Chapter 3 THE ANATOMY OF OBSESSION

The most intimate violence is performed with loving hands.

-Dr. Daniel Mercer's journal (recovered from evidence locker #3472)

The Polaroid trembled between Evelyn's fingers, the chemical scent of instant film mixing with the Scotch on her breath. Moonlight through the window illuminated every detail of the twenty-year-old image:

- The exact shade of her burgundy sweater (Christmas gift from her mother, lost during second year finals)

- The chipped nail polish on her right thumb (OPI's "Lincoln Park After Dark")

- The faint coffee stain on Gray's Anatomy textbook (page 387, brachial plexus diagram)

She turned the ivory-handled scalpel in the light. The fingerprints weren't just visible-they'd been enhanced with fingerprint powder, the whorls and ridges deliberately highlighted like some perverse art project.

Her phone buzzed against the granite countertop. Hale's tenth call. His follow-up text appeared with surgical precision:

*"Chen's tox screen: 2.5mg/kg propofol + 0.03mg/kg midazolam. Classic conscious sedation cocktail. Injection sites between toes-exactly where you taught residents to place IVs for deniability. Your boy's using YOUR techniques, Shaw."

The landline rang again. This time she answered on the first ring, her forensic recorder already running.

"Hello, Evie."

The voice hadn't changed. Not really. That particular timbre-like a cello playing minor chords-could only belong to one person. But there was something new beneath it now, a vibrational quality that made her molars ache.

She counted three breaths before responding. "You're using a voice modulator. The Grundig GX-200, if I had to guess. Pediatric oncology ward still uses them for burn victims."

A delighted laugh. "Still playing 'name that instrument.' I've missed this." The modulation cut out abruptly, revealing his true voice-rougher now, weathered by time and something darker. "You're holding my first gift, I presume?"

Her fingers tightened around the scalpel. The ivory felt warm, almost alive. "This isn't a gift. It's a-"

"-threat? Oh darling." His sigh traveled down the line like a physical caress. "Threats are for strangers. This is an invitation written in a language only we speak. Check your refrigerator."

The line went dead.

The Sub-Zero's stainless steel door reflected Evelyn's distorted face-her pupils blown wide, the scar above her right eyebrow (souvenir from a broken beaker in Organic Chem) standing out white against her pallor.

The cold air carried three distinct scents:

1. Formalin (37% formaldehyde solution, she'd know that stench anywhere)

2. The faintest hint of jasmine (Daniel's preferred scent for specimen preservation)

3. Something coppery and alive beneath it all

On the center shelf, floating in a glass canister of precisely pH-balanced formalin, a human heart pulsed with preserved vitality. The aortic arch bore a tag looped through with red surgical silk:

Mine.

Beneath the jar, a manila envelope lay precisely centered. Inside, arranged with museum-curator care:

1.A child's pink mitten: Wool blend, size 4-6 years. The exact duplicate of the pair she'd lost during first grade's winter field trip to the natural history museum. The wool smelled faintly of the lavender sachets her mother used.

2.Psychiatric evaluation: Dated April 14, her second year of med school. The stolen document detailed her breakdown after the first cadaver dissection. Daniel's handwritten notes filled the margins: "Such beautiful sensitivity. Like watching a Stradivarius tremble in a storm."

3.Sonogram photo: Dated two days ago. The grainy image showed a 12-week fetus, its nuchal translucency measuring precisely 1.8mm. Scrawled across the bottom in Daniel's meticulous script: "You always said you'd never bring a child into this world. Smart girl."

Evelyn's knees hit the tile with a crack that reverberated up her spine. The dates aligned perfectly with that night six weeks ago-after the Thompson autopsy, when she and Hale had drunk an entire bottle of Glenfiddich in her office. She remembered waking with:

- A headache like an ice pick behind her left eye

- The taste of mint and gun oil in her mouth

- Unexplained tenderness low in her abdomen

Her trembling fingers found the small puncture mark near her bikini line-just above the inguinal ligament. The perfect site for...

"No." The word escaped as a whimper. She'd performed enough forensic ovum retrievals to recognize the signs.

Dawn painted the symphony hall's alley in surreal pinks when Evelyn arrived. Sarah Chen's body was gone, but the blood remained-arranged in a near-perfect Fibonacci spiral across the cracked pavement.

Hale materialized at her elbow, his usual spearmint gum replaced by the acrid tang of nicotine. "We pulled Chen's phone records." He held out an evidence bag containing a melted flip phone. "Last call was to your office line."

"That's impossible."

"38 seconds. Initiated at 1:17 AM." His jaw worked. "Right around the time you got your first call."

Evelyn's stomach dropped. The timeline placed her as the last person to speak to the victim-the ultimate professional violation.

A CSI tech waved them toward the dumpster. Inside, nestled among the trash bags like some grotesque nesting doll, a music box played a distorted version of Brahms' Lullaby-the same melody Daniel used to hum while dissecting cadavers.

The box's interior revealed:

1.Hair sample: 12-inch auburn strand (recently cut, matching Evelyn's salon visit two weeks prior)

2.Grave photo: Her mother's headstone, with fresh lilies arranged precisely as Evelyn always left them

3.Pregnancy test: Digital readout still visible: "Pregnant 3+"

The attached note read:"Three becomes four. But not for long."

Hale's radio crackled. "Detective? You need to see this."

Behind the dumpster, the brick wall bore a fresh anatomical drawing-a uterus rendered in what appeared to be...

"Is that-"

"Lipstick." Evelyn's voice sounded foreign to her own ears. "Revlon's 'Love That Red.' My mother's shade."

The ER ultrasound gel was colder than usual, or maybe that was just Evelyn's blood turning to ice. The technician's brow furrowed as the wand moved over her abdomen.

"There's definitely a gestational sac," the tech murmured. "But these hormone levels..." She pointed to the screen. "See how the yolk sac is distended? And this echogenic material around the decidual reaction?"

Evelyn's medical training filled in the gaps before the tech could voice them:

- HCG levels inconsistent with dates

- Abnormal yolk sac morphology

- Unusual endometrial patterns

The OB's pager went off. "Dr. Shaw, have you undergone any fertility treatments? These markers suggest..." She trailed off, suddenly recognizing Evelyn from the news.

The dates didn't make sense. She'd been on continuous birth control since residency. She and Hale had used protection. Except...

Memory flickered-that hazy night six weeks ago. Waking to find Hale's service weapon on her nightstand. The strange metallic taste in her mouth. The lingering scent of jasmine beneath the whiskey and sweat.

Daniel had been inside her apartment. Inside her body.

And he'd left something behind.

Professor Langley's body was positioned with macabre precision in the medical school anatomy lab-exactly as Evelyn had been in the Polaroid, right down to the textbook open to Chapter 14: Fetal Development Weeks 8-12.

The killer had:

1.Removed the eyes: Replaced with glass marbles containing microprinted sonogram images

2.Sutured the lips: Black silk stitches forming a perfect smile

3.Installed a music box: The mechanism embedded in the chest cavity played a lullaby when the ribs were depressed

When the ME turned the body, the back split open along carefully scored lines, releasing hundreds of sonogram photos-all dated within the past month, all showing the same developing fetus at progressively later stages.

Tucked in Langley's rigor-mortised hand was a boarding pass for "Evelyn Mercer" on Flight 817 to Buenos Aires-departing in six hours from Gate B12.

The note simply said: "Come find me."

Beneath it, almost as an afterthought:

"P.S. Say goodbye to the detective. He won't survive the week