He glared at her.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Christ,” he muttered with a long gaze at her clothes.
She stepped out of the swarm. Took a breath. As she did, she surveyed the people in the lobby. Black suits. Navy, dark gray, and the occasional red. Nothing light-colored. No. There was one light gray suit. Nothing pastel. God, almost no color at all.
She had dressed the part as best she could with the selections she’d found at the Dress Barn in Oklahoma City on her way to the airport. She hadn’t worn a pair of dress slacks—maybe ever. At home, it was Carhartts on the farm and skirts and sweaters or blouses to church. She owned exactly one dress—her wedding one. Not that it fit. Or that she’d ever wear it again.
But she realized that she didn’t blend in at all. Her blue jacket was too light—too babyish. Her gray slacks almost white and completely wrong for November in a city. Her shoes were a different shade of gray from the pants but not different enough. And the fabric was cheap. The cut was cheap. Everything about it was cheap. Why hadn’t she noticed it before?
She found the bathroom and ducked inside, locking herself in a stall.
It doesn’t matter what clothes you’re wearing. She wanted to believe it, but it wasn’t true.
To get into that conference, what she looked like mattered.
She had to look right.
And she didn’t.
10
Schwartzman sent Hal off with the stunned dragonfly in a bag and began the autopsy on Aleena Laughlin. A month earlier, Schwartzman had splurged on a light source for her personal crime scene kit. That she’d spent her own money on such an expensive tool made Hal tease her endlessly.
While some women might have preferred a fancy purse or a pair of red-soled shoes by a French designer, the CrimeScope was much more her style. The shoes and purse together would have cost less. The forensic light source was arguably the best on the market. It was small and comfortable enough to hold in one hand, and the filter wheels were located beside the liquid light guide, which allowed her to adjust wavelength and direct light output single-handedly.
Using the new gadget, Schwartzman examined the front of Aleena Laughlin for bruises beneath the skin and therefore invisible to the eye, but found none. She did similar searches for fingerprints, which were occasionally captured on skin, and then for other bodily fluids. With the anterior side of the body examined, she repeated the exercise on the posterior.
She noted that fewer of the chicken pox scars marked her posterior side—only a handful marred the sides of her thighs, and one dotted her left shoulder. Somewhat unusual but not unseen.
The alternative light source showed no bruising on her posterior either. No recent scars at all.
The only discovery of interest was an episiotomy scar—an incision made to widen the birth canal and prevent tearing during delivery. Aleena Laughlin had given birth to a child. It added credence to Schwartzman’s hunch about the boy.
Schwartzman made the Y-incision and began the internal exam. Aleena Laughlin was a healthy woman. No sign that she’d ever been a smoker. Heart was healthy. Had they gotten to her sooner, she would have made an excellent organ donor.
The lethal wound had penetrated the epigastric region of the abdomen, punctured through the stomach, and severed the inferior mesenteric branch of the aorta, then transected the abdominal aorta celiac trunk. Basically, the wound severed the aorta in two places. A body this size—140 pounds—would contain between four and a half and six and a half liters of blood. A healthy heart pumped approximately five to seven liters per minute.
Aleena Laughlin was likely dead in under seven minutes, unconscious in roughly half that time. Cause of death was exsanguination—the blood loss eventually prevented sufficient oxygenation to her vital organs.
Unbidden images of the boy’s large brown eyes entered Schwartzman’s head. Aleena had surely died thinking of her son, wondering if he would die, too. She could only imagine the woman’s terror. Her helplessness.
Not for the first time, Schwartzman wished she’d stopped last night. But what could she possibly have done to save her?
Forcing herself back to work, Schwartzman collected her samples and dictated her findings. She was packing up the tissues to go to the lab when Hal called.
“Dispatch call you yet?” he asked without a greeting.
Schwartzman had missed a call. Two minutes earlier. “They did. What’s going on? Something on the dragonfly?”
“No,” he said, sounding tired. “It’s at the lab, but Roger hasn’t had a chance to examine it. We’re at another scene.”
“Another one?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve got to close the body. Then I’ll come. Text me the address.”
Using the half-circle number-five suture needle, the kind normally used in orthopedic surgery, Schwartzman stitched up the victim’s chest. The Y-incisions on some victims posed a challenge during closing. Most coroners struggled with the taut skin of young bodies or thin people, especially muscled ones. Aleena Laughlin, though a trim woman, was a mother. The pregnancy had loosened the skin, which made the closure easier. Schwartzman finished in ten minutes.
After leaving the morgue, Schwartzman dropped off the samples at the lab and followed Google Maps to the address Hal had texted. She didn’t recognize the location until she spotted the crime scene van parked on Harrison. The van sat between two unmarked police cars and three patrol cars. The dark-rust-colored building housed the city’s newest Cineplex. Inside were something like twenty state-of-the-art theaters.
Or so she had heard.
She hadn’t been to a movie theater in years—since before she’d married Spencer. These days, her idea of a movie night included pajamas, a couch, and an old black-and-white classic.
Yellow tape cordoned off the side entrance, and two police officers were at the door. One held a clipboard for signing in, and the other stood with his hands on each hip—one on his baton, one on his gun, like he was waiting for trouble.
She recalled images from the Denver theater shooting. But this scene didn’t suggest that kind of crime—no huddled victims, no big crowd, no shouting press. Plus, it was barely noon. She might have asked the officers at the door, but she would see for herself. There was no sense trying to soften the blow.
“Afternoon, Doc,” Officer Scott Davis said, holding out the clipboard for her signature.
“Hi, Scott. How’s Samantha?” Schwartzman asked as she signed. Davis had a ten-year-old daughter. Or maybe she would be eleven now. “She still playing softball?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, beaming. “Course, the season’s over.”
“The team do pretty well?” she asked as she switched her street shoes for her navy Crocs, which were easier to disinfect between scenes.
“Made it all the way to the championships.”
“That’s great.” She patted his shoulder. “Way to go, Papa.”
He laughed, and she said hello to the officer standing guard before she entered the theater where the crime scene team was at work. Large lights on metal tripods illuminated the dark room. She scanned the ceiling, where the few recessed cans glowed faintly. It made sense that movie theaters didn’t have bright overhead lights, not bright enough to work a crime scene anyway.
Behind the three rows of seats at the front of the theater lay a wide path for traffic. At least twenty rows of seats sloped up from there. Roger knelt at one of the plush maroon theater chairs about halfway down the row behind the main aisle. While he aimed a bright penlight on the fabric, Naomi took pictures beside him.
The flash from the camera and the brilliant spotlight gave the room a strangely theatrical feel—like a photo shoot happening in the dark. After allowing her eyes to adjust, Schwartzman scanned the area where Roger and Naomi worked but found no body.
“Hi,” she said to announce herself.
“Hi, Doc,” Roger said.
“Where am I going?”
Naomi pointed to th
e front of the theater. “He’s there.”
Following Naomi’s finger, she saw the victim on the floor in front of the first row of seats. An adult male. She thought about the young boy from the night before. “Multiple victims?”
“No,” Naomi said. “Just the one.”
If Naomi said there was no second body, then there was no second body. And the one on the theater floor was not a young boy.
Thank God.
Was she going to arrive at every scene fearful that the victim would be the boy from the Jeep? She’d make herself sick. The police had to find him. Soon.
Schwartzman set down her ActionPacker and used a small Maglite to check the area around the victim before she approached. The flashlight beam illuminated two parallel tracks of smeared blood leading from approximately two feet inside the door to the spot where the victim lay. The center void was from his body, blood spilling out over either side. He’d been wounded and, bleeding heavily, been dragged across the floor.
Schwartzman squatted beside the victim, a black man in his late teens or early twenties, on his back with his arms spread wide. He was tall—she estimated more than six feet—and about 170 pounds. He was athletic and trim. He was dressed in the maroon slacks and blazer that were the theater uniform. No visible lacerations on his head or neck. Blood saturated the front of his white button-down and had formed a stagnant pool around him.
The dried edges of the pooled blood, as well as the evidence of separation of the clot and serum, told her hours had passed since the stabbing.
Like Aleena Laughlin, this victim had bled out quickly.
“There’s also blood evidence on this seat and some short, dark hairs,” Roger announced.
Schwartzman didn’t know who Roger was talking to until Hal stepped out from behind one of the towering lights.
“We’ll test the blood to see if it’s a match to the woman in the park, but I’m guessing it is,” Roger went on, nodding toward something on the floor.
“And the hair?” Hal asked.
“Maybe the boy.”
Schwartzman watched the two men before returning her attention to the victim. What was she missing? “What makes you think this is related to the woman in the park?”
Hal pointed to a small orange marker on the floor behind Roger and Naomi. Schwartzman joined them.
Laid out on the dark theater carpet was a weapon that looked like a movie prop. The ornate design reminded her of something from a museum exhibit of ancient torture devices. The weapon’s handle was approximately twelve inches and rounded, made of dark wood. Above the handle was a double-edged blade approximately eight inches long and about an inch wide, with a spear-like tip. Two side blades ran perpendicular to the spear, approximately an inch thick, forming symmetrical wave-like formations on either side.
She pictured the old scar on Aleena Laughlin’s face and the lethal wound on her stomach.
“What do you think?” Hal asked.
“It’s possible that this was what made the mark on Aleena Laughlin’s face,” she said, keeping her voice low.
“And what killed her?”
“Yes,” she agreed.
“But that first wound was healed. The scratch on her face, I mean,” Hal went on.
She nodded.
“So Aleena Laughlin was assaulted with the same weapon at two different times.”
Schwartzman couldn’t be certain it was the same weapon. There was no way to accurately identify the weapon of an old wound. Once a wound had healed, a stab wound often looked like a bullet wound and vice versa. But the odd wavy line on her cheek might have been formed by the edge of the blade touching her face.
“Do you have a tape measure?” she asked.
“Roger measured. The peaks are about a half inch apart. Roger said to tell you it’s twelve millimeters, to be exact.”
Shivers lined her scalp. “The same as the ones on Aleena Laughlin’s face.”
“Yes.”
Schwartzman studied the weapon. “What is that thing?”
“We have no idea. Roger will upload some images to a database and check for a match.”
Schwartzman focused on this second victim, killed at his place of work. “Another hate crime?”
“I’m not sure anymore.”
Schwartzman didn’t ask what he meant. She sensed the answer already.
Maybe this wasn’t a hate crime.
But then it might be something much worse.
11
Bitty forced herself to pee since she’d have to soon enough. It made her think of the boys. Being a stay-at-home mother was always about wrangling the kids—keeping them clean, shoving snacks and water into their hands, making sure everyone went to the bathroom before getting in the car. Because in Perry, everything was a long drive.
Why had she come? Why had she left home? Things were easy there. Boring and routine. Just the idea of fixing grilled cheese sandwiches for the boys brought her close to tears. She blew her nose, dabbed her eyes, and forced herself out of the safety of the stall.
In front of the mirror, she removed her blazer and set it on a dry section of the counter. Surveying her reflection in the white blouse and gray slacks, she grimaced. Ill-fitted and cheap.
She was dressed for a church function in a small town.
A wave of anger seared through her fingertips, and she balled the jacket and shoved it down into the trash bin. The door opened, and she ducked her head down, pretending to dig for something in her purse.
Forcing herself out of the restroom, she took her phone from her purse, checked that it was silenced, and put it to her ear. She had to find a way to get into that conference. Walking slowly on the periphery of the crowded lobby, she made quiet, affirmative sounds as though she were talking on the phone. She kept her chin tipped down and her eyes up.
She made her way through the reception area before she found what she was looking for in the dining room. The brunch buffet. She lowered her phone without saying good-bye to her invisible caller.
“How many?” the hostess asked from behind her little wood pulpit.
“Just one,” she said, searching for the right spot. Suddenly, there were so many to choose from. “Would it be possible to sit along that side?” She pointed to the wall where a group of four women were ordering drinks from their waiter.
“Sure.” The hostess consulted her map.
“Thank you,” she said, following the hostess to her table.
It was only a matter of seconds before the women rose from their chairs to head to the buffet. As she’d expected, they left their coats. Three of them. Raincoats, but that hardly mattered. All she needed was one that made her look like everyone else. Dressed in black.
She rose from her chair as the waiter caught her eye. He was heavy and older. “Can I get you anything?”
By this time, she was halfway between her table and the one where the women were seating.
“You already got my order,” she said, pointing to the table as she slid her purse off her shoulder. “Just checking my phone before I go up to the buffet.”
“Oh right. Sure.” He acted slightly embarrassed for forgetting that he had taken her order. He touched the table. “If you need anything else, go ahead and holler.”
“Sure thing.” She opened her purse as though to find her phone and checked the buffet line. The women were huddled around the fruit and yogurt. One of them held a container and read off the ingredients.
Bitty scanned the room for the hostess, now seating a four top of men, and the waiter, currently bent over an older man as he ordered, his ancient hand trembling against the menu while he pointed out what he wanted.
Without wasting a second, she bent down and slid a black trench coat off the back of the chair, snatched a lanyard and name badge off the table, and strode for the door. Her heart raced, pounding against her ribs the way the boys pounded on the floor when they were building battlefields under the kitchen table.
She held her breath as she
left the restaurant, almost running. She wished she’d brought her phone out, to pretend to be on a call. “Excuse me,” someone called.
She froze, terrified, but then kept on.
“Ma’am.”
She rounded the corner and glanced back where a woman waved her hand in the air. “Check, please,” she called out to the waiter.
Exhaling in relief, Bitty kept moving. She didn’t slow down to put the jacket on, shifting her purse from one side to the other as she shoved her arms into the coat. It was tight in the shoulders, but she crossed the fabric over herself and tied the belt. It worked, covering her awful blouse and the top portion of her slacks. And there were a dozen more like it on women across the room.
At the conference table, she showed her badge, cringing while they scanned her in. “Welcome, Luciana.”
She flinched at the name. Would anyone believe that the whitest woman in the place was named Luciana?
“Is that how you pronounce it?” the woman asked.
She hurried into the ballroom, lined front to back with rows of chairs. Once inside, she slid out of the coat and shoved the name tag into the pocket. She walked across an empty row, dropped the jacket on a vacant chair, and headed to the front.
Almost there.
She smelled the sharp odor of her own sweat. She hadn’t brought deodorant. She’d barely packed a toothbrush and toothpaste, but she didn’t care. It didn’t matter if someone remembered her later—for the strange name or because she smelled or for her cheap clothes.
Later, none of that would matter.
Because she wasn’t going to be back. He was at the hotel only for this one speech. Afterward, she’d follow. That was as far as the plan went. What would she do to him?
What revenge would satisfy all her anger?
If she could cause him the same pain . . .
If she could stain his future, smear her face across his dreams as he had hers . . .
Would that be enough?
She settled into a chair in the second row, off to one side but not on the aisle. She wanted him to see her, but not first, not immediately. If he didn’t notice her, she would raise her hand, find a question to ask. She would make him see her.
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