by Kathy Reichs
Slidell was beside Larabee, looking like hell. Dark stubble, baggy eyes, skin the color of old grout. I wondered if he’d been up all night. Or if it was the odor. Or the grim show he was about to witness.
An autopsy assaults not just the nose but all senses. The sight of the fast-slash Y incision. The sound of pruning shears crunching through ribs. The schlop of organs hitting the scale. The acrid scorch of the saw buzzing through bone. The pop of the skullcap snapping free. The frrpp of the scalp and face stripping off.
Pathologists aren’t surgeons. They’re not concerned with vital signs, bleeding, or pain. They don’t repair or overhaul. They search for clues. They need to be objective and observant. They don’t need to be gentle.
The autopsy of a child always seems more brutal. Children look so innocent. So soft and freckled and pink. Brand-new and ready for all life has to offer.
Such was not the case with Shelly Leal.
Leal lay naked on a stainless steel table in the center of the room, chest and abdomen bloated and green. Her skin was sloughing, pale and translucent as rice paper, from her fingers and toes. Her eyes, half open, were dull and darkened by opaque films.
I steeled myself. Kicked into scientist mode.
It was November. The weather had been cool. Insect activity would have been minimal. The changes were consistent with a postmortem interval of one week or less.
I crossed to the counter and glanced at the scene photos. Saw the familiar faceup straight-armed body position.
We watched as Larabee did his external exam, checking the contours of the belly and buttocks, the limbs, the fingers and toes, the scalp, the orifices. At one point he tweezed several long hairs from far back in the child’s mouth.
“They look a little blond to be hers?” Slidell asked.
“Not necessarily. Decomp and stomach fluids can cause bleaching.” Larabee dropped the hairs into a vial, sealed and marked the lid.
Finally, the Y-cut.
There was no chatter throughout the slicing and weighing and measuring and sketching. None of the dark humor used to lessen morgue tension.
Slidell mostly kept his gaze fixed on things other than the table. Now and then he’d give me a long stare. Shift his feet. Reclasp his hands.
Ryan observed in grim silence.
Ninety minutes after starting, Larabee straightened. There was no need to recap his findings. We’d heard him dictate every detail into a hanging mike.
The victim was a healthy thirteen-year-old female of average height and weight. She had no congenital malformations, abnormalities, or signs of disease. She’d eaten a hot dog and an apple less than six hours before her death.
The child’s body had no healed or healing fractures, scars, or cigarette burns. No bruising or abrasion in the area of the anus or genitalia. None of the hideous indicators of physical or sexual abuse.
Shelly Leal had been nurtured and loved until a maniac decided it was time she should die. And there was nothing to verify how that had happened.
“No petechiae?” I was asking about tiny red spots that appear in the eyes due to the bursting of blood vessels.
“No. Though the sclera is toast.”
“What’s that?” Slidell.
“Petechial hemorrhage is suggestive of asphyxiation,” I said.
“The lips are badly swollen and discolored, but I saw no surface or subdermal hemorrhage. No cuts or tooth impressions.”
“So, what? You thinking smothering? Strangulation?” Slidell said.
“I’m thinking I can’t determine cause of death, Detective.” Larabee’s voice carried a slight edge. He’d just dictated that conclusion.
Slidell’s cheeks reddened through the pallor. “We done here, then?”
“I’ll go over her with an ALS. Recheck the clothes. Not sure there’s much point, given the decomp, but I’ll try to get samples to send off for tox screening.”
Slidell nodded. Made a move toward the door.
“Ryan and I think we’ve found evidence of other victims.” No way I’d mention Mama.
“Yeah?” The pouchy eyes shot to Ryan. “You planning to share that?”
“We’re sharing it now.”
Slidell drew a long breath through his nose. Exhaled with a dry whistling sound. “I gotta explain this to the parents.” Flapping an arm at the table. “Ryan, you want to ride along, lay it all out on the way? Then we brief Barrow.”
“You’re the boss,” Ryan said.
When Slidell and Ryan were gone, Larabee and I got out the alternate light source kit, donned goggles, and killed the overheads. As we ran the wand over Leal’s body, I told him about Koseluk, Estrada, and Donovan. He listened without comment.
We found no latent prints, no hairs or fibers, no body fluids. No surprise but worth a shot.
Leal’s clothing hung on a rack by the side counter, stained and mud-stiffened. Yellow hooded nylon jacket, plaid shirt, red jeans, cotton panties, black and yellow Nikes, white socks.
We started with the jacket. Got nothing on the front. Flipped it.
“What’s that?” I pointed to a bat-shaped luminescence on one edge of the hood.
Larabee bent close but said nothing.
“I’ll bet the farm that’s a lip print,” I said. “Look at the shape. And the wiggly vertical stripes.”
“How’s a lip print survive a week in the elements?” Still studying the vaguely lustrous smear.
“Maybe it’s gloss? Or ChapStick?”
Our eyes met. Wordlessly, we crossed to Leal. Under our light, the bloated little lips showed not the faintest glimmer to indicate makeup or balm. Larabee wiped them and sealed the swab in a vial. “You thinking cheiloscopic ID?” Some researchers believe the patterning of a lip’s surface furrows is as unique to an individual as the lines and ridges on a fingerprint. Larabee was referring to the science of analyzing them.
“No. Well, maybe. Mostly, I’m thinking DNA. If there’s saliva and the lip print’s not hers …” I let the thought hang.
“Son of a biscuit. Could we get that lucky?” Larabee placed the jacket in an evidence bag and scribbled case info on the outside.
The rest of the clothes yielded zilch.
As Larabee and I removed our aprons, gloves, goggles, and masks, I mentioned an idea that had been percolating since I’d read Mama’s emails.
“Gower was abducted in Vermont in 2007. Nance was killed here in Charlotte in 2009. Koseluk was 2011, Estrada 2012, Donovan late 2013 or early 2014.”
“Now there’s Shelly Leal.” Larabee balled and dropped his gear into the biohazard bin. “An annual kill since the action moved to North Carolina.” The lid clanged shut. “With one gap.”
“I’m going to pull a file from 2010,” I said.
Larabee turned to me, face glum. He also remembered.
CHAPTER 11
I LOGGED ON to my computer and pulled up the file. Scanned the contents. As I feared, case number ME107-10 fit the pattern.
The skull had been found by hikers off South New Hope Road, near the town of Belmont, just west of Charlotte and just north of the South Carolina border. It lay in a gulley across from the entrance to the Daniel Stowe Botanical Garden.
The facial bones and mandible had been missing, and the calvarium gnawed and weathered. Remnants of brain matter had adhered to the endocranial surface, suggesting a PMI of less than a year.
I’d led a recovery team. For a full day we’d worked a grid shoulder to shoulder, poking under rocks and fallen trees, sifting through vines, leaves, and brushy undergrowth. Though we found a fair number of bones, much of the skeleton had been lost to scavenging animals.
I was able to determine that the remains were those of a twelve- to fourteen-year-old child. What was left of the cranium suggested European ancestry.
Gender determination based on skeletal indicators is unreliable prior to puberty. But articles of clothing found in association with several bone clusters suggested the victim was female.
A search of MP files turned up no match in North or South Carolina. Ditto when we ran the profile through NamUS and the Doe Network, national and international data banks for missing and unidentified persons.
So the child remained nameless, ME107-10. The bones were archived on a shelf down the hall.
I pushed from my desk and walked to the storage room, boot heels echoing in the quiet of the empty building.
After locating the correct label, I pulled the box and carried it to autopsy room one. Larabee’s closed office door told me he’d already left. The autopsy table was empty. Its small occupant had been stitched, zipped into her body bag, and rolled to the cooler.
I thought of the heartrending conversation Slidell was having with Shelly Leal’s grieving parents. Receiving autopsy results is never easy. Nor is delivering them. I felt empathy for all three.
Deep breath. Only a faint trace of odor lingered in the air.
After gloving, I lifted the lid.
The skeleton was as I remembered, stained tea brown by contact with the vegetation in which it had lain. And woefully incomplete.
Still psyched about finding the lip print, I spread paper sheeting on the table and placed all the bones and bone fragments on it.
The skull’s outer surface was scored by tooth marks, and the orbital ridges and mastoids were chewed. Most of the vertebrae and ribs were crushed. The one pelvic half had several canine punctures. Each of the five long bones was truncated and cracked at both ends.
I examined everything first with a magnifying lens, then with the ALS. Spotted no hairs or fibers snagged on or embedded in the bones. Detected not the faintest suggestion of a glimmer.
I was repacking the skeleton when my eyes fell on a bag tucked into one corner of the box. Odd. Had the clothing never left the MCME? Had it gone to the CMPD lab and come back? I’d noted no report in the electronic file.
I opened the bag, withdrew the contents, and placed everything on the sheet.
One lavender sandal, size marking abraded by wear.
One pair of purple polyester shorts, girls’ size twelve.
One T-shirt saying 100% Princess, size medium.
One pink polyester bra, size 32AA.
One elastic band from a pair of girls’ panties, label faded and unreadable.
I repeated the process with the lens and the ALS.
Except for a few short black hairs, obviously animal, I got the same disappointing result.
Discouraged, I reshelved the box, then returned to my office. Thinking perhaps an error had occurred and a report hadn’t been entered, I pulled my own file on ME107-10. I still keep hard copy. Old habits die hard.
Data entry omission. The clothing had been submitted, examined, and, for some strange reason, returned to us. The lab had gotten zilch.
I was dialing Slidell when my iPhone rang. He and Ryan were going to the Penguin. The junkie inside me rolled over and opened an eye.
What the hell. I was done here.
I cleaned up and headed out.
Larabee’s car was gone from the lot. But two vans sat outside the security fence. One had WSOC written on the side panel, the other News 14 Carolina.
Crap.
As I crossed to my Mazda, each van’s doors thunked open and a two-person crew leaped out. One member of each pair held a mike, the other a shoulder-propped camera.
I hurried to my car, jumped in, and palmed down the locks. Gunning through the gate, I lowered a window and waved a message that needed no clarification.
I knew the media had picked up on transmissions concerning the discovery of Leal’s body, and that the reporters sitting vigil at the morgue were just doing their jobs. I also knew that dozens more were swarming elsewhere—the underpass, the convenience store, the Leal home—salivating for an inside line to pipe to their editors.
My gesture was unfair. Definitely inelegant. But I refused to provide fodder for voyeurs wanting a peek into the heartbreak of others.
The Penguin drive-in is a clogged artery waiting to take you out. Featuring a menu with caloric levels very possibly illegal, the place has been a Charlotte institution since before I was born. I crave its burgers and fries like an addict craves dope.
The restaurant was close to the convenience store where Shelly Leal was last seen. Where she’d bought milk and candy and it had cost her life.
Pulling from Commonwealth into a spot by the entrance, I could see Ryan and Slidell through the double lens of my windshield and a tinted front window. The look on Skinny’s face almost made me regret my decision to come.
Though it was nearly two P.M., the place was crowded. And noisy with the hubbub of conversation emanating from fat-glutted brains.
The men looked up when I drew close. Ryan scooched left to make space for me in the booth.
Slidell was eating a sandwich that almost defied description. Blackened bologna on Texas toast with lettuce, tomato, and mayo. The Dr. Devil. One of the few offerings I’d never sampled. Ryan was working on a hot dog barely visible under a layer of queso and onion rings. Both were drinking sodas the size of oil drums. The iconic flightless bird grinned from each plastic cup.
I slid in and Ryan handed me a menu. No, thanks. I knew what I wanted.
The waitress appeared and queried my health in a syrupy drawl. I assured her I was swell and ordered the Penguin burger, a heart-stopper topped with pimento cheese and fried pickles.
While waiting for my food, I told Ryan and Slidell about the possible lip print.
“It could be Leal’s.” Ryan sounded skeptical.
“Yes,” I said. “Or it could have been left by her attacker. Maybe Leal fought and was pulled close, to pin her arms. Or maybe her body slipped while being carried to the underpass. There are lots of reasons her abductor’s face might have come in contact with the jacket.”
“You think DNA’s gonna last that long?” Slidell outdid Ryan at dubious.
“I’m hoping so.” I was. And that the match would send Pomerleau straight to hell.
My drink was delivered. Sugary tea, not the unsweetened I’d ordered. While sipping it, I shared my thoughts on the gap year, 2010. And described ME107-10.
The men listened, chewing and wiping grease from their chins. Though he hadn’t been involved, Slidell remembered the case.
I mentioned the media ambush at the MCME. Slidell delivered his usual rant. His suggestions for curtailing the power of the fifth estate did not involve amending the constitution.
By the time my food arrived, Slidell had finished his. He bunched and tossed his napkin and leaned back. “I’m convinced the parents are clear. Co-workers place the old man at the body shop when the kid went missing. Mother’s barely holding it together. Says she was home with the other two, waiting for the milk. It feels right to me.”
Ryan nodded agreement.
“How did they take the news?” I spoke through a mouthful of ground beef and pickle.
Shoulder shrug. You know.
I did. Though it wasn’t a frequent part of my job, I’d participated in the notification of next of kin. In that moment when lives changed forever. I’d seen people faint, lash out, cry, go catatonic. I’d heard them berate, accuse, beg for retraction, for reassurance that it was all a mistake. No matter how often I partook, the task was always heartbreaking.
“Mother wondered about a ring the kid always wore. Silver, shaped like a seashell. You got something like that?” Slidell asked.
“I didn’t see any jewelry in the autopsy room, but I’ll check,” I said. “Maybe Larabee bagged it before I arrived.” And separated it from the clothing? I doubted he’d do that. Didn’t say so.
“We did some poking into your other vics. Koseluk and Donovan are still missing. Both files are inactive, since no one’s been pressing.”
Ryan excused himself. I stood and watched him walk to the door. Knew he was going outside to smoke.
As I sat back down, Slidell freed a toothpick from its cellophane and began mining a molar. The actio
n didn’t stop the flow of his narrative. “Lead on the Koseluk girl is a guy named Spero. Kannapolis PD. He’s okay. Worked with him once. Gangbanger got capped—”
“What’s his take?”
“He’s still liking the ex.”
“Al Menniti?”
Slidell nodded.
“Has he surfaced?”
“No.” Slidell withdrew the toothpick and inspected something on the tip. “Talked to the mother. She says the dumb fuck couldn’t hide his own ass, much less a kid. Says he didn’t give two shits about fatherhood. Her words.”
“Lyrical. What about Colleen Donovan?”
“Parents both dead, lived with an aunt, Laura Lonergan, who spends her time frying her brains on meth. And there ain’t much to fry. That conversation was a treat.”
I gestured for Slidell to skip the character analysis. “Does Colleen have a jacket?”
Slidell nodded. “Juvie, so we’ll need a warrant to unseal it.” I raised my brows in question.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m writing something up.” Slidell paused, as though debating whether to make the next comment.
“What?” I urged.
“One weird thing. According to the file, Donovan was entered into a national database for missing kids.”
“By whom?”
“MP investigator name of Pat Tasat.”
“What’s weird about that?”
“I checked for the hell of it. Six months out, the kid was removed from the system.”
“Did Tasat say why?”
“No. And he won’t.” Tight. “Poor schmuck drowned in Lake Norman last Labor Day weekend.”
“I’m sorry. Did you know him?”
Slidell nodded. “Jimmy B and Jet Skis don’t mix.”
I thought a moment. “Isn’t it standard to enter a reason when removing a name from the database?”
“Yeah. That’s what’s weird. No reason was given.”
“Who removed her?”
“That wasn’t there, either.”
I gnawed on that, wondering what it could mean. If anything. “And Estrada?” I asked.
“Kid vanished in Salisbury—that’s Rowan County—turned up in Anson, so they caught the file. The investigation went nowhere, eventually landed with a ballbuster at the sheriff’s department name of Henrietta Hull. That’s who I talked to. Goes by Cock. You believe that?”