by Kathy Reichs
“That person is lying.”
“Some cold-blooded bastard killed both these kids.” In Donovan’s case, another lie.
Behind the lenses, the dark eyes narrowed a hair. “Surely you don’t suspect me.”
“Now, why would we do that?”
“I’ve told you. I never hurt anyone.”
“How’s that babysitter doing these days?”
“I have never shown physical violence toward any human being.”
“Where were you on April 17, 2009?”
Ajax’s chin hiked up, sending a slash of white across each lens, a double reflection of the overhead fixture. The slashes reversed course as his chin leveled. “I must check my agenda.”
“How ’bout November 21, 2014?”
“Should I engage an attorney?”
“Should you?”
Ajax sighed. “If you had proof of my involvement in these homicides, you’d be charging me with a crime. Since you are not, I assume I am free to go.”
“We’re trying to clear you here, Doc.”
The voice surprised me. Beau Tinker was also in the room.
“Your partner’s tone has suggested otherwise all afternoon.”
“Look, you’re a smart man. Given your past, you know we have to check you out. You get that, right? In order to exclude you.”
“You took me away from my work. I’ve answered your questions to the best of my ability.”
“Still, there are gaps.”
“I can provide more precise answers once I have access to charts and personal records.”
“You don’t remember treating Colleen Donovan?”
“No.”
“Or Shelly Leal.”
“No.”
“You recall no contact with either?”
“None. I’ve made that clear.”
“We want to get it straight.”
“I’ve agreed to be recorded.” Ajax looked straight into the camera, obviously familiar with police interview rooms. “You can refer back to your tape.”
A pause.
“You know a kid named Tia Estrada?” Slidell jumped back in.
“No.”
“Avery Koseluk?”
“No.”
“Lizzie Nance.”
Ajax sat silent and unmoving.
“That one ring a bell?”
“No.”
“How about Nellie Gower?”
“I know none of these persons.”
“Ever been to Vermont?”
“I have answered that in the negative.”
“Talk about Anique Pomerleau.”
“Who?”
Slidell lurched forward across the table, close to Ajax’s face. “Cut the crap, you worthless piece of shit.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.” Looking Slidell straight in the eye.
“Can you think of anyone at Mercy we should question?” Tinker again.
“I promise to give serious thought to that question.”
“Please do.”
“Yeah. Please do.” A chair scraped. The visible parts of Slidell jerked from view. “In the meantime, I need air what ain’t fouled.”
A door opened. Closed. Ajax sat still as a carving on Rushmore, eyes on the corner, where, I assumed, Tinker was standing.
“I have never physically hurt anyone. Not then. Not now.”
“I believe that’s true, Doc.” Tinker, good cop extraordinaire. “Listen. You need a soda?”
The twitch of a lip. A smile? “I will accept nothing to eat or drink.”
“Suit yourself.”
Our little gaggle divided. The detectives turned left, toward the violent crimes division. Barrow and I turned right, toward the conference room. Slidell was already there, standing by the table. His face looked drawn, his eyes puffy and red from lack of sleep.
“You get anything?” Barrow asked.
Slidell shook his head. “The guy’s a fox. Knows how to play his hand.”
“When did you start in on him?”
“Just past one.”
I may have made a sound. Or moved. Slidell’s eyes flicked to me. Before I could say anything, voices sounded in the hall, then Tinker joined us, followed by Salter.
“I wanted to go at him alone.” Directed to me but loud, for Tinker’s benefit. Maybe Salter’s.
“The whole interview, Ajax never changed his story?” Barrow had also missed the start of the show.
“Can’t remember treating Donovan or Leal. Didn’t know they were dead. Had nothing to do with killing ’em.”
“Leal’s been all over the news,” I said. “Ajax doesn’t read papers or watch TV?”
“Claims he’s too busy saving lives.”
“And no one at the hospital once mentioned Leal? Does that sound right?”
“The slimy—”
Salter truncated Slidell’s response. “Just what have you got on this guy?”
“He’s a pedo. And his vehicle and tag square with a witness account from the spot Leal was grabbed.”
“Full match?”
“Two digits.”
“That’s it?”
“Four girls are dead. Maybe six. This creep likes girls.”
“It’s weak.”
“Two of our vics walked through his ER.”
“Did he treat them?”
“We’re getting the records.”
“Anything else?”
“Tell her about the pay phone,” Slidell ordered me.
I did.
“Outside Mercy.”
“Yes.”
Salter nodded, turned back to Slidell. “Any shot at DNA?”
“He’s not falling for it.”
“How do you want to proceed?”
“Let me go back at him.”
“Has he requested a lawyer?”
“Not yet.”
“He’s supposed to register as a sex offender,” Tinker said. “Hasn’t in years, never did in North Carolina.”
“That buys us some leeway.” A few beats, then, “You seriously think Ajax could be our guy?”
“He’s our only real suspect.”
“You getting his history?”
“Every dump he ever took.”
“Okay. Let him cook awhile, then go back in.” Looking from Slidell to Tinker. “If nothing breaks by six, we cut him loose.” Slidell started to protest. “And this goes by the book. I want to see fast footwork, I’ll watch Chinatown.” Pointedly to Slidell. “Ajax asks to lawyer up, we shut it down. Are we straight?”
Slidell inhaled deeply, exhaled through his nose.
“Are we straight, Detective?”
“We gotta kick him, we stay up his ass?”
“Right between the cheeks.”
CHAPTER 30
AT FIVE, AJAX requested counsel.
Thirty minutes later, a cruiser dropped him at his home. An unmarked car was already parked up the block.
At six, Slidell got a call from an attorney named Jonathan Rao. Henceforth, Rao’s client would answer questions only through him or in his presence.
At seven, Slidell, Barrow, and I were in the conference room eating King’s Kitchen takeout. Between mouthfuls of fried flounder, Slidell was sharing what he’d learned about Ajax’s past.
“Back in Oklahoma, he was Hamir Ajey. His story squares with what I dug out of court records. Ajey, aka Ajax, began nailing a babysitter when she was fourteen and he was thirty-three. The abuse stopped two years later, when the kid confided in a teacher. He was charged with rape and lewd acts on a minor, copped a plea.”
“To spare the child having to endure a trial,” Barrow said. “That’s often how it goes.”
“The sick fuck did forty-six months and walked.”
“Wasn’t he required to register as a sex offender?” I asked.
“He did.” Bite of flounder. “When he got out of the box in 2004. In Oklahoma.”
“Didn’t the state yank his medical license?”
“That state.” Slidell licked his fingers. “So Ajey/Ajax goes underground a couple years, surfaces in New Hampshire at an urgent care clinic ain’t so picky about background checks.”
“You’re kidding.”
“A couple pen strokes on the ole license, his name changes from Hamir Ajey to Hamet Ajax. He figures no one will bother phoning Mumbai.”
“And no one did. Jesus.”
“A few more years, he uses the New Hampshire job to springboard to an ER in West Virginia.”
“From there to Charlotte,” Barrow said.
“Along the way, he stops mentioning he’s a perv.”
“And no one asks.” I was disgusted.
“Why Charlotte?” Barrow asked. “Who knows?”
“How long was Ajax required to register?” I asked.
“I’m getting to that,” Slidell said. “He claims ten years.”
“Is he married?”
“Back in Oklahoma. The wife left him.”
“How many kids?”
“Two girls.”
I felt clashing emotions. Revulsion for Ajax. Sympathy for his daughters. Fear for future victims. I wanted to scream, to cry, to throw something at a wall.
“Any other incidents? Patient complaints, that sort of thing?” Barrow asked.
“Nothing popped in the four states I ran the two names. Apparently, Ajax kept his nose clean.”
“Or improved his technique.” Barrow.
“Where’s he living now?” I asked.
“One of those cuter-than-shit neighborhoods off Sharon View Road.”
“Does Oklahoma have his DNA?”
Slidell shook his head.
“Was Ajax working on the dates Donovan and Leal presented at Mercy?”
“I got a warrant in the works. Should know in an hour or two.”
“What’s your thinking?” Barrow asked.
“I want inside Ajax’s house.”
“Without cause that’s a nonstarter.”
“Yeah. Yeah. So we keep a team up his butt twenty-four/seven. The asshole so much as glances at a playground, we yank him back in.”
Impressive. Slidell had worked two buttocks references into one comment.
“If he’s no longer required to register, that won’t fly.”
“Confusing, ain’t it? But we’re awaiting confirmation from Oklahoma.”
“And if Ajax does nothing?” I asked.
“These dickheads always do something. Meanwhile, I find out when Leal and Donovan went to Mercy. I check the ER records for MD signatures or printed names or ID numbers or whatever it is they use. And I get a list of any ER employee present both times. Talk to them. That goes nowhere, I branch out to the rest of the hospital.”
“Where’s Tinker?” I asked.
“Following up with Ajax,” Barrow said. “Getting alibis for the dates Leal, Estrada, Nance, and Gower were abducted. Then he’ll run checks.”
“You two kiss and make up?” My lame attempt to lighten the mood. Also, I was curious. Slidell glowered at me, clearly not open to a discussion of his rapport with Tinker. I changed the subject. “New Hampshire shares a border with Vermont.”
“I’ll shoot Ajax’s face to Rodas,” Barrow said. “See if that shakes anything loose up there. In the meantime, I got hours of video from places Leal might have gone the week before she died. I’ll keep plowing through that, see if the kid appears. See if anyone suspicious is near her. And I got people going through footage taken in the time window our guy must have off-loaded Leal. Roads he might have driven to get to the overpass.”
“How many hours you talking about?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Ajax thinks he’s smart.” Slidell pushed to his feet. “The arrogant prick is going down.”
“What can I do?” I asked.
“Take me off speed dial.”
I glared at Slidell’s retreating back.
I was at the MCME when Slidell finally phoned. I could have written the reports at home, but somehow, being at the morgue made me feel less marginalized.
“Donovan arrived at Mercy at 11:40 P.M. on August 22, 2012. Got three stitches in her forehead. She was discharged at 1:10 A.M. The uniforms who brought her drove her to a shelter. Ajax is on record as the treating physician.”
I felt my pulse rush. Made a very special point of not interrupting.
“Leal arrived at 2:20 P.M. on August 27, 2014. A Dr. Berger treated her for abdominal cramping, advised over-the-counter meds. The parents took her home at 4:40 P.M.”
“Was Ajax working that day?”
“Yes.”
“Any other ER staff coincide on those two occasions?”
“Five.”
“I thought the list would be longer.”
“Two years go by, people move around. Plus, we got lucky. One kid landed at night, the other during the day.”
“Different shifts.”
“Eeyuh.”
“Do any of the five still work at Mercy?”
“Three.” I heard the flutter of the ubiquitous spiral. “A CNA name of Ellis Yoder. That’s a certified nurse’s assistant.”
I knew that. Said nothing.
“Alice Hamilton, also a CNA. Jewell Neighbors, a guest relations specialist. Makes the place sound like the friggin’ Ritz.”
GRS. That one I didn’t know.
“One nurse, Blanche Oxendine, retired. Another, Ella Mae Nesbitt, moved out of state.”
“Have you talked to any of them?”
“Been too busy touching up my spray tan.”
I waited out a brief pause.
“Oxendine’s sixty-six, widowed. Worked ten years at Mercy, thirty-two at Presbyterian before that. Lives with her daughter and two grandkids. Has arthritis, weak bones, and a bad bladder.”
I could only imagine that conversation. “Did Oxendine remember either of the girls?”
“Leal, vaguely. Donovan not at all.”
“What did she think of Ajax?”
“Liked that his breath always smelled nice.”
“That’s it?”
“Feels too many jobs these days are going to foreigners.”
“Is she Internet-savvy?” Not sure why I asked that.
“Thinks computers are the ruin of today’s youth.”
“What about Nesbitt?”
“Thirty-two, single, worked at Mercy four years after getting her degree. Moved to Florence in September to take care of her eightynine-year-old mother. The old lady fell and broke a hip.”
“So Nesbitt wasn’t living in Charlotte on the dates Nance and Leal were killed.”
“Nope.”
“Does she use a computer?”
“For email and online shopping.”
“Her thoughts on Ajax?”
“Said he was a little too stiff for her taste. Chalked it up to cultural differences. Whatever that means. Felt he was a decent enough doctor.”
“Did she—”
“Remembered Donovan because she assisted Ajax with the suturing. Said the kid was belligerent, probably on something. Drew a blank on Leal.”
“So neither one raised an alarm?”
“Hell-o. Our doer plays for my team.”
Slidell was right. The DNA on Leal’s jacket said her killer was male.
“What about the others?” I asked.
“Thought I’d swing by the hospital now.”
“See you there,” I said, and disconnected before Slidell could object.
I arrived first. At nine P.M. on a Monday, the place was quiet.
Knowing Slidell would go batshit if I did anything but breathe, I settled in the waiting area, hoping no one there had anthrax or TB.
Across from me, against one wall, a man in full-body camouflage clutched a shirt-wrapped hand to his chest. To his left, a kid in a tracksuit observed me with crusty red eyes.
Down the row to my right, a girl held a swaddled baby who wasn’t moving or making a sound. I guessed the girl’s age at sixtee
n or seventeen. Now and then she patted or bounced the still little bundle.
Beyond the girl, a woman coughed wetly into a wadded hankie. Her hair was thin and gray over a shiny pink scalp, her skin the color of uncooked pasta. The fingers on one hand were nicotine yellow.
I focused on the staff, reading names when anyone came into view. Soon spotted one of our targets.
A tall, doughy guy with a stringy blond pony wore a tag identifying him as E. Yoder, CNA. When Yoder passed me to collect Crusty Eyes, I noticed that his arms were flabby and covered with freckles.
Ten minutes passed. Fifteen.
The old woman continued her phlegmy hacking. I was considering relocation when Slidell finally came through the door. I got up and crossed to him. “Yoder’s here. I haven’t spotted Neighbors.”
“I talked to her.”
“What?”
“She’s a cretin.”
“Where did you see Neighbors?”
“Does it matter?”
I drilled Slidell with an inquisitional stare.
“In the lobby.”
“And?”
“She handles a lot of patients with bellyaches and scrapes.”
“That’s what she said?”
“I’m paraphrasing.”
“Why is she a ‘cretin’?” Hooking air quotes.
“She’s twenty-four, has a husband and three kids, wasn’t working at Mercy when Nance or Estrada were killed.”
“That makes her a cretin?”
“She’s been outside the Carolinas once in her life, on a school trip to D.C. Thinks the Lincoln Memorial is one of the seven wonders of the world. Never been on a plane. Doesn’t own a computer. You getting the picture?”
I was. Jewell Neighbors didn’t fit the profile of a child killer. Or a child killer’s apprentice.
“And note the pronoun. As in female.”
“You’re assuming no one else is involved.”
Now I was the recipient of a questioning stare.
“A woman would be less threatening.”
“So a woman recruits victims.”
“Maybe here, in person. Maybe online.”
“And why would she do that?”
“It’s not impossible.” Defensive. “Pomerleau did it for Menard.”
“If our perp’s getting help, it ain’t Neighbors. Or Oxendine. And Nesbitt wasn’t around for Nance or Estrada.”
“If Estrada is even linked.” I thought a moment. “Nesbitt was nineteen in 2009. Where was she?”
“I’ll ask.”