by Lee Child
The guy stood still for a moment, and then he sighed and stepped forward. He took Janice May Chapman’s limp and lifeless arm from me. He looked at the wrist very closely, and then ran his fingers up and down, gently, from the back of her hand to the middle of her forearm, feeling the swelling. He asked, “Do you have a hypothesis?”
I said, “I think she was tied up tight. Wrists and ankles. The bindings started to bruise her, but she didn’t live long enough for the bruises to develop very much. But they definitely started. A little blood leaked into her tissues, and it stayed there when the rest of it drained out. Which is why we’re seeing compression injuries as raised welts.”
“Tied up with what?”
“Not ropes,” I said. “Maybe belts or straps. Something wide and flat. Maybe silk scarves. Something padded, perhaps. To disguise what had been done.”
Merriam said nothing. He moved past me to the end of the table and looked at Chapman’s ankles. He said, “She was wearing pantyhose when she was brought in. The nylon was undamaged. Not torn or laddered at all.”
“Because of the padding. Maybe it was foam rubber. Something like that. But she was tied up.”
Merriam was quiet for another moment.
Then he said, “Not impossible.”
I asked, “How plausible?”
“Postmortem examination has its limits, you know. You’d need an eyewitness to be certain.”
“How do you explain the complete exsanguination?”
“She could have been a hemophiliac.”
“Suppose she wasn’t?”
“Then gravity would be the only explanation. She was hung upside down.”
“By belts or straps, or ropes over some kind of padding?”
“Not impossible,” Merriam said again. “Turn her over,” I said.
“Why?”
“I want to see the gravel rash.”
“You’ll have to help me,” he said, so I did.
Chapter
19
The human body is a self-healing machine, and it doesn’t waste time. Skin is crushed or split or cut, and blood immediately rushes to the site, the red cells scabbing and knitting a fibrous matrix to bind the parted edges together, the white cells seeking out and destroying germs and pathogens below. The process is underway within minutes, and it lasts as many hours or days as are necessary to return the skin to its previous unbroken integrity. The process causes a bell curve of inflammation, peaking as the suffusion of blood peaks, and as the scab grows thickest, and as the fight against infection reaches its most intense state.
The small of Janice May Chapman’s back was peppered with tiny cuts, as was the whole of her butt, and as were her upper arms just above her elbows. The cuts were small, thinly scabbed incisions, all surrounded by small areas of crushing, which were colorless due to her bloodlessness. The cuts were all inflicted in random directions, as if by loose and rolling items of similar size and nature, small and hard and neither razor-sharp nor completely blunt.
Classic gravel rash.
I looked at Merriam and asked, “How old do you think these injuries are?”
He said, “I have no idea.”
“Come on, doctor,” I said. “You’ve treated cuts and grazes before. Or have you? What were you before? A psychiatrist?”
“I was a pediatrician,” he said. “I have no idea what I’m doing here. None at all. Not in this area of medicine.”
“Kids get cuts and grazes all the time. You must have seen hundreds.”
“This is a serious business. I can’t risk unsupported guesses.”
“Try educated guesses.”
“Four hours,” he said.
I nodded. I figured four hours was about right, judging by the scabs, which were more than nascent, but not yet fully mature. They had been developing steadily, and then their development had stopped abruptly when the throat was cut and the heart had stopped and the brain had died and all metabolism had ceased.
I asked, “Did you determine the time of death?”
Merriam said, “That’s very hard to know. Impossible, really. The exsanguination interferes with normal biological processes.”
“Best guess?”
“Some hours before she was brought to me.”
“How many hours?”
“More than four.”
“That’s obvious from the gravel rash. How many more than four?”
“I don’t know. Fewer than twenty-four. That’s the best I can do.”
I said, “No other injuries. No bruising. No sign of a defensive struggle.”
Merriam said, “I agree.”
Deveraux said, “Maybe she didn’t fight. Maybe she had a gun to her head. Or a knife to her throat.”
“Maybe,” I said. I looked at Merriam again and asked, “Did you do a vaginal examination?”
“Of course.”
“And?”
“I judged she had had recent sexual intercourse.”
“Any bruising or tearing in that area?”
“None visible.”
“Then why did you conclude she was raped?”
“You think it was consensual? Would you lie down on gravel to make love?”
“I might,” I said. “Depending on who I was with.”
“She had a home,” Merriam said. “With a bed in it. And a car, with a back seat. Any putative boyfriend would have a home and a car, too. And there’s a hotel here in town. And there are other towns, with other hotels. No one needs to conduct a tryst outdoors.”
“Especially not in March,” Deveraux said.
The small room went quiet, and it stayed quiet until Merriam asked, “Are we done here?”
“We’re done,” Deveraux said.
“Well, good luck, chief,” Merriam said. “I hope this one turns out better than the last two.”
Deveraux and I walked down the doctor’s driveway, past the mailbox, past the shingle, to the sidewalk, where we stood next to Deveraux’s car. I knew she was not going to give me a ride. This was not a democracy. Not yet. I said, “Did you ever see a rape victim with intact pantyhose?”
“You think that’s significant?”
“Of course it is. She was attacked on gravel. Her pantyhose should have been shredded.”
“Maybe she was forced to undress first. Slowly and carefully.”
“The gravel rash had edges. She was wearing something. Pulled up, pulled down, whatever, but she was partially clothed. And then she changed afterward. Which is possible. She had four hours.”
“Don’t go there,” Deveraux said.
“Go where?”
“You’re trying to plead the army down to rape only. You’re going to say she was killed by someone else, separately, later.”
I said nothing.
“And that dog won’t hunt,” Deveraux said. “You stumble into someone and get raped, and then within the next four hours you stumble into someone else completely different and get your throat cut? That’s a really bad day, isn’t it? That’s the worst day ever. It’s too coincidental. No, it was the same guy. But he had himself an all-day session. He took hours. He had plans and equipment. He had access to her clothes. He made her change. This was all highly premeditated.”
“Possible,” I said.
“They teach effective tactical planning in the army. So they claim, anyway.”
“True,” I said. “But they don’t give you all day off very often. Not in a training environment. Not usually.”
Deveraux said, “But Kelham is not just about training, is it? Not from what I’ve been able to piece together. There are a couple of rifle companies there. In and out on rotation. And they get leave when they come back. Days off. Plenty of them. All in a row. One after the other.”
I said nothing.
Deveraux said, “You should call your CO. Tell him it’s looking bad.”
I said, “He already knows. That’s why I’m here.”
She paused a long moment and said, “I want you to do me a
favor.”
“Like what?”
“Go look at the car wreck again. See if you can find a license plate or identify the vehicle. Pellegrino got nowhere with it.”
“Why would you trust me?”
“Because you’re the son of a Marine. And because you know if you conceal or destroy evidence I’ll put you in jail.”
I asked, “What did Merriam mean, when he wished you better luck with this one than the other two?”
She didn’t answer.
I said, “The other two what?”
She paused a beat and her beautiful face fell a little and she said, “Two girls were killed last year. Same MO. Throats cut. I got nowhere with them. They’re cold cases now. Janice May Chapman is the third in nine months.”
Chapter
20
Elizabeth Deveraux said nothing more. She just climbed into her Caprice and drove away. She pulled a wide U-turn in front of me and headed north, back to town. I lost sight of her after the first curve. I stood still for a long moment and then set off walking. Ten minutes later I was through the last of the rural meanders and the road widened and straightened in front of me. Main Street, in fact as well as name. Some daytime activity was starting up. The stores were opening. I saw two cars and two pedestrians. But that was all. Carter Crossing was no kind of a bustling metropolis. That was for damn sure.
I walked on the right-hand sidewalk and passed the hardware store, and the pharmacy, and the hotel, and the diner, and the empty space next to it. Deveraux’s car was not parked in the Sheriff’s Department lot. No police vehicles were. There were two civilian pick-up trucks there, both of them old and battered and modest. The desk clerk and the dispatcher, presumably. Locally recruited, no union, no benefits. I thought again about my friend Stan Lowrey and his want ads. He would aim higher, I guessed. He would have to. He had girlfriends. Plural. He had mouths to feed.
I made it to the T-junction and turned right. In the daylight the road speared dead straight ahead of me. Narrow shoulders, deep ditches. The traffic lanes banked up and over the rail crossing and then the shoulders and the ditches resumed and the road ran onward through the trees.
There was a truck parked my side of the crossing. Facing me. A big, blunt-nosed thing. Brush-painted in a dark color. Two guys in it. Staring at me. Fur, ink, hair, dirt, grease.
My two pals, from the night before.
I walked on, not fast, not slow, just strolling. I got within about twenty yards. Close enough for me to see detail in their faces. Close enough for them to see detail in mine.
This time they got out of their truck. The doors opened as one and they climbed out and down. They skirted the hood and stood together in front of the grille. Same height, same build. Like cousins. They were each about six-two and around two hundred or two hundred and ten pounds. They had long knotted arms and big hands. Work boots on their feet.
I walked on. I stopped ten feet away. I could smell them from there. Beer, cigarettes, rancid sweat, dirty clothes.
The guy on my right said, “Hello again, soldier boy.”
He was the alpha dog. Both times he had been driving, and both times he was the first to speak. Unless the other guy was some kind of a silent mastermind, which seemed unlikely.
I said nothing, of course.
The guy asked, “Where are you going?”
I didn’t answer.
The guy said, “You’re going to Kelham. I mean, where the hell else does this road go?”
He turned and swept his arm through an extravagant gesture, indicating the road, and its relentless straightness, and its lack of alternative destinations. He turned back and said, “Last night you told us you weren’t from Kelham. You lied to us.”
I said, “Maybe I live on that side of town.”
“No,” the guy said. “If you’d tried living on that side of town, we’d have visited you before.”
“For what purpose?”
“To explain the facts of life. Different places are for different folks.” He came a little closer. His buddy came with him. The smell grew stronger.
I said, “You guys need to take a bath. Not necessarily together.”
The guy on my right asked, “What have you been doing this morning?”
I said, “You don’t want to know.”
“Yes, we do.”
“No, you really don’t.”
“You’re not welcome here. Not anymore. None of you.”
“It’s a free country,” I said.
“Not for people like you.” Then he paused, and his gaze suddenly shifted and focused into the far distance over my shoulder. The oldest trick in the book. Except this time he wasn’t faking. I didn’t turn, but I heard a car on the road behind me. Far away. A big car, quiet, with wide highway tires. Not a cop car, because no recognition dawned in the guy’s eyes. No familiarity. It was a car he hadn’t seen before. A car he couldn’t explain.
I waited and it swept past us. It was going fast. It was a black town car. Urban. Dark windows. It thumped up the rise, pattered across the tracks, and thumped back down again. Then it kept on going straight. A minute later it was tiny in the haze. Effectively lost to sight.
An official visitor, heading to Kelham. Rank and prestige.
Or panic.
The guy on my right said, “You need to get back on the base. And then stay there.”
I said nothing.
“But first you need to tell us what you’ve been doing. And who you’ve been seeing. Maybe we should go check she’s still alive.”
I said, “I’m not from Kelham.”
The guy took a step forward.
He said, “Liar.”
I took a breath and made like I was going to speak. Then I head-butted the guy full in the face. No warning. I just braced my feet and snapped forward from the waist and crashed my forehead into his nose. Bang. It was perfectly done. Timing, force, impact. It was all there in full measure. Plus surprise. No one expects a head butt. Humans don’t hit things with their heads. Some inbuilt atavistic instinct says so. A head butt changes the game. It adds a kind of unhinged savagery to the mix. An unprovoked head butt is like bringing a sawed-off shotgun to a knife fight.
The guy went down like an empty suit. His brain told his knees it was out of business and he folded up and fell over backward. He was unconscious before he hit the floor. I could tell by the way the back of his head hit the road. No attempt to soften the blow. It just smacked down with a thud. Maybe he added some fractures in back, to match the ones I had given him in front. His nose was bleeding badly. It was already starting to swell. The human body is a self-healing machine, and it doesn’t waste time.
The other guy just stood there. The silent mastermind. Or the beta dog. He was staring at me. I took a long step to my left and head-butted him too. Bang. Like a double bluff. He was completely unprepared. He was expecting a fist. He went down in the same kind of heap. I left him there, on his back, six feet from his buddy. I would have taken their truck, to save myself some time and effort, but I couldn’t stand the stink in the cab. So I walked on, to the railroad track, where I turned left on the ties and headed north.
I came off the track a little earlier than I had the night before and traced the wreck’s debris field from its very beginning. The smaller and lighter pieces had traveled shorter distances. Less momentum, I supposed. Less kinetic energy. Or more air resistance. Or something. But the smaller beads of glass and the smaller flakes of metal were the first to be found. They had stalled and fluttered and fallen to earth and come to rest well before the heavier items, which had barreled onward.
It had been a fairly old car. The collision had exploded it, like a diagram, but some parts hadn’t put up much of a fight. There were squares and flakes of rust, from the underbody. They were layered and scaly and caked with dirt.
An old car, with significant time spent in cold climates where they salt the roads in winter. Not a Mississippi native. A car that had been hauled from pillar to post
, six months here, six months there, regularly, unpredictably.
A soldier’s car, probably.
I walked on and turned and tried to gauge the general vector. Debris had sprayed through a fan shape, narrow at first, widening later. I pictured a license plate, a small rectangle of thin featherweight alloy, bursting free of its bolts, sailing through the nighttime air, stalling, falling, maybe end over end. I tried to figure out where it might have landed. I couldn’t see it anywhere, not inside the fan shape, not on its edges, not beyond its edges. Then I remembered the howling gale that had accompanied the train, and I widened my area of search. I pictured the plate caught in a miniature tornado, whipping and spiraling through the roiled air, going high, maybe even going backward.
In the end I found it still attached to the chrome bumper I had seen the night before. The bumper had folded up just left of the plate, and made a point, which had half buried itself in the scrub. Like a spear. I rocked it loose and pulled it out and turned it over and saw the plate hanging from a single black bolt.
It was an Oregon plate. It featured a drawing of a salmon behind the number. Some kind of a wildlife initiative. Protect the natural environment. The tags were current and up to date. I memorized the number and reburied the bent bumper in its hole. Then I walked on, to where the bulk of the wreck had burned against the trees.
By bright daylight I agreed with Pellegrino. The car had been blue, a light powdery shade like a winter sky. Maybe it had started life that way, or maybe it had faded a little with age. But either way I found enough unblemished paint to be sure. There was an intact patch inside what had been the glove box. There was an overspray stripe under melted plastic trim inside one of the doors. Not much else had survived. No personal items. No paperwork of any kind. No discarded material. No hairs, no fibers. No ropes, no belts, no straps, no knives.
I wiped my hands on my pants and walked back the way I had come. The two guys and their truck had gone. I guessed the silent mastermind had woken up first. The beta dog. I had hit him less hard. I guessed he had hauled his buddy into the truck and taken off, slow and shaky. No harm done. No major harm, anyway. Nothing permanent. For him, at least. The other one would have a headache, for six months or so.