Dean Koontz's Frankenstein 4-Book Bundle Read Online Free PDF

to purple.
    Michael was at his desk in the Homicide Division, adjacent to Carson’s, occupied by much of the same paperwork. She knew that he was ready to go home, but he usually let her define the workday.
    â€œYou checked our doc box lately?” she asked.
    â€œTen minutes ago,” Michael reminded her. “You send me out there one more time, I’m going to eat a get-small mushroom and just
stay
in the doc box until the report shows up.”
    â€œWe should’ve had the prelim autopsy on that floater hours ago,” she complained.
    â€œAnd I shoulda been born rich. Go figure.”
    She consulted photos of cadavers in situ while Michael watched.
    The first victim, a young nurse named Shelley Justine, had been murdered elsewhere and dumped beside the London Street Canal. Tests revealed the chemical signature of chloroform in her blood.
    After the killer rendered her unconscious, he killed her with a knife to the heart. With exquisite precision he removed her ears. A peptide profile found no elevated endorphin levels in the blood, indicating that the surgery occurred after she was dead. Had she been alive, the pain and terror would have left telltale chemistry.
    The second victim, Meg Saville, a tourist from Idaho, had also been chloroformed and knifed while unconscious. The Surgeon—the press’s name for him—had neatly sawed off Saville’s feet.
    â€œIf he’d just
always
take feet,” Michael said, “we’d know he was a podiatrist, and we’d have found him by now.”
    Carson shuffled the next photo to the top of the stack.
    The first two victims had been women; however, neither Shelley Justine nor Meg Saville had been molested.
    When the third victim was a man, the killer established his bona fides as an equal-opportunity maniac. The body of Bradford Walden—a young bartender from a hole-in-the-wall across the river in Algiers—had been found with the right kidney surgically removed.
    The switch to souvenirs of internal origin wasn’t troubling—an urge to collect feet and ears was no less disturbing than a fancy for kidneys—but it
was
curious.
    Chemical traces of chloroform were found, but this time peptide profiles showed that Walden had been alive and awake for the surgery. Had the chloroform worn off too soon? Or had the killer intentionally let the man wake up? In either case, Walden died in agony, his mouth stuffed with rags and sealed with duct tape to muffle his screams.
    The fourth victim, Caroline Beaufort, Loyola University student, had been discovered with both legs missing, her torso propped on an ornate bench at a trolley-car stop in the upscale Garden District. She had been chloroformed and unconscious when murdered.
    For his fifth kill, the Surgeon dispensed with the anesthetic. He murdered another man, Alphonse Chaterie, a dry cleaner. He collected Chaterie’s liver while the victim was alive and fully awake: not a trace of chloroform.
    Most recently, this morning’s body in the City Park lagoon was missing both hands.
    Four women, two men. Four with chloroform, one without, one set of results pending. Each victim missing one or more body parts. The first three women were killed before the trophies were removed, while the men were alive and conscious for the surgery.
    Apparently none of the victims had known any of the others. Thus far no mutual acquaintances had come to light, either.
    â€œHe doesn’t like to see women suffer, but men in agony are okay with him,” Carson said, and not for the first time.
    Michael had a new thought. “Maybe the killer’s a woman, has more sympathy for her own gender.”
    â€œYeah, right. How many serial killers have ever been women?”
    â€œThere’ve been a few,” he said. “But, I am proud to say, men have been a
lot
more successful at it.”
    Carson wondered, “Is there a fundamental difference between lopping off female body parts