"Not today, ma'am." Will had a hard enough time reading typewritten documents, but his own handwriting was the kind of backward scrawl you'd find on the walls at the local kindergarten. Amanda was prone to giving out long lists of tasks. The only way Will could keep up with them was to record her so that he could take his time transcribing her words onto the computer. Two years ago, she had caught him red-handed in a meeting. Amanda hadn't liked being taped without her permission and of course she had assumed Will was doing it for nefarious reasons. He would be damned if he told her about his reading problem, and even if he'd been inclined, Amanda had transferred him to the North Pole before he could get his snowshoes on.
"All right," she said. "Tell me about your case."
Will gave her a briefing on what little he had. He ran through the case files of the three girls he had found, said he believed two of them were connected. He told her he had read about Aleesha Monroe, the slain prostitute, on the GBIs daily report that highlighted crimes around the state. Following protocol, he had asked Lieutenant Ted Greer to be let in on the case and been assigned to Michael Ormewood, the lead detective. When he got to the part about Ormewood's dead neighbor, Amanda stopped him.
"The tongue was bitten off?"
"I'm not certain how it was removed," Will told her. "Perhaps if I had known you were going to be late this morning, I could have taken the time to discuss this with the coroner so that I would be better informed for this briefing."
"Don't whine, Dr. Trent. It doesn't suit you." Her tone was soft, conciliatory, but he could tell from her smile that he had been given a point in her scorebook. That he was even playing the game meant she had already won.
Amanda went back to the case. "The tongues weren't taken from the scene in the previous crimes?"
"No, ma'am," Will told her. "The first girl's tongue wasn't completely severed. The second was holding it in her hand when they found her, but it was too late to do anything about it. Monroe's tongue was left on the stairs. Spit out, most likely. Cynthia Barrett's tongue was not found at the scene."
"Did you search the Barrett house?"
"The DeKalb PD did," Will told her. "From what I gathered, they didn't find anything unusual."
"From what you gathered?" she echoed.
"I didn't want to step on their toes."
"Probably wise," Amanda admitted. DeKalb County was still tightly controlled by a handful of men who didn't like the state—or anyone, for that matter—messing in their business. Six years ago, DeKalb sheriff-elect Derwin Brown had been assassinated in his own driveway while he was carrying in some Christmas packages from his car. He was three days away from being sworn into office, and Sidney Dorsey, the outgoing sheriff, hadn't taken the defeat well.
Amanda took a file out of the top drawer of her desk and opened it to the first page. "What do you think of this Michael Timothy Ormewood?"
"I haven't yet formed an opinion," Will answered, thinking that if she had pulled Ormewood's personnel file, she already knew more than Will did.
She read aloud as she traced down the page with her finger. "Army man. Sixteen years Atlanta PD. Worked his way up from foot beat to his gold shield. Accused in ninety-eight of excessive use of force." She made a jerking-off motion with her fist, dismissing the complaint. "He moved up pretty quickly. Narcotics—not for long, probably got bored—Vice, and now Homicide. No college education." She glanced up at Will. "Do try not to lord your fancy Two Egg degree over him, Dr. Trent." Yes, ma am.
She turned the page. "Commendation for saving a civilian. Even you have one of those. They hand them out like candy." She closed the file. "Nothing to shout home about. Wears beige and keeps quiet." This was a general phrase she used for cops who did their jobs and waited out their pensions. It was not a compliment.
"Anything else?" Will asked, knowing full well there was.
She smiled. "I put in a call to a friend in uniform." Amanda always had friends. Considering her personality, Will wondered about the nature of these relationships, and if by friend she meant someone she gripped by the short hairs. "Ormewood worked in supply when he was over in Kuwait. Never made it past the rank of private."
Will was mildly surprised. "Is that so?"
"He was honorably discharged, which is all the Atlanta PD would have known—or cared—about. My guy says he was wounded his second week overseas, and that they never did find out who shot him."
"The wound was self-inflicted?"
She shrugged. "Wouldn't you shoot yourself in the leg to get out of that hellhole?"
Will would have shot himself in the leg to get out of Amanda's office.
"So." Amanda pressed her palms together as she leaned back in the chair. "Plan of action?"
"I need to talk to Ormewood. It can't be a fluke that this has happened in his own backyard."
"Do you think he might have gotten too close to the doer in the Monroe case?"
"Cynthia Barrett's body was fresh when we got there, probably no more than an hour old. I was with Ormewood the whole morning and I didn't see that we made any great strides toward breaking the case, let alone pushed someone so hard that they jumped in their car, went to his house and mutilated his next-door neighbor."
Amanda nodded for him to continue.
"We talked to Monroe's pimp. He didn't strike me as the type to cut off a good source of income, but obviously I'll go back at him today."
"And?"
"And as I said, I'll talk to Ormewood about this, ask if he saw or did anything unusual the night of the Monroe murder."
"Is he in today or did he take compassionate leave?"
"I have no idea," Will answered. "Wherever he is, I'll find him."
She picked up one of her messages. "A Leo Donnelly was trying to get your personnel file."
"I'm not surprised."
"I sealed it," she said. "No one needs to smell your dirty laundry."
"No one but you," Will corrected. He looked at his watch as he stood. "If that's all, Dr. Wagner?"
She held her hands out in an open gesture. "By all means, Dr. Trent. Go forth and conquer."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
8:56 am
John had been forced to get rid of his shoes. He wasn't sure if he had left any footprints at the scene, but he wasn't taking any chances. When he got back to the flophouse, he had cut at the soles with a kitchen knife, altering the waffle pattern. Not trusting his luck, he had then gotten on the bus, paying cash so his Trans Card wouldn't track him, and ridden to Cobb Parkway all the way up in Marietta. There he had walked around for an hour, dragging his feet on the hot asphalt, scoring the soles some more.
At the Target, he'd bought a new pair of sneakers—twenty-six dollars he could ill-afford—then tossed his old shoes into a Dumpster behind a shady-looking Chinese restaurant. His stomach had rumbled at the smells coming from the kitchen. Twenty-six dollars. He could have bought a nice meal, had a waitress bring him food, keep his glass filled with iced tea, talked to her about the crazy weather.
All the tea in the world wasn't worth going back to prison.
God, he was in such a fucking mess. He shuddered, thinking how that girl's tongue had felt when he'd pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. Even through the latex glove, he could feel the texture of the thing, the warmness to it from being in her mouth. John put his hand to his own mouth, trying not to vomit. She'd been an innocent, just a little girl who had been too curious, too easily swayed.
John's only consolation was the thought of Michael Ormewood's face when he went into his garage in search of the porn he kept in the bottom of his toolbox and found his trusty knife sitting beside his teenage victim's tongue.
"Shelley!" Art yelled. John bolted up. He had been kneeling beside a sedan, rubbing bug guts off the front bumper. Sir?
"Visitor." Art jerked his head toward the back of the building. "Make sure you're off the clock."
John stood frozen in place. A visitor. No one visited him. He didn't know anybody.
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"Yo, yo," Ray-Ray mumbled. They had worked out an uneasy peace since the hooker incident.
"Yeah?"
"It's a girl." Not a cop, was what he meant.
A girl, John thought, his mind reeling. The only girl he knew was Robin.
He told Ray-Ray, "Thanks, man," tucking in his shirt as he headed to the back of the car wash. As John punched out, he caught his reflection in the mirror over the clock. Despite the chill in the air, sweat had plastered his hair to his head. Jesus, he probably smelled, too.
John ran his fingers through his hair as he opened the back door. His first thought was that the girl who stood there wasn't Robin, then that the girl wasn't really a girl. It was a woman. It was Joyce.
He felt more nervous than if it had actually been the prostitute come to see him, and ashamed by the cheap clothes he was wearing. Joyce was in a nice suit jacket with matching slacks that she sure as shit hadn't bought at a discount store. The sun was picking out auburn highlights in her hair and he wondered if it was streaked or something she'd always had. He remembered the way Joyce's face used to twist up when she got angry with him, the smile on her mouth when she gave him an Indian burn and the sneer she'd give when she slapped him for pulling one of her braids. He didn't, however, remember the color of her hair when they were children.
She greeted him with a demand. "What are you mixed up in, John?"
"When did you start back smoking?"
She took a long drag on the cigarette in her hand and tossed it to the ground. He watched her press the toe of her shoe into it, grinding the butt, probably wishing she was grinding his head in its place.
She let out a stream of smoke. "Answer my question."
He looked back over his shoulder, though he knew they were alone. "You shouldn't be here, Joyce."
"Why won't you answer my question?"
"Because I don't want you involved."
"You don't want me involved?" she repeated, incredulous. "My life is involved, John. Whether I like it or not, you are my brother."
He could feel her anger like a heat radiating from her body. Part of him wished she would just haul off and hit him, beat him to a bloody pulp until her fists were broken and her rage was spent.
She said, "How can you have credit cards when you're in prison?"
"I don't know."
"Is it allowed?"
"I..." He hadn't even considered the question, though it was a good one. "I suppose. You can't have cash, but..." He tried to think it through. You could get a warning or even thrown into solitary for having cash in prison. Everything you bought at the canteen was debited through your account and you weren't allowed to order anything through the mail.
"I don't know."
"You realize if Paul Finney finds out any of this, he'll sue you in civil court for every dime you have."
"There's nothing to get," John said. His mother's will had left everything to Joyce for this very reason. Under the victim's compensation act, if John ever had more than two pennies to rub together, Mary Alice's family could get it. Mr. Finney was like a circling shark waiting for a drop of John's blood in the water.
Joyce said, "You own a house in Tennessee."
He could only stare.
She took a folded sheet of paper out of her coat pocket. "Twenty-nine Elton Road in Ducktown, Tennessee."
He took the page, which was a Xerox of an original. Across the top were the words, "Official Certificate of Title." His name was listed above the property address as the owner. "I don't understand."
"You own this house free and clear," she told him. "You paid it off in five years."
He had never owned anything in his life except a bicycle, and Richard had taken that away from him after his first arrest. "How much did it cost?"
"Thirty-two thousand dollars."
John choked on the amount. "Where would I get that kind of money?"
"How the hell do I know?" She yelled this so loudly that he stepped back.
Joyce—
She jabbed her finger in his face, saying, "I'm only going to ask you this one more time, and I swear to God, John, I swear on Mama's grave, if you lie to me I will cut you out of my life so quick you won't know what hit you."
"You sound just like Dad."
"That's it." She started to walk away.
"Wait," he said, and she stopped but didn't turn around. "Joyce— someone's stolen my identity."
Her shoulders sagged. When she finally looked at him, he could read every horrible thing he was ever involved in etched into the lines of her face. She was quiet now, anger spent. "Why would someone steal your identity?"
"To cover himself. Cover his tracks."
"For what reason? And why you?"
"Because he didn't think I would get out. He thought I'd be in prison for the rest of my life, that he could use my identity to keep from getting caught."
"Who thought this? Who's doing this to you?"
John felt the name stick like a piece of glass in his throat. "The same guy who hurt Mary Alice."
Joyce visibly flinched at the girl's name. They were both quiet, nothing but the swish of water through the car wash and the buzz of the vacuums interrupting the silence.
John forced himself to close some of the space between them. "The person who framed me for killing Mary Alice is trying to do it again."
She had tears in her eyes.
"I didn't do it, Joyce. I didn't hurt her."
Her chin trembled as she struggled to contain her emotions.
"It wasn't me."
Her throat worked as she swallowed. "Okay," she said. "Okay." She sniffled, taking a deep breath. "I need to get back to work." Joyce—
"Take care of yourself, John." "Joyce, please—" "Good-bye."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
9:30 am
Will watched Pete Hanson's hands as the medical examiner deftly sewed together Cynthia Barrett's abdomen and chest. Her skin tugged up as the doctor pulled the baseball stitch through the Y-incision he'd made at the beginning of the autopsy. During the procedure, Will had concentrated on the parts of the body rather than the whole, but now there was no avoiding the fact that Cynthia Barrett was a human being, little more than a child. With her slim build and delicate features, she had an almost elfin quality about her. How a man could hurt this girl was beyond him.
"It's a sad thing," Pete said, as if he could read Will's mind.
"Yes." Will had been gritting his teeth from the moment he entered the morgue. In his law-enforcement career, Will had seen all kinds of damage done to people, but he still found himself shocked when he saw a child victimized. He always thought about Angie, the horrible things that had been done to her when she was just a little girl. It made his stomach hurt.
The doors opened and Michael Ormewood walked in. There were dark circles under his eyes and he still had a piece of tissue stuck to his chin where he had apparently cut himself shaving.
"Sorry I'm late," Michael apologized.
Will looked at his watch; the movement was reflexive, but when he looked back up, he could see Michael's irritation.
"That's fine," Will said, realizing too late that he had said the wrong thing. He tried, "Dr. Hanson was just finishing up. You didn't miss anything."
Michael kept silent, and Pete broke the tension, saying, "I'm so sorry for your loss, Detective."
After a few seconds, Michael nodded his head. He wiped his mouth, rolling the tissue off his chin. He looked surprised at the bloody paper between his fingers and threw it in the trashcan. "It's been a little hard at home."
"I can imagine." Pete patted him on the shoulder. "My condolences."
"Yes," Will agreed, not knowing what else to say.
"She was just a neighbor, but still..." The smile on Michael's face seemed forced, as if he was having trouble keeping his emotions in. "It eats you up when something bad happens to an innocent kid like that." Will saw his gaze settle onto the body, noticed the flash of despair in the other man's
eyes. Michael reached out as if to touch the blonde hair, then pulled his hand back. Will remembered how Michael had acted this same way the day before when they had first seen the body. It was as if Cynthia was the man's own child instead of a neighbor's.
"Poor baby," Michael whispered.
"Yes," Pete concurred.
"I'm sorry, guys," Michael apologized. He cleared his throat a few times, seemed to try to get himself together. "What have you got, Pete?"
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