Triptych (26 page)

She let out a stream of smoke. “Answer my question.”

He looked back over his shoulder, though he knew they were alone. “You shouldn’t be here, Joyce.”

“Why won’t you answer my question?”

“Because I don’t want you involved.”

“You don’t want me
involved?”
she repeated, incredulous. “My
life
is involved, John. Whether I like it or not, you
are
my brother.”

He could feel her anger like a heat radiating from her body. Part of him wished she would just haul off and hit him, beat him to a bloody pulp until her fists were broken and her rage was spent.

She said, “How can you have credit cards when you’re in prison?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is it allowed?”

“I…” He hadn’t even considered the question, though it was a good one. “I suppose. You can’t have cash, but…” He tried to think it through. You could get a warning or even thrown into solitary for having cash in prison. Everything you bought at the canteen was debited through your account and you weren’t allowed to order anything through the mail.

“I don’t know.”

“You realize if Paul Finney finds out any of this, he’ll sue you in civil court for every dime you have.”

“There’s nothing to get,” John said. His mother’s will had left everything to Joyce for this very reason. Under the victim’s compensation act, if John ever had more than two pennies to rub together, Mary Alice’s family could get it. Mr. Finney was like a circling shark waiting for a drop of John’s blood in the water.

Joyce said, “You own a house in Tennessee.”

He could only stare.

She took a folded sheet of paper out of her coat pocket. “Twenty-nine Elton Road in Ducktown, Tennessee.”

He took the page, which was a Xerox of an original. Across the top were the words, “Official Certificate of Title.” His name was listed above the property address as the owner. “I don’t understand.”

“You own this house free and clear,” she told him. “You paid it off in five years.”

He had never owned anything in his life except a bicycle, and Richard had taken that away from him after his first arrest. “How much did it cost?”

“Thirty-two thousand dollars.”

John choked on the amount. “Where would I get that kind of money?”

“How the hell do I know?” She yelled this so loudly that he stepped back.

Joyce-

She jabbed her finger in his face, saying, “I’m only going to ask you this one more time, and I swear to God, John, I swear on Mama’s grave, if you lie to me I will cut you out of my life so quick you won’t know what hit you.”

“You sound just like Dad.”

“That’s it.” She started to walk away.

“Wait,” he said, and she stopped but didn’t turn around. “Joyce- someone’s stolen my identity.”

Her shoulders sagged. When she finally looked at him, he could read every horrible thing he was ever involved in etched into the lines of her face. She was quiet now, anger spent. “Why would someone steal your identity?”

“To cover himself. Cover his tracks.”

“For what reason? And why you?”

“Because he didn’t think I would get out. He thought I’d be in prison for the rest of my life, that he could use my identity to keep from getting caught.”

“Who thought this? Who’s doing this to you?”

John felt the name stick like a piece of glass in his throat. “The same guy who hurt Mary Alice.”

Joyce visibly flinched at the girl’s name. They were both quiet, nothing but the swish of water through the car wash and the buzz of the vacuums interrupting the silence.

John forced himself to close some of the space between them. “The person who framed me for killing Mary Alice is trying to do it again.”

She had tears in her eyes.

“I didn’t do it, Joyce. I didn’t hurt her.”

Her chin trembled as she struggled to contain her emotions.

“It wasn’t me.”

Her throat worked as she swallowed. “Okay,” she said. “Okay.” She sniffled, taking a deep breath. “I need to get back to work.” Joyce-

“Take care of yourself, John.” “Joyce, please-” “Good-bye.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

9:30 am

Will watched Pete Hanson’s hands as the medical examiner deftly sewed together Cynthia Barrett’s abdomen and chest. Her skin tugged up as the doctor pulled the baseball stitch through the Y-incision he’d made at the beginning of the autopsy. During the procedure, Will had concentrated on the parts of the body rather than the whole, but now there was no avoiding the fact that Cynthia Barrett was a human being, little more than a child. With her slim build and delicate features, she had an almost elfin quality about her. How a man could hurt this girl was beyond him.

“It’s a sad thing,” Pete said, as if he could read Will’s mind.

“Yes.” Will had been gritting his teeth from the moment he entered the morgue. In his law-enforcement career, Will had seen all kinds of damage done to people, but he still found himself shocked when he saw a child victimized. He always thought about Angie, the horrible things that had been done to her when she was just a little girl. It made his stomach hurt.

The doors opened and Michael Ormewood walked in. There were dark circles under his eyes and he still had a piece of tissue stuck to his chin where he had apparently cut himself shaving.

“Sorry I’m late,” Michael apologized.

Will looked at his watch; the movement was reflexive, but when he looked back up, he could see Michael’s irritation.

“That’s fine,” Will said, realizing too late that he had said the wrong thing. He tried, “Dr. Hanson was just finishing up. You didn’t miss anything.”

Michael kept silent, and Pete broke the tension, saying, “I’m so sorry for your loss, Detective.”

After a few seconds, Michael nodded his head. He wiped his mouth, rolling the tissue off his chin. He looked surprised at the bloody paper between his fingers and threw it in the trashcan. “It’s been a little hard at home.”

“I can imagine.” Pete patted him on the shoulder. “My condolences.”

“Yes,” Will agreed, not knowing what else to say.

“She was just a neighbor, but still…” The smile on Michael’s face seemed forced, as if he was having trouble keeping his emotions in. “It eats you up when something bad happens to an innocent kid like that.” Will saw his gaze settle onto the body, noticed the flash of despair in the other man’s eyes. Michael reached out as if to touch the blonde hair, then pulled his hand back. Will remembered how Michael had acted this same way the day before when they had first seen the body. It was as if Cynthia was the man’s own child instead of a neighbor’s.

“Poor baby,” Michael whispered.

“Yes,” Pete concurred.

“I’m sorry, guys,” Michael apologized. He cleared his throat a few times, seemed to try to get himself together. “What have you got, Pete?”

“I was just about to do my summary report with Agent Trent.” Pete started to roll back the sheet covering the lower half of the body.

Michael flinched visibly. “Just give me the highlights, okay?”

Pete rolled the sheet back up, stopping just under the girl’s neck, telling them, “I believe she tripped and hit her head. The force from the fall shattered her skull above the left temporal lobe. Her neck twisted on impact, snapping the spinal cord at C-2. Death was instantaneous. An unfortunate accident, but for the missing tongue.”

Michael asked, “Did they locate it yet?”

“No,” Will answered, then asked Pete, “Could you go over the differences between the two murders?”

“Of course,” Pete replied. “Unlike your prostitute, this girl’s tongue was not bitten off, but cut. Most likely a serrated knife was used. A lesser man might not notice, but I’m certain it’s different.”

Michael asked, “How can you tell?”

“The cut is not clean, like your biter.” The doctor snapped his teeth together to illustrate, the sound echoing in the tiled room. “What’s more, I would expect a crescent pattern, because the teeth are not in a straight line in the mouth, but curved. If you look…” He had been about to open the girl’s mouth, but seemed to change his mind. “There are several test marks where whoever removed her tongue obviously had difficulty getting a grip on it. The tongue slid and the blade caught. Your guy was determined, though. He accomplished the task on the third or fourth try.”

“It was slick?” Will asked. “From blood? Saliva?”

“There would have been little blood because she was already dead by the time the mutilation occurred. I would assume his grip was compromised because the tongue is so small. Further, a grown man would have difficulty reaching his hand into her mouth. It’s very narrow.”

Michael was nodding, but he didn’t seem to be listening to Pete. His eyes were still locked on the girl and a single tear rolled down his cheek. He looked away for just a second, using the back of his hand to wipe the tear, pretending to be rubbing his nose.

“And of course the missing tongue is interesting,” Pete opined. “In the other cases, the tongue was always left with the victim. Perhaps your perpetrator has graduated to taking souvenirs?”

“That’s common with serial killers,” Will told them, trying to draw Michael out. Maybe the man was back too soon. Angie had said that he loved children. Perhaps, like Will, this was harder on him because of the girl’s age. And, Barrett was his neighbor, so Michael had probably watched her grow up. That kind of thing would be hard on anyone, even without a trip to the morgue to see her cut open.

Michael cleared his throat twice, finally asking, “Was she raped?”

Pete equivocated, and Will waited to see how he would answer, and how that answer would affect Michael. “There are definitely signs of forcible entry, but it’s difficult to say whether the act was consensual or not.” Pete shrugged. “Of course, if the rape was post mortem, then there wouldn’t be signs of vaginal trauma because the force reflex would be gone.”

There was a tight smile on Michael’s face, the kind you gave when you were anything but pleased.

Will reminded, “You said that she’s sexually experienced. Maybe we should find out if there’s a boyfriend in her life.”

“I asked Gina about that last night,” Michael offered, explaining, “Gina’s my wife.” Will nodded and he continued, “Cynthia wasn’t dating anybody. She was a really good kid. Phil never had a moment’s trouble with her.”

Will knew the father was a traveling salesman who had been on the other side of the country when his daughter was murdered. “When will he be back?”

“This afternoon at the latest,” Michael answered. “I’d like to knock off early so I can go check on him.” He turned to Will. “I’ll let you know if he has anything useful.”

Will nodded, understanding the message: Michael would talk to the father alone. Part of Will was glad he was being spared the task.

Michael asked Pete, “Did you get any DNA?”

“Some.”

“I’ll run it upstairs for you.”

“Thank you,” Pete said, walking over to the counter by the door. He handed Michael a sealed paper bag containing Cynthia Barrett’s rape kit.

Will asked Michael, “Do you think there’s a connection between these cases and the ones I showed you yesterday?”

The other man’s gaze was back on Cynthia’s face. “No question about it,” he answered. “He’s obviously escalating.”

Will asked, “Is there anyone you’ve come across since the Monroe murder who might look good for this?”

The detective shook his head. “That’s all I thought about last night. There’s nobody I can think of who would do this.” He paused a second before suggesting, “I figure it’s somebody who was watching the Monroe crime scene when I showed up. I went straight home after. They probably followed me. Jesus!” He put his hand to his forehead. “They could have gotten Tim. My wife…” He dropped his hand. “I’ve moved my family out of the house. They’re not safe with this maniac out there.”

“That’s probably best,” Pete said. He put his hand on Michael’s arm. “I’m so sorry, Detective. I’m so sorry that this has happened to you.”

Michael nodded, and Will saw that he had tears in his eyes again. “She was a good kid,” Michael managed. “Nobody deserves this kind of thing, but Cynthia…” He shook his head. “We’ve got to catch this guy. I won’t feel safe until the warden’s putting the needle in this fucker’s arm.” He looked right at Will, repeating himself. “I won’t feel safe.”

Will leaned against Michael Ormewood’s car, waiting for the detective to join him. He flipped open his cell phone and stared at the screen, wanting to call Angie. There was something she was not telling him. He had known her long enough to figure out when she was hiding something. Maybe he could ring her up and ask if she’d remembered anything else about Michael. Angie had worked with the detective. She knew about his extracurricular activities. She had to know more than she was letting on.

“Shit,” Will whispered, snapping the phone closed. What an idiot. She had probably slept with the man. He was just her type: a married, unavailable asshole who was bound to use her, then walk away.

Will inhaled and let out a long sigh of breath, feeling his own stupidity overwhelm him. He had been worried about John Shelley when Michael Ormewood was the latest jerk in her life. Will wondered if she was still seeing him. They had been standing pretty close together when he’d found them in the hallway yesterday. Though, last night, Angie had been brutal about Ormewood when Will had asked her about him. If she was still sleeping with him, Will was certain she would have said so then. Or maybe not. Two years had passed. This was the longest he and Angie had ever gone without talking to each other. Things might have changed.

No, nothing ever changed.

“Shit,” Will repeated. He put his hands on the roof of the car and pressed his forehead against them. What could he do? Go confront her? Demand she tell him what she’d been doing for the last two years?

Will dropped his hands and turned as the stair door banged open. Ormewood was walking across the parking lot, one hand in his pocket, a half-smile on his face. He didn’t look tired anymore. The man actually looked pleased. He’d probably dropped by Angie’s desk on his way to delivering the rape kit to the lab. He might have even grabbed a quickie in the supply closet for all Will knew.