“Blood is five times more dense than water. It would take weeks for the soil to filter it out, and I’d bet that water oak will hold on to it for years.” Sara explained, “The plasma would break down, but the proteins and globulin would remain in an indefinite colloidal stage.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
She smiled. “What’s the bad news?”
He leaned his hand on the gurney, then thought better of it. “I executed a search warrant on the wrong property and tainted some evidence.”
Sara didn’t speak, but her expression must have conveyed her surprise.
“Tommy lived in the garage, not Allison. The search warrant Faith got listed the garage address. Anything I found is tainted. I doubt a judge would let it through in court.”
She suppressed a rueful laugh. At least he was seeing firsthand how Lena managed to screw up everything and everyone around her. “What did you find?”
“Not a lot of blood, if that’s what you mean. Frank Wallace was cut while he was standing at the front of the garage. The stain on the floor by the bed was probably from Tommy’s dog, Pippy, trying to hork up a sock.”
Sara winced. “Do you still think Tommy did this? His confession doesn’t line up with the facts.”
“Lena’s been working on the theory that Tommy took Allison out to the woods on his scooter and murdered her there. I suppose he was sitting on the cinder blocks the way you’d put a kid on some phone books at the kitchen table.”
“That sounds completely believable.”
“Doesn’t it just?” He scratched his jaw. “Have you examined Allison’s body yet?”
“I took a preliminary look at the wound. The attacker was behind her. Most knife injuries to the throat are from behind, but usually the blade is drawn across the front of the throat, oftentimes resulting in a partial decapitation. Allison was stabbed from behind with the blade going into the neck from the rear, the trajectory going toward the front of the throat. It was one thrust, very calculated, almost like an execution, then the killer twisted the blade just to make sure.”
“So, she died from the stab wound?”
“I can’t say for sure until I have her on the table.”
“But you have an idea.”
Sara had never liked giving her opinion unless she had strong medical fact to support it. “I don’t want to make assumptions.”
“It’s just us down here. I promise I won’t tell anybody.”
She was only vaguely aware that she was relenting much more easily than she should have. “The angle of the wound was designed to deliver a quick death. I haven’t cut her open yet, so I’m not sure—”
“But?”
“It looks like the carotid sheath was cut, so we’re talking an instant interruption of the common carotid and more than likely the internal jugular. They’re branched together like this.” She lined up the index fingers of both her hands. “The carotid’s job is to carry oxygenated blood at a rapid speed from the heart into the head and neck. The jugular is a vein. It’s gravity fed. It collects the deoxygenated blood from the head and neck and sends it back to the heart via the superior vena cava, where it’s oxygenated again and the whole process starts all over. You follow?”
Will nodded. “Arteries are the water supply, veins are the drain. It’s a closed system.”
“Right,” she agreed, giving him points for the plumbing analogy. “All arteries have a little muscle spiraling around them that relaxes and contracts to control blood flow. If you cut an artery in two, sever it, the muscle contracts, curling up like a broken rubber band. That helps stanch the blood flow. But, if you slice open the artery without cutting it in two, the victim dies from exsanguination, usually very quickly. We’re talking seconds, not minutes. The blood shoots out, they panic, their heart beats faster, blood shoots out faster, and they’re dead.”
“Where is the carotid?”
She put her fingers alongside her trachea. “You’ve got one carotid on each side, mirror images. I’ll have to excise the wound, but it appears that the knife followed this route, entering near the sixth cervical vertebra and traveling along the angle of the jaw.”
He stared at her neck. “How hard is that to hit from behind?”
“Allison is very small framed. Her neck is the width of my palm. There’s so much going on in the back of the neck—muscles, blood vessels, vertebrae. You would have to pause, to take a second, to aim so that you hit the exact spot. You couldn’t go straight in from the back. You’d have to go from the back toward the side. With the right knife, at the right angle, the odds are pretty good that you’ll end up opening both the carotid and the jugular.”
“The right knife?”
“I’m guessing it had a three-and-a-half- to four-inch blade.”
“So, we’re talking about a kitchen knife?”
He obviously wasn’t good with measurements. She showed him the distance using her finger and thumb. “Three and a half inches. Think about the size of her neck. Or my neck, for that matter.” Sara kept the measurement between her fingers and held her hand to her neck. “If the blade had been any longer, it would’ve exited the front of the neck.”
He crossed his arms. She couldn’t tell if he was pleased or annoyed with the visual aids. He asked, “How wide do you think the blade was?”
She narrowed the space between her thumb and finger. “Five-eighths? Three-quarters? The skin is elastic. She must have struggled. The incision is wider at the bottom, so the killer jammed in the knife to the hilt, then twisted the blade to make sure he was doing maximum damage. I’m sure it wasn’t over an inch wide.”
“That sounds like a large folding knife.”
Sara thought he was right based on the bruise from the hilt, but she told him, “I really need to look at the wound in a better setting than inside the freezer.”
“Was it serrated?”
“I don’t think so, but really, let me get into the wound and I can tell you everything you need to know.”
He chewed his lip, obviously thinking about what she had told him. “It takes less than two pounds of pressure to penetrate skin.”
“As long as the knife is pointed and sharp and the blade is forcefully thrust.”
“Sounds like something a hunter would know how to do.”
“Hunter, doctor, mortician, butcher.” She felt the need to add, “Or anyone with a good search engine. I’m sure you can find all kinds of anatomical diagrams on the Internet. Whether they’re accurate is up for debate, but whoever did this was showing off his skills. I hate to keep banging the same drum, but Tommy had an IQ of eighty. It took him two months to learn how to tie his shoes. Do you really think that he committed this crime?”
“I don’t like to speculate.”
She gave him his own words. “It’s just us down here. I won’t tell anyone.”
Will didn’t give in as easily as Sara had. “Was Tommy a hunter?”
“I doubt Gordon would’ve let him have a gun.”
Will took a moment before asking his next question. “Why not drown her? She was standing by a lake.”
“The water must have been close to freezing. There was the chance of a struggle. She could’ve yelled. My house is—was—across the lake from Lover’s Point, but sometimes when the wind was right, I could hear music playing, kids laughing. Certainly, any number of people would have heard a young girl screaming for her life.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to cut the front of the throat instead of going in through the back?”
She nodded, saying, “If you cut the trachea, the victim wouldn’t be able to speak, let alone yell for help.”
Will pointed out, “Women tend to use knives.”
Sara hadn’t considered the possibility, but she was grateful his mind was moving off Tommy. “Allison was small. A woman could have overwhelmed her, then carried her to the water.”
“Was the killer left-handed? Right-handed?”
“Well—” Sara w
as going to ask if it mattered to someone who could not tell the difference, but answered him instead. “I’m assuming right-handed.” Sara held up her right hand. “The attacker would have been at a superior position, standing above her, possibly straddling her, when the blade went in.” She paused. “This is why I don’t like to make assumptions. I need to check her stomach and lungs. If we find lake water, then that means she was probably facedown in the water when he stabbed her.”
“Knowing whether she was in the water or in the mud when she was stabbed will be instrumental to my investigation.”
She furrowed her brow. “Are you being a smart-ass, Agent Trent?”
“Based on how you asked that question, I think my answer should be no.”
Sara laughed. “Good call.”
“Thank you, Dr. Linton.” He looked around the embalming suite and gave a shiver. “It’s cold down here. Aren’t you cold?”
She realized he was wearing the same clothes from yesterday but for the black T-shirt, which he’d changed for a white one. “Didn’t you bring a coat?”
He shook his head. “I’m in an awful situation with my clothes. I need to borrow your mom’s washer and dryer tonight. Do you think she’ll mind?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Have you heard from Frank Wallace today?”
She shook her head.
“It’s starting to annoy me that he hasn’t bothered to show up. Does he normally let Lena do all the heavy lifting?”
“I don’t know how they work together now. She used to go back and forth between Frank and my husband, whoever needed her at the time.”
“I’m just wondering if she’s reporting back to Frank or if they’re both doing their own thing.” Will gestured toward the gurneys. “Can I help you with anything?”
“What’s your squeamish level?”
“I don’t like rats and I’m bad around vomit.”
“I think we’re safe on both points.” Sara wanted to get started so she wasn’t here past midnight. “Can you help me get Allison onto the table?”
The joking camaraderie from before quickly turned into a more serious collaboration. They worked in silence, rolling the gurney into the freezer, lifting the body in unison. There was a scale in the floor. The digital readout already took the gurney into account. Sara rolled the bed onto the plate. Allison Spooner had weighed 102 pounds.
When Sara put on a pair of surgical gloves, Will followed suit. She let him help unzip the body bag and roll the girl left, then right, to slide the black plastic out from under her. He held one end of the measuring tape so she could get the girl’s height.
Will said, “Sixty-three inches. Five foot three.”
“I need to write this down.” Sara knew there was no way she could remember all these numbers. There was a whiteboard mounted to the back wall over the counter. Sara used the marker hanging on a string to record Allison’s height and weight. To be thorough, she then added age, sex, race, and hair color. The girl’s eyes were open, so she noted that her eye color was brown.
When Sara turned around, she found Will looking at the numbers. Sara had used abbreviations that even a reading person would have trouble understanding. She pointed to the letters. “Date of birth, height, weight—”
“I got it,” he said. His tone was as close to curt as she’d ever heard.
Sara resisted the urge to talk about the elephant in the room, to tell him that it was foolish for him to be ashamed. He had spent a lifetime hiding his dyslexia, and she wasn’t going to fix that by confronting him about it in the basement of the funeral home. Not to mention that it was none of her business.
She walked to the tall locker beside the office, assuming Brock still kept his supplies in the same place. “Crap,” she mumbled. The camera and all its pieces were laid out on velvet cloths covering two shelves. She picked up a lens. “I’m not sure I know how this thing goes together.”
“Mind if I try?” Will didn’t wait for her response. He picked up the lens and twisted it onto the camera, then bolted on the lights, the flash, and the metal guide that recorded depth. He pressed several buttons until the LCD display blinked on, then scrolled through all the icons until he found the one he was looking for.
Sara had two degrees and a board certification under her belt, but hell would have frozen over before she would’ve been able to figure out anything to do with the camera. Curiosity broke her earlier resolve. “Have you ever been tested?”
“No.” He stood behind Sara, holding the camera in front so she could see. “Zoom here,” he said, flicking the toggle.
“You could probably—”
“This is macro.”
“Will—”
“Super macro.” He kept talking over her until she gave up. “Here’s where you adjust for color. This is light. Anti-shake. Red-eye.” He clicked through the features like a photography instructor.
Sara finally relented. “Why don’t I point and you shoot?”
“All right.” His back was stiff, and she could tell that he was irritated.
“I’m sorry I—”
“Please don’t apologize.”
Sara held his gaze for a few moments longer, wishing she could fix this. There was nothing to say if he wouldn’t even let her apologize.
She told him, “Let’s start.”
Sara directed him around the table as he photographed Allison Spooner head to toe. The warm-up jacket. The stab wound that went through to her neck. The sliced material where the knife had cut through. The teeth marks on the inside of her lip.
She folded back the torn jeans, exposing the knee. There was a half-moon-shaped tear, the skin hanging on by a flap. A dark bruise outlined the area of impact. “This kind of laceration comes from blunt trauma. She fell very hard on her knee, probably with her full weight, definitely on something hard, like a rock. The impact busted open the skin.”
“Can we look at the wrists?”
The jacket had bunched up around the girl’s hands. Sara pushed up the material.
He took a few photographs. “Ligature marks?”
Sara leaned down for a closer look. She checked the other wrist. The veins were an iridescent blue. Lines of red shot through the skin where clots held the blood in place.
She explained, “Bodies start to float anywhere from two hours to two days after they’re in the water. Decomposition starts quickly—as soon as the heart and lungs stop, the body turns on itself. Bacteria leaks out of the intestines. Gases build up, causing buoyancy. The cinder blocks would have kept her from floating to the surface. The cold water would’ve retarded decomposition. I don’t know what the temperature of the lake was, but we can assume it was close to freezing. She was probably facedown, her hands hanging in front of her. Livor mortis settled into her fingertips, pooled up into her wrists. I suppose you could mistake the discoloration for ligature marks. It would’ve been dark that time of morning.” Sara couldn’t make any more excuses for Frank. “Honestly, I thought Frank was lying to me when he said it the first time.”
“Why lie about that?” Will asked. “The stab wound is evidence enough that something was seriously wrong.”
“You’ll have to ask Frank.”
“I’ve got a lot of questions for him if he ever shows up.”
“He’s probably with Brad. Frank has known him since he was a kid. We all have.”
Will only nodded.
Sara put the ruler by Allison’s wrist so he could take a photograph. When he was finished, she turned the hand over. There was a faint scar along the crease of the wrist. She checked the other hand. “She tried to kill herself before. A razor, maybe a sharp knife. I’d say within the last ten years.”
Will studied the raised white lines. “What was Tommy like?”
She was surprised by the question because her focus was on Allison. Sara hadn’t slept much last night. She’d had a lot of time to think about Tommy. “He was cheerful,” she told Will. “I don’t think there was ever a ti
me I didn’t see him smile. Even when he felt bad.”
“Did you ever see him angry?”
“No.”
“Did he have many broken bones or bruises?”
She shook her head, knowing where this was going. “Gordon was very gentle with him. The only time I saw him angry was when Tommy ate a whole jar of paste.”
Will smiled fondly. “I used to eat paste.” He held the camera at his side. “I wonder if it tastes as good as it used to.”
Sara laughed. “I wouldn’t recommend finding out. Tommy was sick for days.”
“You didn’t tell me Lena was raped.”
The observation came out of nowhere. Sara was taken off guard, which was probably what he had intended. “It was a long time ago.”
“Faith found it on the Internet.”
She busied herself over by the back counter, finding a roll of brown paper under the cabinet so she could lay out the clothes. “Does it matter?”
“I don’t know. It bothers me that you left it out.”
Sara spread out the paper. “A lot of women have been raped.” She looked up when he didn’t respond. “Don’t feel sorry for her, Will. She’s so good at making people feel sorry for her.”
“I think she regrets what happened to Tommy.”
Sara shook her head. “You can’t expect good from her. She’s not a normal person. There’s no kindness in her.”
He spoke carefully, staring his meaning into Sara. “I’ve met a lot of people in my life who were truly unkind.”
“Still—”
“I don’t think Lena’s completely devoid of a soul. I think she’s angry, and self-destructive, and feeling trapped.”
“I used to think that, too. And I felt sorry for her. Right before she got my husband killed.”
There wasn’t much more Sara could say after that. She unbuttoned Allison’s shirt and continued to undress the girl. Will changed out the memory card and took photographs when she asked him to. She didn’t ask for his help when she draped a clean white sheet over Allison’s body. Their companionable silence was a distant memory. The tension was so great that Sara felt herself getting a headache. She was angry with herself that it mattered. Will Trent was not her friend. His dyslexia, his quirky sense of humor, his dirty clothes—none of this was her concern. All she needed for him to do was get his job done and then go back to his wife.