Blood Will Tell (11 page)

None of them was very good at that.

Fifteen minutes later a voice behind him made him jump. “Pretty girl. What a waste.” It was his partner, Rich Meeker, dapper in black pants, a dark gray silky shirt, and a charcoal tie. Trust Rich to look past the blood and bones to see only the surface.

Yesterday while Paul had been with SAR, Rich had been assigning officers to search nearby Dumpsters, canvass the neighbors, and locate any neighboring security cams. The officers had knocked on dozens of doors to ask what anyone saw, heard, suspected. A couple had worked the perimeter to see if any of the onlookers had noticed anything the night before. One cop was even now hunkered down in a civilian's house that overlooked the vacant lot, watching in case the killer returned.

“Tommy tell you the cause of death yet?” Rich asked.

“I can hear you, you know.” Tommy looked up at them. “I won't know for sure until I take off the top of her skull, but I don't think the head injury was fatal. The knife wound seems to have been what killed her. It perforated her right lung. Ultimately, I'm guessing she died from a combination of blood loss, hemothorax, and hemopericardium.”

“I don't even know what those last two words mean,” Rich complained.

“It's all blood, basically.” Tommy pointed at the body. “She bled on the outside and the inside. We found blood in the pleural cavity. That's the space between the lungs and the chest wall. And we found more blood in her pericardium, which is the sac around the heart. That blood stopped her heart from working well, and eventually the combination of all three killed her.”

“What can you tell us about the knife?” Paul asked.

“She was stabbed once in the right side of the back. The wound is about five-eighths of an inch by four inches deep.”

“So that's how big the knife was?” Rich measured a space with his hands.

“It's not that simple, unfortunately. The actual weapon could be longer if the killer didn't push it all the way in. And if she was moving, the weapon could actually be shorter than the wound. Since the margins of the wound are fairly ragged, I'm guessing she probably was moving. I'm not seeing any serrated abrasions next to the wound, so I don't think we're looking at a knife with a saw back. My best guess is that this one was thrust to its full length. In the US, most knives are single-edged blades, so normally you would see a wound with one acute angle and one blunted angle. But on this one, both angles look squared off.”

“What does that mean?” Paul was having trouble following.

“Some knives have a short segment at the top where both edges are squared off. So it could be that the knife was pushed all the way in. One end was squared off by the noncutting edge and the other by the guard.”

Paul tried to imagine it. “So he must really have pushed hard to get it so far up the blade.”

Tommy shrugged. “Actually, once the skin is penetrated, you don't need any additional force to penetrate the underlying subcutaneous tissue or muscle.”

“Like buttah,” Rich said, deadpan.

Tommy was picking up the saw again, ready to go for the top of the head. Paul turned to Rich. “So what have you learned so far?”

“She was at a bar Sunday night around midnight, and it looks like she walked there. She even left her scarf behind. It matches the mittens. Bartender says she's a semiregular. Not really for the drinks, but for the karaoke.” Rich offered him a grin. “You're going to like this. When she came in last night, she found her so-called boyfriend, Cooper Myers, already there—kissing another girl, Jasmine O'Dell. Lucy dumped their beers on their heads.” He mimed the motion. “Big scene. The bartender threw all three of them out. He says they stood outside yelling at each other and then they all left, each walking in a different direction.”

“Two suspects already,” Paul said. This was starting to sound like an open-and-shut case.

“My money's on the boyfriend. He got caught, and he got mad. Plus women don't usually tend to carry knives.” Rich tilted his head. “When this wraps up, you want to go see what Mr. Myers has to say for himself?”

*   *   *

Three hours later Myers had had plenty to say for himself. Just none of it useful.

Paul had begun by making small talk about sports and school, even the dogs they each had as children. Anything to build rapport. Then, while Rich watched a video feed from another room, Paul had Myers describe what had happened, over and over, without interrupting. He looked for discrepancies, overexplanations, and outright lies.

The only problem was, he hadn't spotted any. Which was when he had brought in Rich, the pit bull to his sheepdog. Rich would never smack a suspect, but the suspect didn't need to know that. In search of the truth, you were allowed to tell all kinds of lies.

Now Rich was pacing the length of the interrogation room, which held nothing but a plain wooden table, a wooden chair, and a rolling office chair. Myers had the wooden chair, so he couldn't go anyplace. Sensing the moment was right, Paul rolled his chair up so close he could practically kiss the kid. Close enough he could smell the sharp stench of his sweat. He had been crying earlier, and now he swiped his nose with the back of his hand.

Paul kept his voice soft. “You must have been angry that she had embarrassed you in front of everyone. Because I would have been. At times like that, I see red. It's like things happen and I'm not even the one who is doing them.”

He was offering two excuses in one, but Myers just shook his head. “I didn't do anything to her.”

“Why are you even bothering?” Rich slapped his hand on the table. “We've got a dozen witnesses who'll say they saw those two fighting, both in the bar and outside of it.”

Paul continued on as if he hadn't even heard him, as if it were just him and Myers. Most killers wanted to justify or explain what they did. All you had to do was offer them that opportunity. “Did you show her the knife just to scare her? Was it an accident? Or”—he managed to say it as if it were even a reasonable possibility—“did she come at you? Try to attack you again, the way she did in the bar? And you had to defend yourself?”

“How many times do I have to tell you? I don't own a knife. I've never owned a knife. And the last time I saw Lucy was right outside that bar. We all walked off, but then I cut over and caught up with Jasmine. I was with her until three in the morning.” This story of his had the benefit of providing both him and the other girl with an alibi. One that Jasmine, at least so far, was backing up.

“You were the last person to see Lucy alive,” Rich pointed out.

“I'll take a lie detector test. I'll do whatever you want.” His reddened eyes pleaded with them both. “But I didn't kill Lucy. I love her.”

“Which is why you were running around on her.” Rich snorted.

Myers raised his head. “It's not that black and white. But I'm telling you, I didn't kill her. I didn't.”

Go where the evidence leads, was Paul's rule.

But right now, it didn't feel like they had enough evidence to follow.

 

CHAPTER 26

K

TUESDAY

SO HARD IT HURT

Thwack!
Kenny's produce knife flashed down, revealing perfect pale green flesh. The produce knife Mr. Strickler had originally supplied him with had had a fully squared-off edge and a flimsy plastic handle that didn't even have a guard. Eventually, Kenny had bought his own knife from a kitchen-supply company, a knife that ended in more of an angle, giving him a sharp corner to work with.

He swept the browned trimmings from the end of the celery bunch into the garbage can. No, he reminded himself with a little frown, into the compost. Strickler's was no longer the only high-end shop in town. It had to compete with stores like Whole Foods. Even some of the rich people who shopped here were starting to ask if his produce was “locally grown.” When, this time of year, eating things grown within a thirty-mile radius would result in a sad, drab diet of cabbage, parsnips, and rutabagas.

Most customers, though, didn't care if their fruits and vegetables were in season or not. They didn't even care if it had to be jetted in from another continent. If you were determined to serve fresh raspberries, you didn't mind if they cost six dollars for a six-ounce green cardboard container. You didn't blink at paying seven dollars a pound for out-of-season asparagus, the spears thinner than pencils. People who shopped here thought you could get fresh cherries and nectarines in November.

And you could. If you were willing to pay.

A woman's voice made him start.

“Kenny! Look at this!” A woman in her late sixties thrust a head of romaine at him.

“What's the problem, Mrs. Whiteside?” He had tried getting people to call him Ken, but it never took. A lot of the customers had known him for twenty years, and to them he was still the nice boy who worked here after school.

Only maybe he wasn't so nice anymore.

“It looks wilted. I can't serve my dinner guests wilted lettuce.”

“There's a truck coming in with a new shipment, but it won't be here until tomorrow.”

She frowned. Her lipstick had bled into the tiny lines that feathered out from her lips.

“Well, I won't pay for that. It's not even fit to be rabbit food.”

He didn't point out that no one was making her pay for anything. Instead, he trimmed off the dark outer leaves until he was left with the pale green heart.

She made him repeat the process for three more heads. Once, she turned away from him, and for a minute, his spine stiffened. His hand clenched the handle of the knife so hard it hurt, despite his calluses. How would she act if she knew what he was capable of? Would she continue to treat him so dismissively?

She took the lettuce without even saying thank you. He was a fixture. About as human as the silver metal cart he pushed between his displays.

Ah, but the displays. Even if people didn't notice him, they did notice his displays. When he was a kid, he had wanted to be an artist. And he was, in a way. Everyone said his produce displays were like works of art, contrasting colors and shapes. He had even seen people take out their phones and snap photos.

Today a silver bowl of orange kumquats sat in front of a mound of purple cabbages. On one side, zucchini were lined up in neat rows. Not a one marred by a fingernail mark. On the other side, plump Meyer lemons glowed like suns.

The night it had happened, he had been here late rearranging things, playing with colors and shapes until it all just seemed right. The store had closed, but he had stayed behind, shifting items, trying color combinations, placing baskets and boxes to add visual interest.

Now he brought his knife down again, exposing the beautiful white swirls within the head of purple cabbage. Did everything have a secret heart?

 

CHAPTER 27

ALEXIS

WEDNESDAY

CLUE AWARE

When she came home Monday night, Alexis had found her mom in a corner, rocking on her hands and knees, whimpering. At first, Alexis had been afraid someone had hurt her. Then she had realized that the pain was inside her mom.

How long had it been since Alexis had made sure she was taking her pills? At least a week, maybe more. She had been too caught up in herself. Selfish, selfish.

Finally, she had managed to get her mom into bed. And that was where she had been ever since. She slept and she cried, and sometimes she cried in her sleep. She got up only to go to the bathroom, shuffling down the hall, her head hanging like a heavy flower on a broken stem.

In the past few days Alexis had forced her to start taking her meds again. Made her open her mouth and stick out her tongue to make sure they were gone. But they didn't seem to be working. At least not yet.

On Wednesday, Alexis came home from school and found the apartment dark. It was clear her mom hadn't been up. She let her eyes adjust and then walked back to her mom's room.

“Mom?” She stood in the doorway. She heard the sound of breathing, so her mom was still alive. Everything her mom could use to kill herself was now locked up in an old metal toolbox. Alexis kept the key in her pocket. “Mom?” she repeated.

“What?” Her mom sounded like she was being forced to talk.

“Did you get up at all today? Did you eat?”

No answer.

“How about if you take a shower? I bet that will make you feel better.”

“No!” It was almost a shout. Then her mom added in a softer voice, “I don't like the water. It scares me.” She sighed. “I'm sorry, baby. I know I should be taking care of you, not the other way around.”

Alexis nodded without saying anything. She didn't know whether to be sad or angry or worried. They had been down this road before. Many times. But would there come a time when her mom wouldn't return?

Three hours later Alexis walked into the sheriff's office for SAR class. New recruits had to attend every class, and certifieds were expected to attend as many as they could to refresh their knowledge and to add the voice of experience.

After waving hello to the deputy behind the bulletproof glass, Alexis walked back toward the meeting room, where she settled in between Nick and Ruby.

“That's a big sigh,” Nick said. “You okay?”

Alexis hadn't even been aware she'd made a sound. “I'm fine. Just a little tired.” She never talked about her mom. It was too embarrassing. Too personal. Plus all the adults in this room were mandated first reporters for child abuse, and child abuse also covered child neglect. Alexis didn't know if it mattered that she was sixteen now, and she wasn't about to find out. So far, keeping quiet had kept her out of a foster home.

The only person who knew the truth was Bran. The thought made Alexis sigh again. She didn't know what was wrong between them, or how much was her fault. She only knew that she had texted him twice since Sunday and he hadn't answered either time. Fine. She didn't need to be hit over the head. For whatever reason, he didn't like her anymore.