The Silent Wife: From the No. 1 Sunday Times bestselling author comes a gripping new crime thriller (Will Trent Series, Book 10)

by Karin Slaughter

  If he was lucky.

  “Chief.” Brad squared his shoulders. “Scene is secure. Three of us verified her status as deceased.”

  “Yesterday, did you check Caterino for a pulse?”

  “No, Chief.” Brad was clearly struggling to look him in the eye. “I assumed she was dead.”

  Jeffrey assumed Lena had told Brad that Caterino was dead and that there was no need for him to check. As the junior officer on scene, he would’ve obeyed her. “You saw Leslie Truong yesterday. Did you speak to her, or was it just Lena’s decision to let her walk back to campus on her own?”

  “I was—” He stopped, unable or unwilling to run Lena down. “I was there, too, Chief. I didn’t say anything. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “Here.” Jeffrey handed him the tent poles. “Get some more yellow tape. Push the crime scene perimeter back another fifty feet. Call in two more officers for crowd control. Then start putting this tent together.”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  Sara knelt to place the tent stakes and rope on the ground. Jeffrey slipped the strap for the crime scene kit off her shoulder. He cupped his hand under her elbow so she wouldn’t trip on the uneven terrain. The undergrowth was thick. Ferns and woody vines and sticker bushes picked at their clothes. The mud sucked around their shoes. Jeffrey could hear squirrels chattering at each other.

  He looked at the ground. Puddles from yesterday’s rainstorm filled the dips and depressions in the soft earth. During his search the night before, Jeffrey had noticed the ground was saturated. His shoes had been caked with mud.

  The only footprints he could see now were the ones they had just made.

  Sara was looking down at the ground. She had noticed, too.

  Yesterday morning, the clouds had broken open while they were waiting for the ambulance to arrive. Either the killer was a ghost who didn’t leave footprints or Leslie Truong had been attacked while she was making her way back to campus to see the school nurse. That left a thirty minute window. The same amount of time Rebecca Caterino had lain helpless in the woods.

  Fucking Lena.

  The wind shifted. The pungent smell of blood and shit assaulted his senses. Jeffrey put the back of his hand under his nose.

  Brock said, “Her bowels must’ve released.”

  Jeffrey took the face mask that Brock offered. He knew that the funeral director dealt with the dead on a daily basis. Brock was trying to make sense of the scene, but this was nothing like tending to the body of an elderly nursing home patient who had soiled herself as she’d slipped away.

  Jeffrey put on the mask, but the odor still chewed at the air.

  Leslie Truong was lying flat on her back. She looked very young. That was Jeffrey’s first impression. She had that childlike softness in her features that only age could wear away. Her eyes were open, staring blankly into the sliver of blue sky showing through the tree canopy. Her lips were parted. The blood in her face had started to drain to the back of her skull. Her skin was the color of parchment. The blue stain Frank had told them about stood out against the pinkish-white of her lips.

  Sara checked for a pulse. She rested her hand on the side of the girl’s cheek. She checked the flexibility of the joints in her fingers and elbows. “Peak rigor mortis generally occurs at twelve hours, then dissipates by forty-eight. The temperature has been on the low side, which impacts the process. I need to take a liver temp, but my guess is that she’s been dead for several hours, at least since yesterday morning.”

  Since yesterday morning. Since Lena let her walk back to campus. Since a hammer-wielding psychopath had followed her through the woods.

  Jeffrey inhaled to calm himself, but coughed it out before his lungs could fill. The putrid smell had permeated the cotton mask. He focused his attention back on the victim in front of him. He was having trouble separating what Sara had told him about Tommi Humphrey and what he assumed had happened to Leslie Truong.

  The similarities to Beckey Caterino were there, too.

  Based on the position of Truong’s body, you could make the assumption that she had stumbled in the woods, landed on her back, slipped into unconsciousness, then eventually died. Her clothing looked undisturbed. She was wearing a Grant Tech sweatshirt with the collar cut out. Jeffrey could see the straps of her white sports bra underneath. Her white yoga pants were pulled up to her hips. They were Lululemon, the same as the brand that Sara wore. Truong’s sneakers were blue Nikes. She wore ankle socks.

  That was where the similarities ended.

  Blood had flowed like a river between Leslie Truong’s legs.

  Her white pants had been soaked through. The volume was such that even the rain could not wash it all away. Leaves and twigs had been blackened by the surge. She was not lying on a slope. The blood had poured as her heart frantically pumped out its last beats.

  Still, Jeffrey needed verification. “Is this the murder scene?”

  Sara asked, “Are we assuming the window for the attack was roughly half an hour to forty-five minutes?”

  Brock asked, “I’m sorry, Sara, but for my notes, can you tell me where you got that time frame?”

  Jeffrey answered the question. “Leslie Truong left the scene of Caterino’s attack around six yesterday morning. The rainstorm hit about half an hour later.”

  “Ah,” Brock said. “The rain washed away the shoeprints.”

  Jeffrey asked Sara, “What do you think happened?”

  “I need to see a weather report to pin down the exact time the rain started, but taking a rough guess, I can imagine two different scenarios.” Sara explained, “In the first scenario, Leslie was walking back to campus. She was abducted and taken somewhere close, but private, like the back of a vehicle. She was raped and murdered. Then, the assailant brought her back here, probably in a fireman’s carry over his shoulder, before the rain started.”

  Jeffrey figured that was possible, but not likely. “Second scenario?”

  “The attack and murder happened here, and because of the storm, we’re not seeing signs of a struggle.” She made sure to include Brock. “Can you think of anything else?”

  “No, but I’d say the second one sounds more like what happened.” Brock said, “In an abduction situation, you’d think the suspect would get messy. If he carried her, I mean.”

  Sara said, “He would be covered in blood.”

  “He’s gotta be a big fella to tote that gal so far,” Brock said. “I could barely carry that tent and the canvas weighs thirty, maybe forty pounds.”

  Sara sat back for a moment. Jeffrey could see that the smell was making her eyes glisten. She was breathing through her mouth.

  Brock said, “It’s risky to abduct her and bring her back. And I guess it’s risky to attack her in the first place. We’re off the beaten path, but there’s still a path.”

  Jeffrey didn’t have to be told this killer was a risk-taker. What little they knew about him pointed to a man who relished hiding in plain sight.

  He turned to Frank, who had been hanging back because of the smell. “I need a topographical map of this entire area. I want to see where that fire road is in relation to the scene. Whether or not he took Truong back to his vehicle or killed her here, he had to park somewhere.”

  Frank started to leave, but Jeffrey said, “Get some more uniformed officers out here. I want a grid search back to the fire road. No matter where she was attacked, he got here from somewhere. Let’s expand our perimeter and make sure those spectators we saw aren’t trampling on evidence. Remind the searchers to lift their heads up occasionally. Not everything is on the ground.”

  “Got it.” Frank had his radio to his mouth as he walked away.

  Sara was looking at Brock. “I can handle the filming if you want to do the visual exam?”

  “No. You’re the doctor. You should do the important parts.” Brock opened the crime scene kit. He reached for the ancient Sony Camcorder, but the clunky device slipped from his hands. “Sorry. This is just
so terrible.”

  “It is,” Sara agreed. “But we can take care of her together. All right?”

  “Yes, you’re right.” Brock checked there was a VHS tape in the Camcorder. He took off the lens cap. He dropped it into his pocket.

  Jeffrey found his notebook and pen. They were all feeling unnerved. There was something about the volume of blood between Leslie’s legs that told a story none of them wanted to learn. He thought about his previous phone conversations with Bonita Truong. The woman had probably reached Macon by now. Jeffrey had told many parents over the years that their child had passed away, but he couldn’t quite figure out what to say to the mother when she finally arrived. The truth would destroy her. The truth might destroy him.

  Your daughter was brutally attacked. She was drugged. She was sexually assaulted. She was terrorized by a madman who left her in the woods where she slowly succumbed to her injuries. And I should probably mention that all of this was preventable, but please don’t let that get in the way of your grief.

  Sara slipped on a pair of exam gloves. She asked Brock, “Ready?”

  He nodded, pressing the red button. The Camcorder whirred to life.

  Sara provided the date and time. She called out all of their names for benefit of the recording. Then she started the preliminary exam.

  She used a penlight to check the eyes. “No petechia.”

  The girl had not been choked or strangled.

  Sara gently turned the head to better see the red mark on the temple. She told Jeffrey, “She had time to bruise. This could be the first blow. Based on the location, one strike could knock her cold. I’d say the weapon used is consistent with a hammer.”

  Brock took in a sharp breath. He turned his attention to the camera. He tilted the LED screen. He adjusted some of the settings. Jeffrey could see that his hands were shaking.

  Jeffrey’s hands were still, but they were sweating profusely. The feeling of violence permeated the air. The smell was nauseating, even with the mask. Witnessing unnatural death came with the job, but something about this particular victim, this particular case, sent dread into every fiber of his being.

  Jeffrey had hunted his share of murderers and rapists.

  He had never before hunted a predator.

  Sara looked in the nostrils, inside the mouth. She pressed her fingers along the girl’s throat. She said, “I’m not detecting any blockages.”

  “Blockages?” Brock asked.

  “Caterino had something in her throat, probably regurgitated pastry.”

  Brock nodded as he carefully stepped around the body.

  Sara turned the girl’s head at a more severe angle to look at the back of the neck. Jeffrey saw dried blood around a tiny hole.

  “There’s a puncture wound at C5,” she said. “That would’ve gotten the job done.”

  “What job?” Brock asked.

  Jeffrey said, “We think the killer wanted to paralyze the victims.”

  Brock shook his head in disgust. Jeffrey could see a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face.

  Sara worked her way down. She lifted the sweatshirt. There was bruising on the torso. “She was punched. It feels like one of the ribs was dislocated.”

  Jeffrey looked down at his notebook. The page was clean. He started a rough sketch of the body. He noted the location of trees and rocks.

  Sara ran her finger under the waistband of the yoga pants. She told Brock, “Get closer on this.”

  Her exam glove showed a red streak, but not from blood. Jeffrey recognized the distinct rust color of Georgia clay.

  Brock asked, “Could she have rolled over?”

  “Maybe,” Sara said. “Can we look at her back?”

  Jeffrey took the camera from Brock so that the man could glove up. It wasn’t easy. The vinyl gloves kept getting caught on his sweaty skin.

  “Sorry.” Brock finally managed to yank the gloves down to his wrists. The band tore. Jeffrey could see an old scar on the inside of Brock’s wrist.

  “Ready.” Brock knelt at the girl’s head. He braced his hands on the shoulders. Sara positioned her hands on the waist. They moved in tandem to rotate the girl onto her side.

  The waistband of Truong’s pants was bunched up in the back. Dirt and twigs stuck into the bare skin of her buttocks.

  Sara said, “Her pants were pulled up while she was lying on the ground.”

  Brock asked, “What do you think that means?”

  They carefully rolled the girl back to the ground.

  Sara said, “It could mean he returned to the scene.”

  “After he left her for dead?” Brock asked. “Why would he come back?”

  Sara looked at the girl’s hands. Her fingertips were stained red. “I suppose it’s possible she pulled up her pants herself.”

  Jeffrey considered the implications. Leslie Truong bleeding to death in the woods, her hands reaching down to cover herself in a futile attempt at modesty.

  Sara gently parted the legs.

  Jeffrey clenched his teeth at the smell.

  “The crotch of the pants is torn.” Sara used the penlight again. She moved the legs farther apart. She told Jeffrey, “Zoom in.”

  He watched the LED screen as the Camcorder’s lens went into macro-mode. The spandex between the girl’s legs had been torn apart. He saw thick clots of dried blood and what looked like sharp slivers of glass shredding through the material, similar to an explosion caught mid-detonation. The pants had been ripped from the inside out.

  Brock asked, “What is that?”

  “A wooden handle,” Sara said. “He broke off the hammer inside of her.”

  Atlanta

  15

  Faith stared at the picture of the broken handle. The photographer had laid it out on a piece of white paper with a ruler beside it for scale. The weapon had been cleaned, but blood and feces had soaked into the grain. The part where the head of the hammer would’ve been was splintered off. The wooden spikes jutted out like broken teeth.

  Sara said, “The severed handle could only be removed by dissecting the vaginal vault. It was deep inside of her, far enough to fracture the bones of the pubic arch. Best guess is that the killer kicked the head of the hammer. It broke off at the thinnest point, which is the neck.”

  Faith had stopped breathing. She had to look away from the photograph.

  Sara said, “There was a manufacturer’s mark on the base of the handle. The hammer was of a type called a mechanic’s or a machinist’s hammer. The handle is wide at the bottom, then tapers up to the neck.”

  Will said, “That’s the kind you use to beat out dents in car panels.”

  “Right,” Sara said. “It’s got a flat head on one end and the other end has a long peen tipped with a conical dye. From my recollection, there was nothing special about it. You could buy it off the shelf or order it online.”

  “Recollection?” Amanda asked. “You didn’t find the information in the reports?”

  “A copy of the autopsy report was in the files last night, but I don’t have access to my personal notes. Those would be in Brock’s files along with toxicology, lab reports, measurements, and photos that were taken at the scene. By law, he was the coroner of record, so I was simply treated as an advisor to his office. We didn’t want to break the chain of evidence.”

  Amanda said, “I want that information.”

  “I’ll call him.” Sara went back to the autopsy. “Leslie Truong had a puncture wound at C5. Based on films, the puncture is consistent with the circumference and length of the device that paralyzed Beckey Caterino.”

  Amanda said, “And Alexandra McAllister, the White County victim who was autopsied yesterday, had the same type puncture, located at C5.”

  “What about the other stuff?” Faith asked. “Did McAllister have the fistula?”

  “No, but she was violently raped. There were fissures around and inside of the vagina. The walls showed scraping with some type of sharp instrument. The clitoris had been rippe
d.”

  Sara paused, and Faith was grateful for the moment.

  “From an investigatory standpoint, we got lucky,” Sara said. “The hiking pants McAllister was wearing were a heavy, waterproof material. Normally, predators go for the orifices, so the murderer likely assumed that any damage he caused during the rape would be blamed on predator activity.”

  Faith had to ask, “The coroner didn’t notice her clit was ripped off?”

  “He didn’t see a legitimate reason to perform a pelvic exam. He might have noticed during the embalming. Cotton is packed into the orifices to prevent leakage.”

  Faith could not suppress a shudder.

  Sara continued, “My visual exam of McAllister yesterday morning confirmed most of what the coroner found, which is that the death was accidental. Without X-rays, the head wound passed for a skull fracture from impact against a rock. It was only when I checked for a spinal puncture that I made the connection to Grant County. Had I not known what I was looking for, I might have missed it. Had I missed it, I never would’ve brought McAllister back here for a full autopsy.”

  The lesson in transparency was clearly meant for Amanda, who responded, “Thank you for the chronology, Dr. Linton.”

  Sara continued, “The theory in Grant County was that the killer was at the nascent stage. He saw each new victim as a learning opportunity to hone his skills. Tommi’s attack was botched, for lack of a less appalling way to describe it. Beckey lived. Truong did not. Now, we fast forward eight years. Alexandra McAllister’s murder was convincingly made to look accidental. If you asked me to look at these four cases as a piece, I couldn’t rule out the hypothesis that there is a clear line of progression from Tommi to Alexandra McAllister.”

  Faith tapped her pen on her notebook. She needed more information. “Are you saying that the mutilation is his signature?”

  “Paralysis is his signature. We know that from the attacker’s own words.” Sara provided, “He told Tommi to pretend to be paralyzed. He threatened to do it with the knitting needle if she didn’t comply. With McAllister, I assume there was no negotiation. He punctured her spinal cord at C5. He enervated her arms. She would’ve been completely paralyzed, but still breathing, still awake. That was the state he was trying to affect with Tommi.”