The Will Trent Series 7-Book Bundle

by Karin Slaughter

  Sara held up her hands. “I would gladly leave right now if I thought I could get her to go with me.”

  Charlie looked at Nell again. Her determination must’ve been apparent. “Well, it’s good that she has you here to walk her through it.”

  “I’m still trying to change her mind.”

  “She doesn’t look like the type who does that,” he noted. “I can give you a quick rundown if you like?”

  Sara nodded, ashamed that she was so eager to hear the details.

  Charlie’s voice took on a practiced tone. “The man we’re calling Assailant Two entered through the front window.” He indicated the window in question. Black fingerprint powder smeared the white trim. “He more than likely used a pocketknife. Slid it between the frames, pushed open the thumb latch.”

  Sara nodded. The entry method was typical for burglaries.

  He continued, “We can assume from fingerprints that Assailant Two then opened the front door, letting the man we’re calling Assailant One enter the house. From the gunpowder residue on the floor and walls, we can conclude the first assailant was standing in the front room at the mouth of the hall when he initially fired the shotgun. Sawn-off Remington 870, twenty-eight gauge.”

  Sara knew from past cases that a shotgun blast from that distance could rip apart a half-inch piece of plywood. The sawed-off barrel had spread the pellets, which was probably the only reason Jared hadn’t dropped dead on the spot.

  Charlie said, “I’ve read the hospital admitting report. My preliminary field investigation supports the shotgun pellets mostly clustered in a twenty-centimeter circle in the victim’s thoracic region, roughly T-2 through T-7, with some penetrating the skull. At the scene, a few pellets were found lodged into the wood around the doorframe. We can assume that the majority of the pellets went into the victim.”

  Sara had gotten out of the practice of listening to people talk as if they were giving testimony. “Jared was standing in the doorway?”

  “Yes. The victim’s body was almost exactly centered in the doorway. He likely had his arms crossed or in front of him. According to the hospital report, he had no wounds on the back of his arms or hands. He was wearing a toolbelt, which we can surmise is where Detective Adams got the hammer.”

  Sara had been wondering about that detail. She didn’t imagine Lena kept a hammer in the bedroom, though who knew what the hell she got up to.

  Charlie continued, “Adams used the hammer to take out the first assailant, the shooter, at the doorway to the bedroom.” He pointed just below his eye socket. “Claw went in here. Got lodged in the orbita, went straight through the vitreous. The shotgun went off a second time, blasting a hole approximately thirty-two centimeters into the far wall. At some point, the assailant fell to the floor, whereupon the hammer was yanked out of his face. We found splatter and bone on the walls approximately ten to sixteen inches from the floor, so he was likely supine when it was removed. Some spatter arced onto the ceiling as it was wrenched away.” Charlie shuddered. “Sorry, hammers freak me out.”

  “You’re not alone.”

  “Nonetheless.” He shuddered again. “At some point, Assailant Number Two tried to come to the rescue. Residue puts him at approximately six feet outside the bedroom when he fired three shots from a Smith and Wesson five-shot revolver. He ended up shooting his buddy instead. I’m not certain how that happened, but Assailant One was standing with his back to the door when he was shot. Obviously, he fell to the floor shortly after. Then somehow the second assailant fell, and Adams went at him.”

  “The second assailant fell before she hit him?”

  “Fell to his knees,” Charlie clarified. “Sorry. We found knee and hand prints in the blood where he fell to the floor. This was when Detective Adams likely hit him in the head with the butt of the shotgun. We’ve got blood and hair on the gun, and the spatter on the wall and bed, which is approximately thirty-two inches from the floor, backs up a baseball swing. We took the dislodged teeth for evidence, so at least the mother won’t have to see them.” He glanced at Nell again. She was off the phone now, digging around in the back of the truck for her bags of cleaning supplies.

  Sara asked, “What happened after the second shooter was taken out?”

  “The neighbors arrived.” Charlie nodded up the road. “There are two officers on the block as well as a paramedic and a fireman. Sorry, firewoman. They got Jared’s heart pumping again. Fortunately for me, the on-duty officers who responded to the 911 call stayed out of the bedroom. The scene was fairly pristine when I arrived.”

  Sara asked, “You said Jared’s heart stopped?” That would explain why they’d taken him to the closest hospital instead of the trauma center.

  “Correct,” Charlie answered. “As I understand it, the neighbors worked on the victim for quite a while before the ambulance arrived. I’m surprised he made it, if you want to know the truth. He lost a significant amount of blood. My estimate—and don’t quote me on this until I do the math—is maybe two liters.”

  Sara let the information settle. If Charlie was right, Jared had suffered a Class III hemorrhage, losing thirty to forty percent of his blood volume. The cascade of respiratory distress and organ failure were second and third only to severe tachycardia. If not for his neighbors physically pumping Jared’s heart, Sara would’ve met Nell at the funeral home this morning instead of the hospital.

  And that didn’t even take into account the severity of the wounds that had caused the bleeding in the first place.

  “Hello,” Nell said. Plastic shopping bag handles cut into her hands, but she shook her head when Sara offered to take some. She told Charlie, “I’m Darnell Long, Jared’s mama.”

  “Charlie Reed,” he answered. “I work for the state. I’m so sorry about your son, Mrs. Long. I know he’s in capable hands.”

  “The Lord never puts more on us than we can bear.”

  Charlie clasped his hands together. “ ‘He who follows Me shall never walk in darkness.’ ”

  Nell seemed surprised to hear the man quoting from the Bible. Sara felt the same. Charlie had never struck her as a churchgoer. Then again, he was born in the South, where babies drank Scripture with their mother’s milk.

  “I should get back to work.” Charlie’s smile said he was pleased with their reactions. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies.” He headed back to his van.

  “Well,” Nell said, watching Charlie leave. Sara was beginning to understand that there was a certain amount of judgment in the word, which Nell had first uttered when she’d seen the packed parking lot of the strip club beside the dollar store.

  She asked Sara, “What’s with that mustache?”

  “Charlie’s one of the top forensics experts in the state. And very nice. He cares about what he does.”

  “Well.” Nell didn’t say anything else. She headed up the driveway. The bags were heavy. Sara could see the crisscross of the handles cutting off the circulation to her fingers.

  She asked, “Are you sure you don’t want me to help with those?”

  “I’ve got it, thank you.” Still, Nell grunted as she made her way up the last part of the driveway.

  Jared’s police bike was parked in front of the garage. The floodlight above the door was still on. Sara looked back at the street. There was no mistaking that a police officer lived here. Even in the dark of night, the light would’ve put the bike on display.

  Nell asked, “What do we do about this?” Police tape was draped across the door, but Charlie had yet to seal the house.

  “They’ve got more,” Sara told her, pulling the tape down. She didn’t open the door yet. “Nell, I need to tell you again that this is a bad idea. It’s going to be so much worse than you’re thinking.

  There was a violent fight. Jared lost a lot of blood. It’ll be on the floor, on the walls, on every surface. It’s a biohazard. Medical waste has to be properly disposed of. You really need to leave this to the professionals.”

  Nell hefted the bags.
“I think I know how to clean up a mess.”

  “I can let you borrow the money. Or give it to you. I don’t care which—”

  “No,” Nell said, her tone making it clear that she was finished discussing the matter. “Thank you.”

  She stood waiting. Finally, Sara turned the knob, pushed open the door.

  There was a distinctive odor that could be found at all crime scenes—not the metallic scent of blood that came from the oxidation of iron, but the stench of fear. Sara had always been a firm believer in intuition. There was a baser part of the human brain that cued every living being to danger. That part became fully engaged the minute Sara walked through the front door of Lena and Jared’s home.

  A man had died here. Two men had almost been killed. A woman had fought for her life. The threat of violence lingered in the stale air.

  Sara watched Nell take it all in. Her posture changed. She nearly dropped some of the bags. Sara suggested, “Why don’t you sit down?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Let’s sit down.”

  Nell shook her head. She looked around the front room of the house. The floor plan was open, with a combined family room and kitchen. Sunlight streamed in through the windows. The ceiling fan over the couch gave a soft whine as the blades moved. Nothing bad had happened in this space. The furniture was not overturned. The walls were a muted light gray. The only area in disarray was the kitchen, which was obviously being remodeled. Flat packs of unassembled cabinets were stacked in a neat pile. The kitchen sink was a bucket resting on an old washstand. The dishwasher was in the corner, the cord and drain hose wrapped around it like a bow. The stove was pulled away from the wall, but Sara could see the gas line was still attached.

  Without thinking, she said, “He’s just as bad as Jeffrey.”

  Jeffrey always had to have some sort of project going. Restoring an old car. Adding a second sink in the bathroom. Redoing his kitchen. Fixing things gave him a sense of accomplishment, if not completion. When he was dating Sara, a thick plastic sheet served as the outside wall to his kitchen. The refrigerator was in the dining room. A garden hose ran through the front window and attached through various valves to the ice maker.

  Nell said, “Jeffrey always liked working with his hands.” She set the bags down on the countertop, which was a piece of plywood on some two-by-fours. She ran her finger along the wood. Her eyes traveled to the sink bucket, the bare but cleanly swept floor. “I guess I can’t fault her housekeeping. There’s no way Jared cleaned up like this.”

  Sara didn’t answer. Lena had always been neat. Her desk at the station looked like something out of an office supply catalogue.

  “I’ll get his daddy in here to finish this up.” Nell nodded toward the stacked boxes. “Possum’ll get those assembled in a day. I’ll help him hang the top cabinets. He can do the bottom on his own. I don’t guess they have a countertop, but we’ll pick something out that—” She stopped talking. Sara followed her gaze to the couch. There was a pillow with a sheet neatly folded on the top. On the coffee table beside the remote were a pair of glasses, a glass of water, and a plastic case for a retainer.

  “Hello?” Faith Mitchell walked through the open front door. She’d already met Nell and Possum at the hospital. Sara had made the introductions.

  Faith asked, “You just get here?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Nell wouldn’t take her eyes off the couch. Faith seemed to note the arrangement, but made no comment. She smiled at Sara in a way that let her know there was enough discomfort to go around.

  Sara said, “We saw Charlie.”

  “He’s still packing up the van.”

  Nell noisily started unpacking the bags, banging the bottle of bleach and box of gloves down on the plywood counter.

  Faith walked around the front room, picking up items, obviously trying to get a feel for the place. Will’s partner was one year his junior, but she’d come up through the Atlanta police force before joining the GBI and was equal parts pragmatic and cynical. Sara could not have wished for a better agent to back up Will. Faith was clever and competent. She hated taking risks. In other words, she was the complete opposite of Lena Adams.

  She was also nosy as hell. She walked around the room with a judgmental air, taking in the curtains and furnishings with the same sharp eye as Nell.

  Sara felt slow on the uptake. Nell wasn’t just here to clean. Lena was pushing her out of Jared’s hospital room, so Nell was invading Lena’s home.

  Nell had finished unpacking the bags. She braced her hands on the wooden counter. “I should probably look at it first.”

  There was no use arguing with her. Nell was obviously determined to keep moving forward. Sara and Faith silently followed her toward the hallway.

  Nell didn’t get far. She stopped just outside the guest bathroom. The shower curtain was pulled back. A dirty sliver of soap was beside a bottle of Axe shampoo. The seat was up on the toilet. The counter was cluttered with men’s toiletries—deodorant, a razor and shaving cream, a toothbrush that needed replacing and a half-empty tube of toothpaste. Little hairs filled the sink where Jared had shaved and failed to wash out the bowl.

  Nell continued down the hall, mumbling, “I guess she kicked him out of the bathroom, too.”

  Faith mumbled in an equally low voice, “You couldn’t pay me to share my bathroom with a man.”

  “Amen,” Sara answered as she trailed Nell down the hallway. She stepped over a white chalk outline on the floor where Charlie had taken some DNA. Sara guessed from the look of it that someone had spat in the hall, probably to make a point.

  Which further supported the idea that the shooters hadn’t randomly chosen their victims.

  There was a spare bedroom on either side of the hall. The first one was being used as an office. The second appeared to be another unfinished project. The walls were a cheery yellow. The closet door was propped up on two sawhorses. Nell shook her head as she passed by, probably adding it to the list of Possum’s chores. She stopped a few feet from the master bedroom.

  Sara heard Nell draw in a sharp breath. The woman’s hands shook as she grabbed the doorframe.

  Charlie’s estimate may have been too conservative. Despite the passage of time, the pool of blood where Jared had fallen was still congealing. Light glimmered on the wet surface. The edges had curdled into a dark rust that seeped into the hardwood floor.

  The rest of the blood had dried hours ago, leaving burgundy stains that told the story of violent altercation. The ceiling and walls weren’t the worst of it. Large boot prints mixed with Lena’s bare footprints back and forth across the floor. Splatter. Spatter. Spray. Drops. Knee prints. Handprints. Smears where an area rug must’ve gotten bunched up beneath Jared’s body. Tracks that showed where someone had crawled toward the bed. Still more shoe prints indicated where the neighbors and first responders rushed in to work on Jared. They must have all been covered in blood by the time they left. Long trails of red even managed to seep into the grout lines in the bathroom floor.

  But the area around the door to the bedroom told the real story. This was where Jared had been shot. This was where Lena had first taken on the intruders. The dried blood splattering and spattering the walls and ceiling could fill a forensic textbook. They varied in size and shape, in coverage and scope, and would help map out every second of what had obviously been an extremely violent struggle. Even with the pieces of tooth and bone gone, the hammer and weapons taken into evidence, the shadow of death lurked in every corner.

  Nell’s voice caught. “I can’t … I don’t know what …”

  Sara didn’t say anything.

  Nell sniffed, but no tears came. “Do you think a wet-vac would …” Her voice trailed off again. Her grip tightened on the splintered wood around the door.

  Sara looked at Faith, who just shook her head.

  “All right.” Nell thrust herself into the room. She picked her way toward the dresser. Though she was careful, there was no way to avoid
the carnage. Her sneakers walked across dried footprints. Boot prints. Shoe prints. Handprints.

  Her voice came out at a higher pitch. “Jared’s always been more comfortable in his pajamas.” She started opening drawers, which had presumably been photographed and inventoried by Charlie’s team. “No self-respecting man sits around in a hospital gown. I know he’ll want to put on something normal as soon as possible.”

  Sara stood outside the door with Faith. They both silently watched the woman riffle Lena and Jared’s private things. The top three drawers obviously belonged to Lena. Her underthings were mostly utilitarian, though Nell managed to make a huffing sound when she found something that crossed the line. The bottom drawers belonged to Jared. They were filled with basketball shorts, T-shirts, and boxers. He wore a uniform eighty percent of his day. He probably had one suit in the closet for weddings and funerals and a couple of polos and khakis for less formal occasions.

  Nell stopped her search. She rested her hands on her hips as she looked around the room. “I know he hasn’t stopped wearing pajamas.”

  Sara kept her mouth shut right up until Nell made her way to the bedside table. “Nell.”

  She looked up, but kept her hand on the drawer pull.

  “That’s probably Lena’s.” Sara indicated the flattened book, which was clearly a romance novel, beside the hand lotion and tube of lip balm.

  When Nell didn’t move, Faith said, “You probably don’t want to know what your son’s wife keeps in her bedside table.” She added, “Or your son, for that matter.”

  “What on earth does that—”

  She was cut off by the sound of motorcycle engines. Sara turned around. The front door was wide open. She saw at least six motormen in the street. If Sara knew cops, they’d come here to look after Jared’s mother. And just in time, too.

  Faith seized on the opportunity, suggesting to Nell, “Why don’t you go talk to Jared’s friends? I’m sure they want to know how he’s doing.”

  “I don’t have time to be everybody’s mama,” Nell grumbled, but she stomped out of the room anyway.