" I questioned, knowing full well that it was.

"Yeah, Meredith! How are you?"

"I'm.... I'm, uh, fine." I nervously drew the sheet up around my neck as if he might be able to see me. "How did you get this number?"

The connection was tinny and wavered like he was drowning in water. I guessed that he was on his cellular phone.

"Hey, I'm with the goddamned FBI. I can find anyone."

I rolled my eyes. "Seriously, this is a new and unlisted number."

"I kind of get the feeling that you're in hiding," he chuckled.

"So how did you find me?"

"I called NYU and spoke to someone in your department."

My mouth curled into a disapproving grin. "The staff has been instructed to not give out personal numbers," I commented with suspicion rising within. "Only in cases of family emergencies.... oh, Joshua, you didn't."

"I kind of made up a little story."

A fury rose inside of me as I bit down on my lower lip. "I can't believe you would do something so underhanded as that."

No longer in the mood to loaf about in bed, I sprang to my feet. The air was only slightly cooler than it had been the day before, but the cold hardwood floors startled me as I danced a little jig.

"I'm sorry, Meredith, but I really needed to get in touch with you."

"Fine, what's done is done."

Grumpy and still groggy, I brushed a hand through my shoulder-length, ash-brown hair, which was now stringy and matted. I avoided the large antique mirror hung over the bureau. I did not need to be reminded about my blond highlights that were in desperate need of a touch up.

I touched my fingers to the saggy pouches that had developed under my eyes. It was nothing that a little bit of makeup could not conceal. Or perhaps my secret weapon: a dab of Preparation H. I hobbled into the kitchen and began filling the coffee carafe with filtered water from a pitcher.

"So, Professor Brantley, how's school life? Criminology 101, right?" he asked, with a tinge of sarcasm.

The rich aroma of coffee with a hint of cinnamon and nutmeg began to fill the air, and I took a deep breath, allowing the sweet aroma to calm my nerves-temporarily.

"Let's cut the chit-chat. What do you want?"

"Well, it seems that you have adjusted well to your new pedestrian lifestyle," Joshua huffed. "You're your usual charming self."

"Look, I kind of get the feeling that this isn't a social call."

I walked over to the refrigerator and poked my head inside. He was hesitating, and I could feel my muscles tense, bracing for what was coming.

"First I want you to know," he began his song-and-dance, "that I wouldn't have called unless it was absolutely necessary."

"What?" I asked without masking my lack of enthusiasm.

"There's a case-"

"No! Absolutely not!"

"Please, Meredith, just hear me out. I wouldn't have called unless I thought that you could be of assistance."

Had he not heard me?

"Don't ask me to do something that I'm not prepared or willing to do." The fact that my voice was slightly pleading repelled me.

"You don't have to travel anywhere, the case is in Manhattan."

"Where are you?"

"I'm in a cab on Broadway. I just flew in from Quantico. We only got the call very late this morning. I know very little of the situation, as it is. The body of a young woman-"

My eyelids fell and my shoulders shuddered. I could see them. The faces I had seen so many times before: in person, in my dreams, and in my nightmares. Ten years with the FBI and these haunts still controlled my life. Bloodied body parts, faces of victims and grieving families came back to remind me that no one ever forgets.

"Look, Meredith, I don't have time to argue with you or cajole you. I need to see the body before they remove it from the crime scene. If you'll do this, meet me in half an hour in front of the main entrance of the field office."

My tone softened as I dug my fists into my eyes, trying to rub the images away. "I've already told you."

Joshua sighed as if admitting defeat. "Like I said: meet me in half an hour. But please, Meredith, please consider this."

There was sincere desperation in his voice, and I felt a surge of pity, but thankfully, caught myself from screaming 'yes' into the receiver.

"You didn't send me a Christmas card last year," I said, before slamming the handset into its cradle.

* * *

As we neared the West Side Highway, red, yellow and blue lights swirled rapidly and bounced off the water and nearby buildings, filling the already orange sky with an ominous foreboding. Royal blue wooden police barriers marked POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS NYPD, were being used to block off the area between Twenty-fourth and Twenty-eighth streets, which only served as a catalyst in generating a macabre curiosity in the minds of the nosy onlookers gathered along the sidewalk.

Excitement mounted when our cab slowed at the police barricade on the southeast corner of Twenty-sixth Street. I climbed out, while Joshua paid the fare, and a prerecorded voice of a celebrity personality reminded him to ask for a receipt. He displayed his leather bound creds to a young uniformed officer, and we were motioned through the police line.

I walked briskly towards the scene, shamefully acknowledging that my own curiosity was now piqued. But my normally confident stride quickly dissolved into tentative baby-steps as I followed Joshua along the centerline of the highway. My heart began to race and blood pounded in my ears. The faces from the past were coming back. Who would be the new victim to add to my catalogue of horrors?

Several officers stopped us again when we reached the parking lot of the nearby restaurant, but waved us through when they saw Joshua's gold Department of Justice shield hooked over the breast pocket of his coat. A passing paramedic lifted the yellow plastic tape marked CAUTION CRIME SCENE DO NOT ENTER, and I ducked under. We walked over to the edge of the paved road, the dilapidated pier just coming into sight.

The ground below slowly disappeared and the murky waters of the Hudson came into view. The embankment and the abandoned pier were swarming with plainclothes detectives and crime scene technicians in dark jumpsuits. There was still enough daylight to illuminate the area, but large halogen floodlights were being unloaded and lined up along the roadside, just in case.

I leaned up against a stiff wire-mesh fence lining the edge of the paved area. The cool air that came from the water was biting, and I drew my coat tighter around my body. Normally deserted, this part of the river was now clambering with activity.

I shook my head lightly. "This is eerie."

Joshua moved closer and placed a comforting hand on the small of my back, and I shivered as he tightened his hold. My nose wrinkled and I unbuttoned my coat. I was suddenly feeling quite warm and felt my cheeks flush. I quickly took a couple steps back from him. Our eyes locked onto one another for a brief moment before I turned and stared out toward the water.

There were several remnants of old piers no longer in use. What had once been planks of healthy-wood, were now gray and weathered. The run-down, rural quality of the scene was quite beautiful in a sad, picturesque way. Under any other circumstances, the setting may have appeared to be something out of a photography book meant for someone's coffee table.

I inhaled deeply and walked towards the end of the fence. An officer held us there for a few minutes as a technician finished taking photographs. We watched as he continually fired a high-intensity strobe flash, each time a few feet closer to the victim's body. Several minutes later, he was finished, and we were allowed to enter the crime scene.

When I slid down the manmade embankment, I lost my footing on the soft loose dirt. Joshua reached out to catch me, but his hand merely brushed my shoulder. As I skidded, my ankle caught on a brick and I tripped, landing ungracefully on my butt. It was the worst entrance to a crime scene ever executed. An officer packing up a video camera chuckled, as I sprang to my feet and brushed myself off, my face red with embarrassment.

"You could've caught me," I scolded Joshua under my breath.

A tall, lanky man in khakis and a pine green rugby shirt underneath a black Gortex hiking jacket, bounded towards us.

He thrust out his hand, "Joshua." He looked at me curiously. "Meredith?"

"Hi, Chris," I replied, shaking his hand. Chris's smile was warm.

Special Agent Chris Schills was the Profiling Coordinator for the Manhattan Field Office, serving as a liaison to the NCAVC. It was his job to analyze the complexity of the cases and determine whether or not the troops from the Academy needed to be called. When I had been in active service, New York City, the surrounding counties and New Jersey had been the regional area to which I had been assigned. After taking my leave of absence, I had decided to move to the city. There was just something about this city; it was much too easy for someone to disappear and become anonymous.

"We miss you," he said. Chris rubbed the point of his chin with an index finger. "I'm glad you got here so quickly."

"It sounded urgent," Joshua replied.

"Well, I was able to hold the body, because thankfully, our lead detective isn't adept enough in learning a three-hundred-dollar computer program to assist him in drawing the crime scene." Chris closed his eyes, openly displaying his impatience. "What would've taken two-or-three hours, took four-and-a-half."

We were interrupted when a slightly paunchy man in his late thirties, wearing a wrinkled navy suit and a gray coat, sauntered over towards us.

I immediately read his predatory gait, and stiffened with an air of defensive officiousness.

Chris leaned over and quickly whispered, "That's him, the lead detective. Name's Sergeant Daniel Grissard. He's a shit. Just ignore him and let it roll off your back."

"Yous duh profilers?" Dan asked in an almost accusatory tone, enhanced by his strong Flatbush accent.

His dark hair was slicked back and his beady eyes looked as if they had no pupils. He chewed on a wad of gum that must have contained several sticks, since it bulged against his cheek exaggerating his already saggy jowls.

I bit the inside of my lower lip. "Yes, we're the.... profilers."

It was a term that I detested, due mainly to Hollywood's overzealous interest in the subject. But 'behavioralist' had too many syllables and I found it difficult to say after three shots of tequila.

"Sergeant Grissard, NYPD." He did not bother to offer his hand. "I've got an Oriental girl over here. Some busboy from the restaurant called nine-one-one. Found her when they was getting ready to open for dinner."

Joshua was looking around. "Where's the body?"

"Which part?"

Both Joshua and I looked at Dan. There seemed to be a gleam of pleasure in his eye.

"Forget it." He motioned us to follow, and climbed up to the pier on a short, four-foot wooden ladder that the NYPD had placed there.

I positioned my hands on the edge of the pier's rotting wood, balancing myself for the last rung of the ladder. We walked towards the body as the water smacked into the stilts with short, forceful waves. Salt hung heavily in the air and burned my already dry eyes. I rubbed them gently, but the fishy smell was proving to be more of a nuisance. I quickly counted five evidence markers: a low number for a crime such as this. I turned and looked back towards the roadside. It had disappeared. There was no way anyone could have seen down to the pier unless they were standing right by the fence. It was the perfect choice for a crime scene.

An officer from the Crime Scene Unit, or CSU, handed us each a pair of Latex gloves.

I squirmed my hands into them, my middle finger missing and sliding into the hole meant for the index finger. After ten years and countless crime scenes, donning a pair of Latex gloves was still a two-attempt process.

Dan stopped before a huddle of investigators. He pointed. "The torso, legs and the head."

I eyed him warily. There was a disturbing pleasure in his tone as he described the violent scene.

He pointed to the far end of the pier. "The arms." He tapped an investigator on the shoulder. The sarcasm was thick when he said, "Come on guys. The profilers are here. Let them see."

I shot him a look before bending down beside the corpse, careful to avoid the blood and not touch the victim. I could feel the heavy weight of stares, as all eyes fell upon Joshua and me. I had probably seen more gruesome murders and autopsies than any of these officers would see in their lifetime. This was nothing different.

Dan's description of the victim had been misleading. Much to my relief the woman's head and torso were intact, but her arms had been dismembered and presumably placed at the end of the pier as he had so eloquently described.

Dan pointed to a yellow 4-inch-by-8-inch placard with a bold black numeral "five" resting upon the victim's stomach. "Hair. Not hers."

I began to wonder if he was even able to compose a sentence that was more than four words in length.

"Now, Sergeant, don't tell me that you already know the DNA results."

He held out his hand, and a young man in a dark blue jumpsuit handed him a paper envelope sealed with a bright orange sticker marked Evidence.

"Black hair," Dan said pointing to the victim. He thrust the envelope towards me and said smartly, "Blond hair."

My expression never faltered as I turned and leaned in close to the body. The fully clothed young Asian woman could not have been more than twenty years old. The stylish black stretch pants and tight mock turtleneck were now soaked with blood, and dirt and gravel clung stubbornly to the moisture. Though the early evening was beginning to chill, the day had been warm.

Rigor Mortis had set in and had already begun its slow process of leaving the body. Her skin had turned a grayish color and was covered with light scratches that were consistent with her body being dragged. Some light bruising had developed under her chin and neck, but that seemed trivial relative to the marks left by the heavy beating the victim had endured. Whoever had done this horrible crime had not only dismembered her, cutting directly through the clothing with erratic and messy blows, but had also struck her several times with some kind of object that left strange U-shaped markings upon her face and body.

"Most of these marks are near her face and neck." I moved my head from side-to-side, studying the wounds from different angles. "The offender had to depersonalize her and make her an object."

It had been several hours since the diligent blowflies had detected the smell of death and began regenerating their cycle of life.

"Is there any ID?" Joshua asked.

"Nope," Dan replied. "Just another Jane Doe." He snorted. "I guess, Jane Chow."

I reached out and swatted one of the flies away as it flew by my nose, pretending that it was Sergeant Grissard.

"Interesting that the offender decided to leave her eyes open," I said with a calm casualness. "There was no real sense of guilt. He had total control right to the end. He made her see him."

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Edge of Death by Maura Sheridan Copyright © 2004 by Dorchester Publishing . Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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