by Kathy Reichs
I also called Ryan. As I laid it all out, I could picture him running a hand through his hair.
“So Slidell thinks the souvenirs nail the coffin on Leal, Gower, and Nance. And possession of Pomerleau’s DNA ties in Estrada,” he said.
“He wasn’t chatty, but I’m sure that’s his thinking.”
“Skinny should be decking the halls. Four solves and bye-bye, Tinker.”
“He sounded exhausted.”
“What about the others?”
“I don’t know.”
“It sucks that Slidell can’t question Ajax,” he observed.
“It does.”
“Stand down on my end?”
“I guess so.”
“I was out of road anyway.”
A long stretch of silence.
“Merry Christmas, Brennan.”
“Merry Christmas, Ryan.”
I hung up and sat a moment, hand still on the phone. I should have felt pleased. Relieved. Why didn’t I?
The others. Koseluk. Donovan. Would they remain open MP cases? Would active investigations continue? Was someone somewhere searching for the child whose skeleton lay on my shelf?
Annually, over eight hundred thousand people vanish in the United States. At least four years had passed since ME107-10 died. Three since Avery Koseluk went missing. I knew the sad answer.
But Ajax was wearing a tag on his toe. The madness was over.
My eyes drifted to a flyer tacked to my corkboard. Larabee’s comment reminded me. I also had invitations.
The UNCC anthropology department’s holiday gathering was scheduled that night. Often the venue was a zillion miles out in the country. This year it would take place at a faculty home in Plaza-Midwood. Not far from the annex.
Still, I wasn’t in the mood. Rarely am. Hot crowded rooms. Bad sweaters. Merrymakers rosy with eggnog and yuletide beer. It’s not the drinking. I’ve learned to live without alcohol. Small talk over canapés just isn’t my strong suit.
Nevertheless, I like my colleagues. Most of the grad students.
I bought a bottle of pinot, put on a red silk blouse, and headed out for some holly jolly.
I should have been ready to party. We finally had our killer. No motive. No explanation how Ajax hooked up with Pomerleau. Why or how he killed her. Why he continued to follow her playbook. Those answers would come later. What mattered was that he’d never strike again.
Still, troubling questions kept me distracted.
I thought of Ryan’s words. Had Ajax wanted to be caught? Then why the lawyer? Why the innocent act when finally reeled in?
That one was easy. Ajax was a sociopath. Sociopaths lie. And they do it well.
I recalled the interviews. Ajax had expressed no sympathy for the murdered girls. For a child he had treated.
Ajax killed himself. If he was planning suicide, why promise Cauthern he’d return to the hospital? Had the decision been spur-of-themoment? Triggered by what?
Ajax was ten miles away when Leal was abducted. How could he be in two places at once? Did he have an accomplice?
When I look back on that Christmas, on those cases, I always remember the moment we opened that trunk. The quavery fluorescents carving our features. The lights strobing blue and red in the cold dawn air. The overnight frost yielding to the warmth of sunlight.
I always wonder—had I voiced my concerns then, might things have gone differently?
I’ll never know. I said nothing.
PART III
CHAPTER 36
THE HOLIDAYS CAME and went.
I drove often to Heatherhill Farm. Goose was omnipresent, fluffing Mama’s pillows, brushing her hair, setting out clothes and insisting she wear them.
Harry flew in from Texas.
For three days we stayed at a B&B near Marion, the same one where Goose had taken up residence. Our rooms featured four-posters and chintz gone wild.
Harry bought Mama a stuffed zombie doll designed to be pulled apart and disemboweled to vent frustration. And a four-thousandcarat diamond brooch. I got her a cashmere poncho.
Being the center of attention perked Mama up. She twittered about Christmases past. The ones at the beach. The one in Grand Cayman. No mention of the ones she spent in the underworld solo in her room. Or gone.
When we were alone, Mama asked about my cases. I shared the whole story. Pomerleau, the Corneau farm, the barrel of maple syrup, the horror in Ajax’s trunk. I figured the outcome would appeal to her sense of justice.
Mama asked about Ryan’s contribution to the tale. I figured that in her mind, we were Orpheus and Eurydice. Maybe Scully and Mulder.
I told her Ryan had spent most of his time searching for Pomerleau’s sole surviving victim. She asked where the poor thing was. I said he hadn’t found her. She was intrigued, wouldn’t let up on the subject until Goose arrived to bully her into a bath.
The boards at the LEC came down. The photos, maps, interview summaries, and reports were packed back into their respective boxes. The conference room reverted to its intended purpose.
Tinker faded off. Rodas disengaged. Barrow moved on to other cold cases.
Slidell went incommunicado. I hadn’t a clue what he was doing. Made no effort to learn.
The CMPD held a press conference. Broadcasters went fluently doleful. Headlines howled. Reports told of Ajax’s arrest in Oklahoma, of “evidence in his possession linking him to the murders of Shelly Leal, Lizzie Nance, and others,” of his death on Sunrise Court. Slidell stayed away. Tinker did humble while deftly exaggerating his role and that of the SBI. I had to agree with Slidell. The guy was an unctuous little prick.
Ryan and I talked often. Almost like old times. Almost. He was back on the job, working as a floater as before, adding his expertise to investigations as needed.
Friday morning, the second day of the New Year, Larabee received the toxicology report. Ajax had a blood carbon monoxide saturation of 68 percent. A level that kills you deader than shit.
Ajax also had chloral hydrate in his system, which showed up only when Larabee requested a second test expanding beyond the opiates, amphetamines, barbiturates, alcohol, and other substances on standard tox screens. Though the drug was a somewhat antiquated choice, in Larabee’s opinion, it wasn’t significant. As he’d said at the scene, a lot of folks need pharmaceuticals to pull the plug.
There was no record of chloral hydrate withdrawal at the Mercy dispensary, no prescription at any Charlotte pharmacy. Not a big deal. As a physician, Ajax would have had easy access to the drug, often used as a sedative prior to EEG procedures.
More troubling was the fact that no empty pill bottle turned up at the house on Sunrise Court or on Ajax’s person. CSS found the kitchen trash container empty, unlike other cans on the premises. A Hefty in the curbside rollout produced nothing that might have held the capsules.
The big shocker came the following Monday.
Larabee caught me in the biovestibule, paper in his hand, puzzled expression on his face.
“Post-holiday credit card bill?” Unwrapping a scarf from my neck.
Larabee thrust the paper at me. I shifted my briefcase and took it.
A quick skim, then the line that mattered. I understood why Lara-bee hadn’t laughed at my joke. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish.”
“The DNA from the lip print isn’t a match for Ajax.”
Larabee shook his head solemnly.
“Any possibility the jacket was contaminated?”
“They say no way.”
“And the samples you sent over were good?”
Larabee just looked at me.
“I saw lip balm in Ajax’s medicine cabinet. Maybe—”
“CSS collected it. The lab ran it as a cross test. In case some defense attorney found an expert to say the stuff scrambled the DNA sequencing, or some other junk-science hogwash.”
“What about the lip balm itself?”
“Not the same brand.”
“So, wait
.” My mind was struggling to reconstruct the picture we’d so carefully crafted. “Ajax might not be our guy?”
Larabee shrugged with upturned palms. Who knows?
“But he had Leal’s ring.”
“Nance’s shoes. Gower’s key.”
“What about the blood in Ajax’s trunk? The scalp?”
“That’s taking longer.”
“Have you talked to Slidell?”
“He’s on his way over.”
An hour passed before Slidell’s heels clicked like bullets outside my door. Voices floated from Larabee’s office, modulated, no ire or outrage. Ten minutes later, Skinny blustered into my office.
The change was subtle but there. Same ratty brown jacket. Same bad haircut. What?
Slidell ankle-hooked and dragged a chair toward my desk, dropped onto it. When his legs shot forward, I saw a flash of tangerine sock. Some things are permanently set.
“You heard?”
“I did.”
Then it struck me. Slidell had lost weight. His face was still saggy, maybe more so than usual. But his belly wasn’t hanging as far over his belt. The mustard-yellow shirt was fully tucked.
Slidell’s next statement stunned me. “Some shit don’t add up.”
“What are you saying?”
Slidell’s jaw muscles flexed energetically.
“You have doubts about Ajax?”
“He was on Pineville-Matthews Road when Leal was grabbed up on Morningside.”
“Yes.”
A ten-second pause.
“IT put a name to the user in that chat room for cramps.”
“HamLover.”
“Yeah. Mona Spleen. Forty-three, lives in Pocatello, Idaho. Belongs to the Pocatello ARC. That stands for Amateur Radio Club.”
“Spleen is into ham radios.”
“Big-time.”
Another, longer pause.
“April 17, 2009. Two-twenty P.M. Ajax got pulled for doing sixty-eight in a fifty-five.”
“The afternoon Lizzie Nance disappeared. That doesn’t mean—”
“The stop was on I-64, outside Charleston, West Virginia.”
“You’re just now learning this?”
“I ain’t a magician. People been busy tying bows and stuffing socks.”
“The ticket gives Ajax an airtight alibi. Why didn’t he mention it?”
“The trooper let him off with a warning. No fine, no court. Ajax probably forgot all about it.”
“Forgot the trip?”
“The date coincides with his start at Mercy. He maybe had a lot on his mind.”
I said nothing.
After another long pause, Slidell said, “I did some follow-up on the kid in Oklahoma.”
“The babysitter Ajax molested?”
“Yeah.” Repositioning his tie down the middle of his chest. It was black and spotted with something shiny. “The lady’s got a jacket going back to juvie.”
I kept my face expressionless.
“Three bumps for solicitation since 2006. Off the record, my source says her first pop was the year after Ajax went into the box.”
“That may or may not be meaningful.”
“Eeyuh.”
“So what are you thinking?”
“Maybe the dirtbag ain’t our guy.”
“Have you shared any of this with Salter?”
Slidell gave a tight shake of his head.
“Why?”
“I’m still working it.”
“Doing what?”
“For one thing, taking a hard look at this fuckwad Yoder.”
“The CNA at Mercy?”
Slidell nodded.
“Any reason?”
“I don’t like the guy.”
“That’s it?”
“No, that ain’t it.” Curt. “While you’ve been caroling and hanging mistletoe, I’ve been moving back in on the neighbors, the other hospital staff.”
“Meaning?”
“Heart-to-hearts all around.”
“And?”
“And nothing. The guy lived under a rock.”
“Now what?”
“I’m hitting the ones weren’t around. Over the river and through the woods. Ho-ho. Pain in the ass.”
“Aren’t you the Grinch.”
“I practice.”
“When you’ve finished the interviews, you’ll take it to Salter?”
“Yeah.”
“What about Tinker?”
“I’ll see that yank-off in hell before I bring him back in.”
“Who’s on your list?”
“Couple nurses, a doc, a CNA. Probably a waste of time. But could be someone picked up on something.”
I looked at the clock. At my stack of unwritten reports. “Let’s go.” Pulling my purse from the drawer.
Slidell took a breath, caught himself. Nodded and stood.
We got lucky with one RN and the physician. They were day shift.
Both said they’d been stunned by the news reports on Hamet Ajax. Both had worked with him and felt he was a fine doctor. Both expressed sadness at his passing. Neither knew a thing about Ajax’s personal life.
The other two were off that day. Alice Hamilton, a CNA, and Arnie Saranella, an RN.
Slidell was particularly eager to talk to Hamilton. She’d been on duty when Colleen Donovan and Shelly Leal presented at the ER. And Ellis Yoder had hinted that Ajax and Hamilton were friendly.
Slidell had phoned Hamilton repeatedly. Left messages on her mobile, gotten no reply. It didn’t predispose him to warm feelings toward the woman.
Hamilton lived on North Dotger, within spitting distance of Mercy Hospital. The street was winding and, in summer, overshaded by trees large enough to form a canopy blocking all sunlight.
Hamilton’s wasn’t one of the townhomes that had sprouted like toadstools after a rain, progeny of the yuppification of the Elizabeth neighborhood. Her apartment was in an uninspired brick bunker dating to the postwar era. One of four such bunkers, all painted beige in an unsuccessful attempt to discourage algae growth.
On their street sides, the bunkers had paired concrete patios surrounded by metal fences and protected by metal awnings, every one rusted and warped. Each patio was large enough to hold a chair, maybe two if your personal space requirements weren’t demanding. Each was accessed by double glass doors gone milky with age. The units above had uncovered balconies. Same square footage. Same cloudy doors.
Slidell and I took the walk, mud-caked and, like the brick, exuberantly green with life, and entered a small lobby with a grimy blackand-white floor. Four mailboxes formed a square on the wall to the left.
Overflow mail lay on the tile, mostly flyers and ads, a few magazines. Good Housekeeping. O. Car and Driver.
A. Hamilton was on the box marked 1C. Penned by hand and slipped behind a tiny rectangle of cracked glass.
Slidell pressed the bell. Waited. Pressed again.
No buzz. No voice from the little round speaker.
“Goddammit.” Slidell pressed harder, jabbing repeatedly with his thumb.
While waiting, I scanned labels at my feet. The automotive magazine was for Roger Collier, Oprah’s monthly for Hamilton. The housekeeping tips were going to Melody Keller.
Slidell rang a fourth time, his anger so palpable that I felt it elbow my ribs.
“Don’t have a heart attack,” I said.
“Why don’t she answer?”
“Maybe she’s not home?”
Slidell stared at the mailboxes, narrow-eyed and tight-mouthed.
“What did her supervisor say?”
“She’s on some kinda arrangement she don’t have to work regular.”
“PRN. Pro re nata. It’s a common arrangement in hospitals. Means the employee’s schedule changes a lot and hours aren’t guaranteed.”
“Whatever.”
“Let’s move on. Talk to the other nurse.”
“Pisses me off Alice goddamn Hamilton don’t call me back.”
Slidell was on his fifth round of jabbing when my iPhone vibrated in my jacket pocket. I answered.
Larabee had DNA results on the materials from Ajax’s trunk.
CHAPTER 37
“IT WAS POMERLEAU. The blood, the scalp.”
“I knew it.”
“Some of the Kleenex had saliva.”
“Pomerleau?”
“Yes.”
My pulse threw in a few extra beats.
“What are you thinking?” Larabee asked when I didn’t reply.
“The killer seeded the bodies.”
“That’s my take.”
“With Gower and Nance, he put saliva on tissue and left it in the child’s hand.”
“But that’s iffy. What if it rains? What if the tissue blows away? Animals drag it off?” Larabee was right there with me. “He had to get more sophisticated.”
I closed my eyes. Saw a syrupy corpse on a stainless steel table.
“Pomerleau had punctures on her inner elbows,” I said. “The ME in Vermont thought they looked wrong for needle drugs. So did I. And Pomerleau’s tox screen came back clean.”
“Ajax drew her blood and stored it in vials.”
“Or she gave it to him.”
“I doubt she gave him hunks of her head.”
I spent a moment grinding that down.
“He’s smart,” I said. “Knows shaft isn’t good enough. That root is needed to sequence nuclear DNA.”
“You think he scalped her when he killed her?”
“Yes.”
A pause. Metal rattled in the background. I figured Larabee was in an autopsy room.
“The killer created a larder.” I was thinking out loud. “Hair. Blood. Saliva.”
“Probably kept the stuff in a freezer.”
“But why go to all that trouble?”
“To deflect suspicion away from himself? In case he got caught?”
“Maybe. Or maybe it was part of the game.”
“Which he continued to play after stuffing Pomerleau into a barrel. That happened when?”
“Probably 2009,” I said.
“When the action moved here.”
An incoming text landed on my phone. “I’ve got to go.”
“Can you tell Slidell?”
“I’m with him now.”