“Dear God,” Gibson breathed, “you will be home for dinner tonight. I’m not about to give your wife a reason to help mine torture me.”

  Cordy slapped her partner on the shoulder and chuckled. Before she could say anything further, Lita joined them.

  “For once in this life, I don’t have any other bodies waiting for my blade,” she said as she removed her latex gloves and shoved them in her pocket, “One of you want to meet me at the suite? I’ll get him started as soon as we get there.”

  “Cordy can go,” Gibson said quickly. Gibson hated the morgue, and despite having seen the worst that humanity could do to one another, he didn’t have the strongest stomach.

  “Coward,” Cordy teased, “You just don’t want to risk me being buried under paperwork until midnight.”

  Gibson nodded. “I’m not stupid, I know not to piss off someone’s wife.”

  Lita shook her head and bid the pair goodbye. Gibson and Cordy waited until the Coroner’s van left the scene, before conferring with the CSU team.

  “Make sure you bag everything that was found with the body,” Gibson instructed routinely. Everyone knew the drill, but as a matter of formality, he issued the order anyway.

  “Why don’t you head on over to the morgue,” he said to Cordy, “I’ll head back to the station and start the paperwork.”

  Cordy yawned and nodded at her partner.

  “Late night?” Gibson asked as the pair made their way back to their cars.

  Cordy snickered. Gibson’s innocent question was thickly laced with innuendo. Anytime he got the chance, Gibson liked to press Cordy for details of her sex life. His own sex life was pretty vanilla, mostly due to his wife’s highly religious upbringing.

  It had taken a while, three years, in fact, before Gibson had managed to convince Nora that Cordy and Jenica were not heathens who should be rotting in Hell. Now, Jenica and Nora were the best of friends.

  “Have you met Jenica?” Cordy asked teasingly, “Every night with that woman is a late night. There is no such thing as a quickie with her.”

  Gibson stood beside his car and stared over the roof at his friend. “How in the hell did you manage to land her again?”

  Cordy shrugged. “I know what to do with my tongue.”

  Gibson barked out a laugh and ducked into his driver’s seat. Bantering with Cordy always cheered him up, even when he lost. He waited while Cordy backed her car out and, once he was clear to do so, followed her down the single-lane road.

  At the stop sign, Cordy stuck her arm out her window and flipped him the bird. Gibson snickered and returned the gesture as he followed her left turn toward Falls City.

  ***

  “Wow, Doc, when did you stop using the Y-incision?” Cordy greeted as she entered the autopsy room, clad in the highly loathed protective gear.

  “Funny, Weston,” Lita replied, without removing her eyes from the notepad she was scribbling in. “You’re just in time, though. I haven’t even started cutting yet.”

  Cordy pulled out her own notepad and began making notes. She’d get a hard copy of Lita’s report, but Cordy worked better with her own notes.

  “Any significant injuries?” she asked as she wrote.

  “I can’t say yet as far as internal injuries, but there are four visible external wounds.” Lita moved to the end of the table and pointed to the bottom of the feet.

  “The cut on the left is superficial. Sliced through a few layers, just enough to make it bleed. The right is deeper, and effectively bisected the plantar fascia. It bled for a bit, but if he wasn’t standing on the foot, it would have stopped bleeding relatively quickly.”

  Cordy shifted her weight from one foot to the other. The soles of her feet tingled as she listened to Lita’s recitation.

  “This one,” Lita said, moving to the victim’s right side, “looks like it was meant to make a point.”

  Cordy’s eyes followed Lita’s finger as the coroner walked the length of the cut.

  “Starts at the ankle and goes all the way to the armpit. It’s not deep, but it definitely would have stung.”

  “This is pretty tame for torture,” Cordy observed. She’d seen some terrible things in her career, but this didn’t even make her top-ten.

  “I agree. The rest of the body is essentially untouched, from what I can see on a cursory, visual inspection, except for here,” Lita pointed to an area on the man’s chest, directly between his nipples, “he was hit with a taser. Probably how the perp subdued him.”

  Cordy made a note of the marks and stared at the face of the dead man before her. His eyes were closed, his mouth slack, and his skin had the ashen, pasty look that always accompanied death.

  “What’s with the tape on his neck?” she asked, pointing.

  Lita shrugged, “I haven’t touched it. Let’s find out.” Lita used the small digital camera around her neck to take photographs of the tape. She set the camera on the cart beside her, and gripped a loose edge.

  Careful not to cause damage to the tape, or further any damage hidden by it, she slowly pulled it off, revealing the gaping hole beneath it.

  “This here is your cause of death,” she announced as she inspected the edges of the wound, “A single, deep, clean slice across the anterior pharynx. The killer either has medical training, or is incredibly lucky.”

  Cordy frowned and studied the gaping wound that used to be the victim’s neck. “What do you mean?”

  Lita pulled a magnifier across the table and positioned it over the wound. “The incision cut through the trachea at the vocal fold, and goes all the way through the esophagus. A little more pressure, and his head would have been nearly severed.” Lita used her fingers to widen the hole, so Cordy could see what she was referring to.

  “What kind of blade was used? Could a knife make this kind of wound?” Cordy asked.

  Lita shook her head. “I’m not a weapons expert, but in my opinion, I’d have to say a scalpel or straight razor.”

  “What’s wrong?” Cordy asked, noting Lita’s furrowed brow.

  “There’s something in here,” Lita replied, removing her fingers and taking a pair of hemostats from her cart.

  Cordy leaned a bit closer and watched as Lita painstakingly removed a photograph from deep inside the victim’s trachea. Cordy grabbed an evidence bag and held it open for Lita.

  “There’s more,” Lita commented, using the hemostats to remove a second photograph and a cell phone. All three items were encased in thin, plastic baggies.

  “Oh, shit,” Lita said, her eyes going wide behind the clear shield protecting her face, “he’s back.”

  “Who’s back?” Cordy asked, confusion dancing across her face.

  “You need to talk to Brandon,” Lita said as she signed the now-sealed evidence bags, “I’ll call him and tell him what I found.”

  Cordy took the evidence bags and made a note in her notepad. “Lita, who is ‘he’?”

  “The Confessor,” Lita replied, her soft features hardening.

  ***

  “Weston, Price, my office,” Captain Rick Brandon breezed through the bullpen toward his office.

  Cordy and Gibson shared a look across their desks before joining the man.

  “What’s up, Cap?” Gibson asked, closing the door behind him when Brandon motioned.

  “Eastgate victim,” the Captain replied, getting directly to the point, “what do you have on him?”

  “We’ve only had it a few hours,” Cordy began, raising her hand to forestall her superior’s interruption, “but we’ve got some basics.”

  Gibson pulled the notepad from his back pocket and read off the pertinent information.

  “Vic’s name is Franklin Durfee, age twenty-nine, Caucasian, five-foot-eight, one-hundred-ninety-seven pounds. Address on his driver’s license is an apartment over on Mitchell. One hit on his record for B and E. Served his time and was released last month. The canvas of his neighbors says he was a quiet guy who kept to himself.”

  Brandon nodded as he listened, his brow furrowing. When Gibson stopped talking, the man remained quiet for several moments. Cordy looked to Gibson, who simply shrugged and watched the Captain.

  “What’s the matter, Cap?” Cordy finally asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

  Brandon jumped slightly, he’d forgotten he had company. “Fifteen years ago, I was a newly appointed detective here. My partner and I caught a case one night, most gruesome crime scene either of us had ever seen.”

  Brandon reached into his desk and removed a three-inch-thick file. He set it in front of himself and took a deep breath before continuing.

  “Thirty-year-old man, named Martin Cables, was found lying in Vista Park, his body out in the open. The guy’s balls and penis had been removed with incredible precision, and the wound cauterized. His throat had been slit, almost decapitating him, and his jewels were found stuffed inside the wound, with duct tape holding it closed. His body was covered in shallow cuts, and he’d lost most of his blood before he died.”

  “What does that…” Gibson’s question was cut short when Brandon continued his story.

  “Vasquez was a new intern in the M. E’s office, and this was her first hands-on vic. During autopsy, she found a thumb drive in Cables’ rectum. The drive contained a video of the murder, and a confession by the victim.”

  “Confession?” Cordy asked. Brandon nodded.

  “Turns out, nine years earlier, the vic had brutally raped and sodomized a twelve-year-old girl. It wasn’t until the vic identified his victim, and gave details that hadn’t been released to the public, that SVU made the connection to a high-profile rape case that had gone cold. The girl was the step-daughter of a well-known circuit court judge.”

  Cordy and Gibson shared a look.

  “On the tape, the killer slit the vic’s throat, but there was nothing identifying about him. Grant and I worked the case for months. We followed every lead, questioned dozens of suspects, but came up with nothing.”

  “A few months after the leads dried up, we caught another body. This one was a woman. She had the same shallow cuts and cause of death. Paulnitz, the M.E. at the time, found a flash drive and the woman’s fingers shoved down her throat.”

  “Her fingers?” Gibson asked, “why her fingers?”

  Brandon shook his head. “The woman had been released from prison after serving eighteen months for beating her one-year-old daughter to death with her bare hands. This time, the killer could be heard on the tape telling her to confess.”

  “So, that’s how he got the name The Confessor?” Cordy asked.

  Brandon nodded. “For three years, the bodies piled up. Each victim had been guilty of some heinous crime against another person, and he made them confess. He never taunted us, or contacted the media. Each victim died the same way, and there was something connecting them to their crimes stuffed inside their wound. Then, all of a sudden, the killings stopped.”

  “His last victim, Gary Andrews, was the son of a prominent gay rights activist. Gary had a long list of criminal activity, but the one that got him killed, was the gay-bashing of a sixteen-year-old boy, named Taylor Vincent.”

  “On the thumb drive that was found in his throat, Andrews admitted to seeing the boy make out with another boy in the park. When the two boys went their separate ways, Andrews followed Taylor down an alley and beat the shit out of him.”

  Brandon paused and shook his head. “Andrews used a pocket knife to carve the word fag into Taylor’s forehead and left him to die behind a dumpster. Someone heard Taylor’s weak cries for help, and he was taken to the hospital. He didn’t die from his injuries, but he was left with permanent disfigurement and a traumatic brain injury. Taylor’s picture was found with the video.”

  Cordy pulled out her notepad and flipped it open to the notes she had taken earlier in the morning. “Durfee had pictures of two women in his wound,” she said, more to herself than to the others.

  “I’ve spent the morning in meetings with the Chief and Commissioner,” Brandon said, picking up a thinner file from his desktop and holding it out to Cordy and Gibson.

  “The women in those pictures are Meredith Strong and Grace Burke. They were murdered nine months ago, on the same day they came home from their honeymoon. The case is being handled by Murphy and Lasco, but they don’t have any suspects. Apparently, The Confessor did their jobs for them, or at least, thinks he did.”

  Gibson took the file from Brandon and flipped it open.

  “Do you want us to pass this case over to them?” Cordy asked. She hated Lasco, and the idea of giving him one of her cases was loathsome.

  Brandon shook his head. “No. The bosses want you and Price to handle it.”

  Cordy’s eyebrow shot up and she looked over at her partner. Brandon saw the look and smiled.

  “They’ve heard about the work you two do. They’re also aware of how well you handled the D’Angelo case. Not many Detectives could have handled the media backlash the way you two did. Murphy and Lasco couldn’t have done it.”

  The D’Angelo case had been a hard case to handle, even for a seasoned detective. Carlo D’Angelo, brother of the city’s mayor, had brutally tortured and murdered his wife and children, along with his wife’s lover, on the 4th of July, the previous year.

  Despite an accused cover-up and frame-job, Cordy and Gibson had gathered every scrap of evidence, interviewed every possible witness, and managed to get the arrogant P.o.S. to confess.

  Cordy and Gibson had single-handedly given the prosecutor’s office an air-tight case that resulted in a conviction. Even the Mayor, who believed in his brother’s innocence, had thanked the pair for their hard work, and issued a personal apology for undermining their integrity with his accusations to the media.

  “Alright,” Brandon said, making a shooing motion with his hands, “you’re not going to get anywhere sitting in my office.”

  Cordy and Gibson stood. Cordy accepted the thick file from her boss and followed her partner out to the bullpen.

  “You want to do the reading?” she asked, tossing Gibson a teasing smile.

  Gibson fixed her with a stony stare. Despite being a seasoned detective, Gibson Price had a disability that only his partner and captain knew about. There was a reason Cordy usually handled all the paperwork, and read through each of the files that came across their desks. Gibson was dyslexic.

  “Sure,” he replied flatly, “I’ll read it, right after I call Jenica and tell her you ditched dinner with her, to go see Gina.”

  Cordy’s mouth flew open at the mention of the fellow officer that her wife despised. Gina Tellez had been trying to get into Cordy’s pants for years, despite knowing the woman was happily married. The sight of Cordy’s shock made Gibson smile. Cordy was gorgeous, despite her objections to the contrary, and her face was incredibly expressive. When she wasn’t in bad-ass bitch mode, that is.

  “Funny, Price,” she drawled, “very funny.”

  ***

  “Are you and Cordy going to the benefit for the Center this year?”

  Jenica took a sip of her tea and smiled. “We go every year. It’s just about the only time she willingly wears a dress. For other people to see, that is.”

  Stormie Carter laughed at Jenica’s amended statement. She adored the exotic beauty, and had since the first time they met. Eight years earlier, when Jenica started volunteering at the Callie Rae Baxter Center, Stormie had been her coordinator. Stormie already had several years as a volunteer under her belt, and it was her dedicated guidance that helped Jenica find her niche.

  Over the years, Stormie and Jenica formed a professional acquaintanceship. To the other volunteers, the beautiful blonde tax attorney and the alluring bronze nurse were the best of friends. However, despite Jenica’s attempts to move their friendship beyond the confines of their volunteering duties, the pair rarely had contact with each other.

  Jenica knew, from their many break-time talks, that Stormie and her wife had suffered a terrible loss during the first few years of their marriage. Stormie had confided to her about the incident, but it was not something either had discussed again.

  Jenica had heard numerous rumors about Stormie’s past around the office, but didn’t feel it was her place to set the record straight. If Stormie wanted others to know what had transpired, she would give the information herself.

  “I take it she gives you private runway shows, then?” Stormie asked, amusement dancing in her sky-blue eyes.

  Jenica’s eyes crinkled with mischief. “She does. Cordy is stunning in a tight cocktail dress.”

  Stormie smiled knowingly and sipped her water. “I do the same thing for Oakley. She loves to see me strut my stuff in something sexy and revealing. I just won’t do it for other people.”

  Jenica laughed. Stormie and Cordy were quite similar, even though they’d only met a handful of times. Like her wife, Cordy Weston volunteered with the CRBC. However, due to the demands of her job, she only managed to do so on occasion. That was part of the reason Jenica had never knowingly laid eyes on Stormie’s wife, Oakley.

  “I still can’t believe how common the name Oakley is here,” Jenica said, “Before I moved to this part of the world, I’d only ever met one person with it. I wish I knew what happened to her,” she added, a small twinge of sadness edging her voice.

  “Do you remember her last name?” Stormie asked, offering her friend a comforting smile, “Maybe you can find her on Facebook. If you two were close, you could try inviting her to one of your shindigs.”

  “I already tried that,” Jenica lamented, “but I couldn’t find a single listing for Oakley Jessup.”

  Stormie shrugged. “Maybe she got married?” she suggested, “Maybe she took her husband’s last name. Or her wife’s,” she amended, seeing the laughter in Jenica’s eyes.

  “I did have a wee bit of a crush on her,” Jenica admitted with a smirk, “but she didn’t really seem like she was interested in dating. I was too interested in the captain of the rugby team, back then, to really pine for her.”

  Stormie chuckled, but didn’t press the subject. She suspected that her wife may well be Jenica’s long lost friend, but she didn’t have the heart to get the woman’s hopes up. Oakley had spent most of her teen years with her father in New Zealand, but the idea that her wife and Jenica’s friend were one and the same, seemed a bit far-fetched. Her Oakley’s last name was Frost, not Jessup.