Page 14 of Killer Clone

“An old burn, one that was completely healed. That means it happened long before the fatal attack. Must’ve hurt like all heck when it happened. And while it was healing too. You can see how the skin grew back tighter, more unevenly than the rest of his normal skin. You’d probably get away with less of a scar these days. Skin grafts have come a long way. But that was the best they could do then.”

Hagen thought of the bodies they’d found hanging from trees in Claymore Township. Their backs had been covered in strange writing, with a message about the end of the world.

He leaned closer. There were abrasions in the scar tissues. A few small lines and cuts ran over the bumps and old scabs on the skin.

“These fresh?”

Dr. Brennan brought the light closer. “Looks like it. Someone made a few incisions on the scar. These appear to be done by a scalpel or something similar. I’d suggest the same weapon used to make the cut on the carotid artery. But unlike that cut, these were superficial. Certainly not deadly. But again, I would look into morticians. It’s not like the average Joe would think to commit murder in such a specific way. That might be a place to start.”

Hagen straightened. The M.E. wasn’t wrong. The exsanguination matched the last case, as well as the bruising around the ankles. But the cuts on the victim’s back were inconclusive. They could be the result of Patrick Marrion’s body being dragged along a rough surface.

He peeled off his gloves. “Anything else?”

Dr. Brennan shook his head. “Not at this time. If I find something, I’ll be in touch.”

“Right, then. Let’s go meet Patrick Marrion’s roommate.” Ander was already halfway to the door.

6

Patrick Marrion had grown up in the Nashville neighborhood of Forest Crest, where houses were comfortable without being luxurious, spacious but not sprawling, and stood far enough apart for the loudest of domestic disputes to pass unheard. The wide expanse of grass in front of each home was neatly mowed, and stone walkways provided elegant, winding routes from the sidewalks to the front doors.

Stella pulled up in front of a neat redbrick house with white pillars on the porch. A wide chimney promised cozy winter evenings. A layer of dark moss covered the head of a small stone bear in the corner of a flower bed.

From the outside, there was no sign at all that this was a home in mourning. That behind those walls was a pain Stella had seen too often and experienced too deeply.

Stacy undid her seat belt. “Ready?”

Stella wasn’t but got out of the SUV.

A man in his mid-fifties opened the door after two soft knocks. Gray fuzz decorated his heavy cheeks. His plaid shirt was untucked, and his jeans hung loosely on his legs.

Stella held up her badge. “I’m FBI Special Agent Stella Knox, and this is Special Agent Stacy Lark. Are you Andrew Marrion?”

The man squinted at both badges. “FBI?”

“Yes. We’re sorry for your loss.” Stella had said those words so many times, she’d lost count. She often wondered if the routine would strip them of their meaning. It hadn’t happened yet. “We’re investigating your son’s death. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?”

He stepped aside. “Sure. I don’t know what came over me. I’m Andrew. Patrick’s dad. The police told us you’d be coming. Come on in.”

He showed them into the living room. A fire burned in the brick-lined grate. A Christmas tree stood in the corner, and a garland of holly took pride of place on the mantelpiece.

A ball settled at the back of Stella’s throat.

There’d be no joy in this house this year. Happiness wouldn’t come back here for a long time, and when, if ever, it arrived, the first smile would bring guilt and memories and regret.

Stella thought of her brother and wished for the millionth time he was still with her. It’d been over a decade since Jackson passed after a long battle with brain cancer.

Meghan Marrion sat on the sofa, a photo album in her lap and a woman in her early twenties beside her. According to the file, Patrick had a sister, Natalie. Stella guessed the young woman was one and the same. Dark circles rimmed both women’s eyes, the telltale signs of sleepless nights and fresh tears.

Natalie held the corner of a photo between her finger and thumb. There was a hollow emptiness in her and her mother’s movements, the kind that settled in after the initial shock had worn off and the crushing reality of loss began to take hold.

Andrew touched his wife’s shoulder as he passed through the room.

“Honey, these are the FBI agents.” He frowned. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember your names. My head’s a little…”

Stacy came to his rescue. “I’m Special Agent Stacy Lark, and this is Special Agent Stella Knox. We just wanted to ask you a few questions about Patrick, if that’s okay?”

Meghan nodded and waved toward the two-seat sofa that sat at an angle to the table. “Of course. This is our daughter, Natalie, and you can call me Meghan. Why don’t y’all have a seat? We’re just looking through photos to find something to enlarge for the funeral.”

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