There were no pages, just more of the leathery material she recognized as skin that had been preserved via some sort of tanning process. She picked up the folds of skin and opened it up. The face staring up at her sent her tumbling back onto her butt.

  When she found her voice, she said, “We’re going to need a forensic team.”

  Four

  The faces were from mostly male victims, but two were female. There were twenty-six in all.

  Degloved. The skin had been completely removed from the underlying connective tissue and muscle. Generally, avulsion injuries such as these involved ripping or tearing the skin away from the tissue, but that had not happened in these instances.

  With gloved hands, Rowan gently examined the final mask of skin. The edges were clean and fairly smooth, like the others. Whoever had removed the faces had first made a meticulous incision around the entire boundary of the hairline, in front of the ears and then down and beneath the chin, tracing the mandible. Finally, the skin had been removed with painstaking slowness to ensure there were no sudden tears, or thin or uneven spots. The work had been executed with surgical precision. There was, of course, no way to determine if the removal was completed postmortem, or if the victims had still been breathing.

  As if that was not grotesque enough, more skin had been removed, presumably from the bodies of the victims, and tanned like leather for use as a binding. Each face was ensconced inside its own book. Each book was unique in texture and varied ever so slightly in color, maybe due to age or maybe related to ethnicity.

  Rowan shook off the disturbing sensation that had rushed up her spine and camped at the base of her skull. “Judging by these—” she placed the last of the more than two dozen books into another large evidence bag “—Mr. Sanchez collected quite a few victims.”

  Billy placed the lid back on the container before him—thankfully, it was the last one. “The rest are photos and touristy souvenirs along with dozens of spiral notepads. Most of the ramblings in the notepads are like stories. He waxes on about wherever he is—the landscape, the sky, the way the air smells. Then he talks about the people he meets. Describes them in detail, but no names.”

  Rowan shifted her attention to her friend. “Sounds like my mother’s journals.”

  With every single discovery in this cramped house of horrors, Rowan grew more convinced that there was some sort of connection between her mother and this man—this probable serial killer. She shook her head. What was she thinking? Of course, he was a serial killer. The evidence sat right in front of her.

  “I was thinking the same thing.” Billy’s gaze touched hers. “Based on what you’ve told me.”

  Growing up, the strangest thing about her family was the fact that her father was an undertaker. Her sister died but other kids lost siblings, too. Her mother’s suicide was not entirely unheard-of. But this—she glanced around the sleazy room—was the sort of strangeness that put one in the eye of media storms. Rowan had done her time under media scrutiny. After her father’s murder and Julian’s abrupt exiting of the closet as a heinous serial killer, Rowan had been hounded by the authorities, as well as the media. This did not bode well for her future sanity.

  The bottom line was that her mother had apparently been involved with both Julian and Sanchez. The other known details at this time were that Sanchez had at least twenty-six victims to his credit and that his name was most likely not Carlos Sanchez.

  “Dressler is going to have a field day with this,” she muttered.

  Billy checked his cell. “The evidence techs are twenty minutes out.” He glanced around. “Anything else you want to look at before they get here?”

  “The notepads.”

  He pointed out the two containers with the spiral notepads. Rowan set to work. Growing up, her mother had often been so preoccupied with writing that she had little time for her children or her husband. Rowan and her sister, along with their father, had indulged her whims. Life had been simpler that way. Rowan had wondered later when she decided to write her own book, The Language of Death, if she had inherited from her mother that need to pour her soul onto pages. The release of the book had garnered far more attention than Rowan had expected, even landing her an interview on a popular national morning TV talk show. But Rowan had written about truth and her life growing up in a funeral home. Her mother’s work had been fiction.

  Or had it?

  Rowan flipped quickly through notepad after notepad. She skimmed the headings, scanning for anything familiar. Dates, places, notations about jobs he picked up, but nothing that triggered a memory of anything she’d read in her mother’s journals.

  “They’re here.”

  Billy’s deep voice startled her after the long minutes of silence. Rowan closed the lid on the container and stood. “I didn’t see anything that connected with my mother’s writing, but I can’t rule out the theory without a closer, more thorough inspection.”

  He nodded. “We tried. Nothing else we can do tonight.”

  They had tried. What else could either of them do at this point? Rowan had an obligation to share her concerns with Agent Dressler. She would not put Billy in the position of having to do so. This was her problem, so she would deal with it. Billy had already done more than he should to help her and to protect her.

  The evidence techs took over the scene. Detective Clarence Lincoln arrived to supervise the search and collection.

  “Hey, Ro.” He flashed her a smile. “You and Billy have to learn not to allow work to interfere with your social life.”

  Rowan laughed. “What social life? I was just finishing up the preparation of a body before I came here.” She hitched her head in Billy’s direction. “Maybe he has a social life, but I do not.”

  “You two kill me.” Clarence glanced around the room. “No pun intended.”

  She managed a chuckle but opted not to question his statement. There were a few people around town who wanted to play matchmaker with Billy and her, and Clarence was one of them. The three of them had gone to school together. As much as she had lusted after Billy from afar as a kid, they had become good friends. Great friends, in fact, but nothing else. Clarence was wasting his breath.

  Billy Brannigan was the most eligible bachelor in the county, and Rowan doubted he had any interest in the woman who spent most of her time with the dead. There had been moments when she’d felt a tingle of something primal between them, but there was no way in the world she would risk their friendship for a moment of physical satisfaction. Besides, she was the object of a deranged killer’s obsession. She had no intention of dragging Billy any deeper into that unpleasant situation than he already was. Billy was the closest thing to family she had left. She did not want Julian using him to get to her.

  Needing air that hadn’t been closed up with a killer for God only knew how long, she stepped outside and inhaled the cool night air. The ruckus had roused residents, drawing them outside their doors onto stoops. They stood or sat on the steps, watching and waiting for whatever might happen next. Smoke curled in the air from the end of a cigarette. A cell phone or two flashed photos. Did any of them know they had been living next door to a killer? Had he bragged about his exploits?

  Only one way to find out. Rowan stepped down to the sidewalk and started toward the nearest neighbor. The cell in her pocket vibrated against her hip. She tugged it out. The name of her security company flashed on the screen. Rowan paused and accepted the call.

  “Rowan DuPont.”

  “Dr. DuPont, the alarm has been triggered at the funeral home. Are you safe?”

  “I’m not at home.” Rowan looked back toward the squat building with all the cops going in and out. “I can be there in ten minutes.”

  “We’ll send the police now. Approach the property with caution, Dr. DuPont.”

  Rowan reminded the dispatcher to warn the officers about Freud. Most everyone knew there was a big old German shepherd at the funeral home, but she wanted to be certain. Beyond that, she wasn’t sure she said goodbye or even thanked the dispatcher. She shoved the phone back into her pocket and went in search of Billy.

  * * *

  The funeral home’s back door stood open, the wood near the lock splintered where a crowbar or similar tool had been used to force it open. The two officers who arrived first had gone inside, turning on each light as they searched an area. One of the officers, Ray Trenton, had served on Rowan’s protection detail a few months back. Freud recognized Trenton and allowed him and his partner into the living quarters. Billy insisted Rowan stay outside with a third officer until he had checked things out himself.

  Another of his overprotective moves.

  Frustrated, Rowan stood in the center of the front parking lot and waited, arms crossed over her chest. There were folks who wrongly believed that funeral homes kept cash or the valuables of their clients lying around. Others would go after the chemicals for enhancing the effects of drugs. Soak marijuana in embalming fluid, allow it to dry and the effect of the drug was elevated. Dangerously so.

  “Idiots,” Rowan muttered.

  A couple of times when she was a teenager there had been a break-in at the funeral home. Once, Gerald Scott had decided he wanted his wife back home with him. It was the only time her father had ever lost a body, if only for a few hours. The other time was when Tony Syler and a friend had sneaked down to the mortuary room during his aunt’s visitation. They hadn’t stolen anything, just snapped pics of each other on the embalming table.

  No one had ever stolen any of the chemicals.

  “Damn it.” She exhaled a big breath of frustration.

  Anticipation welled inside her as Billy strode out the front entrance. His long legs ate up the distance between them, her worry rising with each step.

  “How much was taken?” she asked. How many kids would be harmed by those chemicals? Damn it, damn it. This was the last thing she’d expected. She’d have to get new locks on the mortuary room and the storage closet where she kept the chemicals. Anything to avoid this issue in the future.

  He shook his head. “No chemicals were taken, Ro.” Billy glanced back at the funeral home. “Whoever broke in, they had only one goal.”

  She frowned, afraid to breathe. If not the chemicals...

  “They took Sanchez.”

  “They took a cadaver?” Why in the world would anyone steal a freshly embalmed corpse? Unless it was a family member. But neighbors insisted Sanchez had no family. Of course, these were the same neighbors who apparently didn’t know he was a killer.

  “Afraid so.” Billy hitched his head toward the entrance. “You can come in now. Have a look around to make sure nothing else is missing.” He shrugged. “I should probably call Dressler and tell him what happened.”

  “Better you than me.” Rowan did not envy him that task.

  While Billy passed along new instructions to the officer who had been waiting with her, Rowan headed inside. Freud greeted her in the lobby. Rowan scratched him on the head.

  Trenton gave her a nod. “He was raising the devil when we arrived. As soon as we opened the door on the second floor, he rushed down the stairs and to the refrigeration unit. He’s got good ears.”

  “He’s a good dog.” Rowan gave Freud another scrub behind the ears.

  The fact that Trenton had been able to open the door to the living quarters told Rowan she’d failed to lock up on the second floor. A dead bolt wouldn’t have stopped the intruder, she reminded herself as she thought of the back door. Most likely, if he’d gone up the stairs, Freud’s deep, threatening barks had sent him back down.

  But this break-in hadn’t been about her or what she might have in her private rooms or anywhere else in the funeral home. This had been about the man—the killer—lying on that gurney in refrigeration.

  Rowan moved toward the refrigeration unit. Trenton’s partner stood by the open door. She didn’t try to go inside, no need. She glanced beyond the door, noted the gurney still in place, the sheet she’d had draped over Sanchez’s body abandoned on the floor. It was possible one intruder had dragged him out, but she couldn’t see one man—even a particularly strong one—carrying him out. Sanchez was a good 170 pounds. Not to mention the rigor would have made moving him unwieldy.

  “You think we’re looking at two perps?”

  Rowan turned to face Billy, who had obviously read her mind. He did that a lot. No surprise. They’d known each other a long time. Thought alike in many ways.

  “I don’t think one could have managed alone, especially without the gurney.”

  “Evidence techs will be here as soon as they finish up at Sanchez’s place. Meanwhile, we should talk about Dressler.”

  Great. Rowan resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “I need coffee. Is the kitchen off-limits?”

  Billy shook his head. “No reason to believe he entered the living quarters. Coffee sounds good to me, too.”

  He followed her upstairs and she set the coffee maker up to brew. She’d no more than pressed the button when the scent of coffee filled the air. She’d never been a nighttime coffee drinker but there were times when it was necessary. Having cops roaming the funeral home in the middle of the night was definitely one of those times.

  “Dressler is justifiably upset,” Billy said as he settled at the table. “I think it was important to him that he had the body.” Billy shrugged. “Maybe to prove the guy’s dead.”

  “It won’t be difficult to lift DNA from the drain in the mortuary room. I’ve cleaned up already but I’m sure he can find something. Maybe on that gurney, as well.”

  “You still photograph the corpses?”

  She nodded. “Always. If the body I embalmed was the man Dressler is looking for, there is no question about him being dead. He is as dead as the proverbial doornail.”

  “You photographed the tattoo?”

  Rowan poured two cups of coffee and moved to the table. “I photographed them all.”

  “Dressler’s going to want your theory about the name.”

  She sipped her coffee and made an agreeable sound. “Don’t worry, I’ll be cooperative.”

  Billy stared at his cup as if wrestling with the decision of whether to infuse his veins with caffeine or not at this point. “I’m not exactly a fan of his, but I’d like to be there when he talks to you.”

  “I wouldn’t want it any other way.” There was no love lost between Billy and Dressler. Rowan wasn’t sure of the reason. One of these days she would ask him. Maybe today, after she met with the haughty agent.

  “Do you mind if I have a look at the journals with the references to the man you believe to be Sanchez?”

  “Why not?” She stood. “Follow me, Chief.”

  They abandoned their coffee and she led the way to her parents’ bedroom. Not that she needed to—Billy knew this house as well as she did. The journal she’d pulled from the others was on her mother’s writing desk. Rowan opened it to the pages she had marked with paper clips and passed it to Billy.

  When he’d viewed the final marked page, he passed the journal back to her. “Sure as hell sounds like the guy.”

  Rowan nodded. “I have no doubt. The only questions in my mind are how did they know each other and what was his real name?”

  “I’m sure Dressler will share what he feels he can.”

  Billy’s tone contradicted his words.

  “What came back on his prints?”

  “The prints were connected to about a dozen homicide cases, but the owner of those prints was not identified.”

  “Then he is a serial killer.” No surprise there.

  “If he’s not the killer, then he was some sort of accomplice since his prints showed up at all those scenes. Different cities, different MOs.”

  “Any of them missing their faces?”

  Billy shook his head. “Not even one.”

  Disgust churned in Rowan’s belly. “It’s worse than we imagined.”

  “I believe so.”

  Which meant Rowan’s mother could have been involved in dozens of murders. How the hell had her father not noticed there was something horribly wrong with his wife?

  Unless he suffered from the same ailment.

  No. Her father was not a killer.

  Was he?

  Five

  Friday, October 25

  Rowan clutched her coffee mug in both hands. The cold had leached deep into her bones. She stood in the refrigeration unit staring at the gurney where Sanchez, or whatever his name was, had been lying before his body was stolen.

  Who would go to the trouble to break into a funeral home and steal a body?

  She and Billy had tossed scenarios back and forth until the wee hours of the morning. The possibilities were endless. A cult follower who admired the killer’s work. The family member of a victim who knew who he really was. Another serial killer who wanted to consume his remains in some sort of bizarre ritual or who wanted to fuel a sense of power by mutilating his decomposing corpse.

  Sanchez had no family or any friends as far as anyone knew.

  “I have to talk to that neighbor.”

  Freud whimpered as if he disagreed with her conclusion.

  Rowan turned to find him waiting at the open door. She blinked. Shivered. The pullover sweater and jeans were no defense against the frigid air pumping from the fans of the refrigeration unit.

  “Don’t worry, boy,” she said as she joined him in the corridor and closed the door. “I haven’t lost my mind yet.”

  It only looked that way from time to time.

  Her cell vibrated in her back pocket. She reached for it and checked the screen. The text message spilled across the screen.

  Thomas Harvey ready for pickup.