Blindsighted

  Her tone was nasty when she snapped, “I’ve got it.”

  He held his hands up, palms toward her as if in surrender. “Sorry.”

  Sara fumbled with the ties on the gown, ending up knotting the strings together. “Shit,” she hissed, trying to work them back out.

  Jeffrey offered, “I could get Brad to go walk the dogs.”

  Sara dropped her hands, giving up. “That’s not the point, Jeffrey.”

  “I know it’s not,” he returned, approaching her the way he might a rabid dog. He took the strings and she looked down, watching him work out the knot. Sara let her gaze travel to the top of his head, noting a few gray strands in with the black. She wanted to will into him the ability to comfort her instead of trying to make a joke of everything. She wanted for him to magically develop the capacity for empathy. After ten years, she should have known better.

  He loosened the knot with a smile, as if with this simple act he had just made everything better. He said, “There.”

  Sara took over, tying the strings together in a bow.

  He put his hand under her chin. “You’re okay,” he said, not a question this time.

  “Yeah,” she agreed, stepping away. “I’m okay.” She pulled out a pair of latex gloves, turning to the task at hand. “Let’s just get the prelim over with before Lena gets back.”

  Sara walked over to the porcelain autopsy table bolted to the floor in the middle of the room. Curved with high sides, the white table hugged Sibyl’s small body. Carlos had placed her head on a black rubber block and draped a white sheet over her. Except for the black bruise over her eye, she could be sleeping.

  “Lord,” Sara muttered as she folded back the sheet. Taking the body out of the kill zone had intensified the damage. Under the bright lights of the morgue, every aspect of the wound stood out. The incisions were long and sharp across the abdomen, forming an almost perfect cross. The skin puckered in places, drawing her attention away from the deep gouge at the intersection of the cross. Postmortem, wounds took on a dark, almost black, appearance. The rifts in Sibyl Adams’s skin gaped open like tiny wet mouths.

  “She didn’t have a lot of body fat,” Sara explained. She indicated the belly, where the incision opened wider just above the navel. The cut there was deeper, and the skin was pulled apart like a tight shirt that had popped a button. “There’s fecal matter in the lower abdomen where the intestines were breached by the blade. I don’t know if it was this deep on purpose or if the depth was accidental. It looks stretched.”

  She indicated the edges of the wound. “You can see the striation here at the tip of the wound. Maybe he moved the knife around. Twisted it. Also…” She paused, figuring things out as she went along. “There are traces of excrement on her hands as well as the bars in the stall, so I have to think she was cut, she put her hands to her belly, then she wrapped her hands around the bars for some reason.”

  She looked up at Jeffrey to see how he was holding up. He seemed rooted to the floor, transfixed by Sibyl’s body. Sara knew from her own experience that the mind could play tricks, smoothing out the sharp lines of violence. Even for Sara, seeing Sibyl again was perhaps worse than seeing her the first time.

  Sara put her hands on the body, surprised that it was still warm. The temperature in the morgue was always low, even during the summer, because the room was underground. Sibyl should have been a lot cooler by now.

  “Sara?” Jeffrey asked.

  “Nothing,” she answered, not prepared to make guesses. She pressed around the wound in the center of the cross. “It was a double-edged knife,” she began. “Which helps you out some. Most stabbings are serrated hunting knives, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  She pointed to a tan-looking mark around the center wound. Cleaning the body, Sara had been able to see a lot more than her initial exam in the bathroom had revealed. “This is from the cross guard, so he put it all the way in. I imagine I’ll see some chipping on the spine when I open her up. I felt some irregularities when I put my finger in. There’s probably some chipped bone still in there.”

  Jeffrey nodded for her to continue.

  “If we’re lucky, we’ll get some kind of impression from the blade. If not that, then maybe something from the cross guard bruising. I can remove and fix the skin after Lena sees her.”

  She pointed to the puncture wound at the center of the cross. “This was a hard stab, so I would imagine the killer did it from a superior position. See the way the wound is angled at about a forty-five?” She studied the incision, trying to make sense of it. “I would almost say that the belly stab is different from the chest wound. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The punctures have a different pattern.”

  “Like how?”

  “I can’t tell,” she answered truthfully. She let this drop for the moment, concentrating on the stab wound at the center of the cross. “So he’s probably standing in front of her, legs bent at the knee, and he takes the knife back to his side”—she demonstrated, pulling her hand back—“then rams it into her chest.”

  “He uses two knives to do this?”

  “I can’t tell,” Sara admitted, going back to the belly wound. Something wasn’t adding up.

  Jeffrey scratched his chin, looking at the chest wound. He asked, “Why not stab her in the heart?”

  “Well, for one, the heart isn’t at the center of the chest, which is where you would have to stab in order to hit the center of the cross. So, there’s an aesthetic quality to his choice. For another, there’s rib and cartilage surrounding the heart. He would have to stab her repeatedly to break through. That would mess up the appearance of the cross, right?” Sara paused. “There would be a great amount of blood if the heart was punctured. It would come out at a considerable velocity. Maybe he wanted to avoid that.” She shrugged, looking up at Jeffrey. “I suppose he could have gone under the rib cage and up if he wanted to get to the heart, but that would have been a crapshoot at best.”

  “You’re saying the attacker had some kind of medical knowledge?”

  Sara asked, “Do you know where the heart is?”

  He put his hand over the left side of his chest.

  “Right. You also know your ribs don’t meet all the way in the center.”

  He tapped his hand against the center of his chest. “What’s this?”

  “Sternum,” she answered. “The cut’s lower, though. It’s in the xiphoid process. I can’t say if that’s blind luck or calculated.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, if you’re hell-bent on carving a cross on somebody’s abdomen and putting a knife through the center, this is the best place to stab somebody if you want the knife to go through. There are three parts to the sternum,” she said, using her own chest to illustrate. “The manubrium, which is the upper part, the body, which is the main part, then the xiphoid process. Of those three, the xiphoid is the softest. Especially in someone this age. She’s what, early thirties?”

  “Thirty-three.”

  “Tessa’s age,” Sara mumbled, and for a second she flashed on her sister. She shook this from her mind, focusing back on the body. “The xiphoid process calcifies as you age. The cartilage gets harder. So, if I was going to stab someone in the chest, this is where I’d make my X.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want to cut her breasts?”

  Sara considered this. “This seems more personal than that.” She tried to find the words. “I don’t know, I would think that he would want to cut her breasts. Know what I mean?”

  “Especially if it’s sexually motivated,” he offered. “I mean, rape is generally about power, right? It’s about being angry at women, wanting to control them. Why would he cut her there instead of in a place that makes her a woman?”

  “Rape is also about penetration,” Sara countered. “This certainly qualifies. It’s a strong cut, nearly clean through. I don’t think—” She stopped, staring at the wound, a new idea forming in h
er mind. “Jesus,” she mumbled.

  “What is it?” Jeffrey asked.

  She could not speak for a few seconds. Her throat felt as if it was closing in on her.

  “Sara?”

  A beeping filled the morgue. Jeffrey checked his pager. “That can’t be Lena,” he said. “Mind if I use the phone?”

  “Sure.” Sara crossed her arms, feeling the need to protect herself from her own thoughts. She waited until Jeffrey was sitting behind her desk before she continued the examination.

  Sara reached above her head, turning the light so that she could get a better look at the pelvic area. Adjusting the metal speculum, she mumbled a prayer to herself, to God, to anybody who would listen, to no avail. By the time Jeffrey returned, she was sure.

  “Well?” he asked.

  Sara’s hands shook as she peeled off her gloves. “She was sexually assaulted early on in the attack.” She paused, dropping the soiled gloves on the table, imagining in her mind Sibyl Adams sitting on the toilet, putting her hands to the open wound in her abdomen, then bracing herself against the bars on either side of the stall, completely blind to what was happening to her.

  He waited a few beats before prompting, “And?”

  Sara put her hands on the edges of the table. “There was fecal matter in her vagina.”

  Jeffrey did not seem to follow. “She was sodomized first?”

  “There’s no sign of anal penetration.”

  “But you found fecal matter,” he said, still not getting it.

  “Deep in her vagina,” Sara said, not wanting to spell it out, knowing she would have to. She heard an uncharacteristic waver in her voice when she said, “The incision in her belly was deep on purpose, Jeffrey.” She stopped, searching for words to describe the horror she had found.

  “He raped her,” Jeffrey said, not a question. “There was vaginal penetration.”

  “Yes,” Sara answered, still searching for a way to clarify. Finally she said, “There was vaginal penetration after he raped the wound.”

  5

  Night had come quickly, the temperature dropping along with the sun. Jeffrey was crossing the street just as Lena pulled into the parking lot of the station house. She was out of her car before he reached her.

  “What’s going on?” she demanded, but he could tell she already knew something was wrong. “Is it my uncle?” she asked, rubbing her arms to fight the chill. She was wearing a thin T-shirt and jeans, not her usual work attire, but the trip to Macon was a casual one.

  Jeffrey took off his jacket, giving it to her. The weight of what Sara had told him sat on his chest like a heavy stone. If Jeffrey had anything to do with it, Lena would never know exactly what had happened to Sibyl Adams. She would never know what that animal had done to her sister.

  “Let’s go inside,” he said, putting his hand under her elbow.

  “I don’t want to go inside,” she answered, jerking her arm away. His coat fell between them.

  Jeffrey leaned down, retrieving his jacket. When he looked up, Lena had her hands on her hips. As long as he had known her, Lena Adams had sported a chip on her shoulder the size of Everest. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jeffrey had been thinking she would need a shoulder to cry on or words of comfort. He could not accept that there wasn’t a soft side to Lena, maybe because she was a woman. Maybe because just a few minutes earlier he had seen her sister lying ripped apart in the morgue. He should have remembered that Lena Adams was harder than that. He should have anticipated the anger.

  Jeffrey slipped his jacket back on. “I don’t want to do this outside.”

  “What are you going to say?” she demanded. “You’re going to say he was driving, right? And that he swerved off the road, right?” She ticked off the progression on her fingertips, giving him nearly verbatim the police handbook procedure for informing someone that a family member had died. Build up to it, the manual said. Don’t spring it on them suddenly. Let the family member/loved one get used to the idea.

  Lena counted it off, her voice getting louder with each sentence. “Was he hit by another car? Huh? And they took him to the hospital? And they tried to save him, but they couldn’t. They did everything they could, huh?”

  “Lena—”

  She walked back toward her car, then turned around. “Where’s my sister? Did you already tell her?”

  Jeffrey took a breath, releasing it slowly.

  “Look at that,” Lena hissed, turning toward the station house, waving her hand in the air. Marla Simms was looking out one of the front windows. “Come on out, Marla,” Lena yelled.

  “Come on,” Jeffrey said, trying to stop her.

  She stepped away from him. “Where is my sister?”

  His mouth did not want to move. Through sheer force of will, he managed, “She was in the diner.”

  Lena turned, walking down the street toward the diner.

  Jeffrey continued, “She went to the bathroom.”

  Lena stopped in her tracks.

  “There was someone in there. He stabbed her in the chest.” Jeffrey waited for her to turn around, but she still did not. Lena’s shoulders were straight, her posture a study in stillness. He continued, “Dr. Linton was having lunch with her sister. She went into the bathroom and found her.”

  Lena turned slowly, her lips slightly parted.

  “Sara tried to save her.”

  Lena looked him straight in the eye. He forced himself not to look away.

  “She’s dead.”

  The words hung in the air like moths around a street-lamp.

  Lena’s hand went to her mouth. She walked in an almost drunken half circle, then turned back to Jeffrey. Her eyes bored into his, a question there. Was this some kind of joke? Was he capable of being this cruel?

  “She’s dead,” he repeated.

  Her breathing came in short staccatos. He could almost see her mind kicking into action as she absorbed the information. Lena walked toward the station house, then stopped. She turned to Jeffrey, mouth open, but said nothing. Without warning, she took off toward the diner.

  “Lena!” Jeffrey called, running after her. She was fast for her size, and his dress shoes were no match for her sneakers pounding down the pavement. He tucked his arms in, pumping, pushing himself to catch her before she reached the diner.

  He called her name again as she neared the diner, but she blew past it, taking a right turn toward the medical center.

  “No,” Jeffrey groaned, pushing himself harder. She was going to the morgue. He called her name again, but Lena did not look back as she crossed onto the hospital’s drive. She slammed her body into the sliding doors, popping them out of their frames, sounding the emergency alarm.

  Jeffrey was seconds behind her. He rounded the corner to the stairs, hearing Lena’s tennis shoes slapping against the rubber treads. A boom echoed up the narrow stairwell as she opened the door to the morgue.

  Jeffrey stopped on the fourth step from the bottom. He heard Sara’s surprised “Lena” followed by a pained groan.

  He forced himself to take the last few steps down, made himself walk into the morgue.

  Lena was bent over her sister, holding her hand. Sara had obviously tried to cover the worst of the damage with the sheet, but most of Sibyl’s upper torso still showed.

  Lena stood beside her sister, her breath coming in short pants, her whole body shaking as if from some bone-chilling cold.

  Sara cut Jeffrey in two with a look. All he could do was hold his hands out. He had tried to stop her.

  “What time was it?” Lena asked through chattering teeth. “What time did she die?”

  “Around two-thirty,” Sara answered. Blood was on her gloves, and she tucked them under her arms as if to hide it.

  “She feels so warm.”

  “I know.”

  Lena lowered her voice. “I was in Macon, Sibby,” she told her sister, stroking back her hair. Jeffrey was glad to see Sara had taken the time to comb some of the blood out.

&nb
sp; Silence filled the morgue. It was eerie seeing Lena standing beside the dead woman. Sibyl was her identical twin, alike in every way. They were both petite women, about five four and little more than one hundred twenty pounds. Their skin had the same olive tone. Lena’s dark brown hair was longer than her sister’s, Sibyl’s curlier. The sisters’ faces were a study in contrast, one flat and emotionless, the other filled with grief.

  Sara turned slightly to the side, removing her gloves. She suggested, “Let’s go upstairs, okay?”

  “You were there,” Lena said, her voice low. “What did you do to help her?”

  Sara looked down at her hands. “I did what I could do.”

  Lena stroked the side of her sister’s face, her tone a little sharper when she asked, “What exactly was it that you could do?”

  Jeffrey stepped forward, but Sara gave him a sharp look to stop him, as if to say his time to help the situation had come and gone about ten minutes ago.

  “It was very fast,” Sara told Lena, obviously with some reluctance. “She started to go into convulsions.”

  Lena laid Sibyl’s hand down on the table. She pulled the sheet up, tucking it under her sister’s chin as she spoke. “You’re a pediatrician, right? What exactly did you do to help my sister?” She locked eyes with Sara. “Why didn’t you call a real doctor?”

  Sara gave a short incredulous laugh. She inhaled deeply before answering, “Lena, I think you should let Jeffrey take you home now.”

  “I don’t want to go home,” Lena answered, her tone calm, almost conversational. “Did you call an ambulance? Did you call your boyfriend?” A tilt of her head indicated Jeffrey.

  Sara’s hands went behind her back. She seemed to be physically restraining herself. “We’re not going to have this conversation now. You’re too upset.”

  “I’m too upset,” Lena repeated, clenching her hands. “You think I’m upset?” she said, her voice louder this time. “You think I’m too fucking upset to talk to you about why you fucking couldn’t help my sister?”

  As quickly as she had taken off in the parking lot, Lena was in Sara’s face.

  “You’re a doctor!” Lena screamed. “How can she die with a fucking doctor in the room?”