Sara nodded and shrugged at the same time, not knowing what else to say. She was hardly going to have a protracted discussion about the dismal state of healthcare with this man.
“Well.” Bart glanced at his watch as if he had just remembered an appointment. “Anyway, I just wanted to drop by and make sure you were making yourself at home. Let me know if you need anything, all right?”
“Thank you,” Sara said, and she really meant it until he flashed one of his ferret smiles.
“You take care now, darlin’. Wouldn’t want you to get mixed up in any of this.”
She felt her own smile tighten on her face. “Thank you,” she repeated, but Fred Bart had already left.
Sara looked back at the dead man lying on the table as if he might offer some wry comment about what had just happened. Of course he did not. Sara took off her gloves as she walked back over to her notes. She found the right page and recorded that Fred Bart had assisted with the removal of the knife. She also noted that the knife had easily slipped from the wound. Bart was right about one thing: usually the blades stuck, whether from dried blood or tissue that stiffened around the metal.
She pushed this to the back of her mind as she continued the external examination, photographing the healed scars that indicated needle use, making note of a few scratches on the front of the shin. Gibson’s mouth was already open and the bridge spanning the gap where his front teeth should have been popped out easily. Though she didn’t want to, Sara had to admit that Bart did good work. The gums were almost completely healed and there didn’t seem to be any indication that the bridge had fit awkwardly.
Sara checked the time, wondering what was taking Jeffrey and Jake Valentine so long. They were supposed to bring Boyd Gibson’s father in to identify the body but that had been a good two hours ago. Technically, Jake had already positively identified Boyd Gibson, but she knew from experience that the family generally needed to see the victim in order to get some closure.
She called Jeffrey’s cell phone but he didn’t pick up. She left a message for him, but after twenty minutes passed without him returning her call, she decided to go ahead with the internal examination. She could always cover the body when Gibson’s father arrived to spare him the more graphic aspects of his son’s death.
She regloved and returned to the table, where she picked up a scalpel and began the Y-incision. Because there was a Dictaphone over the autopsy table that she used back in Grant, Sara could not stop her mind from doing a running narration of every movement she made, so that when she opened the rib cage or examined the pleura, she heard a little voice in her head echoing the motions.
She followed the penetration path of the stab wound to the heart, finding just as she’d predicted. The blade had pierced the left posterior thoracic wall and exited the anterior, causing almost immediate death. She stopped here, making some more notes, taking photographs and measuring the blade’s path, then doing her own drawing of exactly what she’d found.
Even without the stab wound, the heart was in bad shape. Enlarged from the extra weight on Gibson’s frame, the major arteries were already showing signs of disease. Had the knife not killed him, his bad health habits would have ensured he didn’t live to a comfortable old age.
Though she had obvious cause of death, Sara continued the autopsy in minute detail, carefully weighing and dissecting the organs, taking tissue samples. Boyd Gibson’s last meal had been similar to the one Jeffrey and Sara had shared: pizza. He preferred pepperoni from the looks of it, but he’d chosen to eat a healthy salad to balance it out. Maybe he had smoked while he ate. Judging from the coloring and the enlarged air spaces in his lungs, Gibson had been a heavy smoker. Considering this, Sara thought it odd that he hadn’t had cigarettes in his pockets.
She made a note of this, took more photographs, and did so many drawings that her hand cramped. Unfortunately, her devotion to detail was only punishing herself. By the time the clock hands ticked past noon, her feet were killing her and her back felt as if it had been bent into a shepherd’s hook.
And, honestly, Sara had never been an artist. Her drawings looked like the class project of a psychopathic kindergartener.
She covered the body and sat down, every vertebrae in her neck popping as she looked up at the ceiling in hopes of counteracting the fact that she had been looking straight down for the last two hours. She was just starting to let herself worry about Jeffrey when she heard a car pull up outside.
Jake Valentine opened the door, knocking at the same time. “Sorry we’re late,” he told her, a sloppy grin on his face. He had a piece of toilet tissue shoved up his nose. The bridge was swollen, the fingertips of a bruise spreading under his left eye.
Sara stood in alarm. “Where’s Jeffrey?”
Before she had finished the question, he came in behind Valentine, shutting the door.
“Slight altercation,” Jeffrey explained. He shared the same sloppy grin as the sheriff, as if they’d just had a great deal of fun together.
“What kind of altercation?” Sara felt like she was talking to two naughty children, and Jeffrey’s burst of laughter did nothing to disabuse her of the notion.
Valentine laughed, too, though she could tell from the tears in his eyes that it hurt to do so. He told her, “Grover wasn’t exactly happy to see me.”
Jeffrey explained, “He punched Jake in the face as soon as he opened the door.”
Sara noticed that he was using the sheriff’s first name now. Only two cops could bond over one of them getting his face punched.
Valentine told Sara, “Lucky thing you told me to bring him along this morning. You’d probably have me on that table right now if he hadn’t been there.”
“Shit,” Jeffrey replied. “Probably be both of us if you hadn’t tripped the old fool.”
Sara resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “I take it Mr. Gibson is not coming in to do the formal identification?”
Valentine explained, “He wasn’t too broke up about losing his son. They weren’t exactly close.” He shrugged, allowing a hint of seriousness to enter his voice. “Maybe when he sobers up, it’ll hit him.”
Jeffrey turned serious as well, telling Sara, “He was out of control. We cuffed him, took him to the station, so he could sleep it off. Not the first time he’s been there, from the looks of it.”
“No,” Valentine agreed. “Probably won’t be the last, either.”
“I took several photographs of his face,” Sara offered. “You can show those to his father. It might make things easier.”
Jeffrey asked Sara, “Did you find anything?”
“Not really.” She picked up the murder weapon and placed it on a sheet of brown paper so that she could photograph it. This was the first time Sara had really examined the full blade and handle. Looking at it now, she noticed two things about the knife: the blade was thin, maybe half an inch wide, and it was at least four inches long. Most important, unlike the majority of folding knives Sara had seen, there was no serration. The blade was smooth on one side and sharp on the other.
Valentine’s cell phone rang, the opening bars of “Dixie” filling the room. He checked the caller ID, then told them, “If y’all could excuse me for a minute?”
Sara waited until the door closed before picking up the camera and scrolling through the photographs.
Jeffrey asked, “Did you call the hospitals to see if Lena or Hank have been admitted?”
“There are three within a fifty-mile radius,” she told him, scanning through the photos. “No sign at any of them.”
“I guess that’s good,” he said, though she could tell he was disappointed. If Lena had been tucked up in a hospital last night, there was no way she could have been out killing Boyd Gibson.
Sara found the photo she wanted. “This should make you feel better.”
“What’s that?”
“Look at the wound,” she said, finding the series of close-ups she’d taken. “It’s jagged at the bottom and jagged a
t the top. I knew something wasn’t right.”
Jeffrey looked at the knife on the table, then back at the camera’s LCD. He obviously knew where she was going with this, but still said, “Okay.”
“The knife—this knife”—she indicated Lena’s knife on the table—“would have made a wound with a V-shaped bottom and a squared edge at the top. A serration leaves a jagged edge in the skin. The top and bottom of the wound in Boyd Gibson’s back is jagged.”
He was nodding. “Based on the wound, the knife that killed Gibson was double-edged, serrated.” She could hear the excitement in his voice. Statistically, most stabbing victims were killed with single-edge serrated knives because that was what was usually in the kitchen drawer. Sara had never seen a double-edged serrated knife, let alone a stab wound from one. If there was someone out there in Elawah carrying such a weapon, he was more than likely the killer.
Jeffrey tapped his fingers on the table, processing the new lead. “I’d bet it was a custom job. Maybe something off-market for the military. Definitely full tang, probably a custom handle to match the sheath…How long do you think the blade would have to be?”
“From the hilt to the point of the blade would have to be at least six inches long, then I’d guess from the wound that it’s around an inch and a half wide, tops.” She pointed to Gibson. “Look at how big he is. His chest is huge, his heart was enlarged. I found an entrance and exit wound through the left chamber.” She indicated Lena’s knife again. “This blade might have pierced the back of the heart, but there’s no way it could have gone all the way through the heart and out the front. It’s not long enough—the whole thing tip to handle is eight inches long.”
“There’s got to be a local who makes these things.” He could not wipe the smile off his face. “With the handle, a six-inch knife would run close to nine, ten inches. The guy we saw outside the hospital had a big knife on his belt. He left it in his car before he got out.”
“It’s not unusual for men to carry knives,” Sara pointed out. “My dad keeps one on his belt for work.”
“Last time I checked, your dad doesn’t have a big fat swastika on his arm,” Jeffrey countered. “Whoever did this was trying to frame Lena. No wonder she ran.”
“Or maybe he was close to his knife and didn’t want to let it go.” She walked over to the table where she had bagged Gibson’s personal effects. “Look at Gibson’s knife. It’s not off-the-shelf. He paid some good money for it. This isn’t something you’d easily let go of.”
The door opened and Valentine appeared. He kept the door propped open with his foot, as if he didn’t plan to stay long. The man was obviously furious when he told them, “That was the principal from the high school on the phone.”
Jeffrey exchanged a look with Sara. “And?”
“He found some blankets and a couple of empty bags of potato chips in one of the temporary classrooms.” He shook his head, his teeth clenched so tight that his jaw stood out like a carved relief. “Looks like we’ve found out where your detective’s been sleeping.” Jeffrey flashed a smile that sent Valentine straight over the edge. “My wife works at that school, you fuckwad.”
Jeffrey offered, “Well, I wouldn’t feel too bad, Jake. I’m sure Myra didn’t let her sleep there on purpose.”
Valentine pressed his lips together, obviously struggling to think of a cutting response. He finally settled on, “Go to hell,” then turned on his heel and slammed the door shut behind him.
LENA
CHAPTER 16
TWO YEARS AGO, Jeffrey had thrown Ethan Green’s arrest jacket in Lena’s face, ordering her to read it.
Of course she never had.
She had pretended to skim the file, taking in every fifth or sixth word, then pushed it back in his face with a belligerent, “So?”
Jeffrey had given her the highlights, the rundown of Ethan’s crimes: grand theft auto, felony assault, forcible sodomy, rape. None of his words had penetrated—Lena was still in that phase where she thought of Ethan as two different people: the one who loved her and the one who would eventually kill her. The duality was not much of a stretch; at the time, Lena thought of herself in much the same terms.
Sibyl had been dead almost a year when Lena first met Ethan. She was living at the college dorms, working campus security, struggling to get through each day without putting a gun to her head. Ethan was working on his master’s degree. He had pursued Lena relentlessly, almost wearing her down.
A few months later, Lena got her job back with the police force and moved in with Nan Thomas. Ethan was still in her life; Ethan was still her life. His arrest file had stayed in her Celica the whole time, well concealed behind the CD changer in her trunk. Lena hadn’t wanted Nan to accidentally come across it. Truth be told, she hadn’t wanted to take it into the house where Sibyl had once lived. It was bad enough when Ethan slept over.
Lena walked across the weedy strip of land between the motel and the bar, her shoes crunching on broken glass and other debris that had been swept off the road. She passed the motel lobby on the way to her Celica. Though the night air was turning cold, Lena could still feel herself sweating as if she was sitting back in Hank’s hellhole of a house.
Grand theft auto. Felony assault.
The file was exactly where she had secreted it two years ago, black tire treads marring the State of Connecticut seal on the outside of the yellowing folder. Lena took it out and for some reason felt the need to hide the file under her shirt as she bolted up the stairs to her motel room. No one was watching her. There was no need for these furtive moves. She still felt guilty, though. Still felt as if someone, somewhere, was disapproving.
Maybe it would be better not to know. Ethan may have been calling Hank for money or support or perhaps he’d simply wanted to get in touch with Lena. She had moved from Nan’s and had a new phone number now. Had he sent letters to Nan? Had Nan hidden them from Lena, hoping she could sever the connection?
Lena hooked the do not disturb sign on her door. She yanked the curtains closed and sat cross-legged on the bed, still holding the file to her chest. She could feel her beating heart thumping against the thick stack of pages, sweat making the manila folder stick to her skin.
Slowly, she slid the file out from under her shirt. She ran her hand along the print, tracing the circle of the seal. Her fingers found the edge and she opened the file to find exactly the thing she never wanted to see again: Ethan staring back at her.
The mug shot had been taken a few years before Lena had met Ethan, back when he was eighteen. He’d kept his hair cut short when she knew him, but in the photo, his head was shaved bald. His lips curled into a sneer as he glared at the camera, and the little sign he held in his hand was askew, as if he couldn’t be bothered to keep it straight. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, something he never did anymore—or maybe he had stopped hiding his tattoos now that he was back in prison. They would serve him well inside.
ETHAN ALLEN GREEN a/k/a ETHAN ALLEN WHITE a/k/a
ETHAN ALLEN MUELLER.
Lena could remember the time Ethan had explained the origins of his name. They were both in his dorm room, squeezed together on his single bed. He was on his back and she had wrapped herself around him so that she wouldn’t fall off the narrow twin bed. Ethan was fairly short—he was only a few inches taller than Lena—but his muscles stood out from his body as if they were cut from granite. She’d had her head tucked under his arm, and the sound of his voice had vibrated in her ear.
Sometime around the American Revolution, he told her, Ethan Allen had been the leader of the Green Mountain boys, a group that had pledged its life to Vermont’s independence. During the war, Allen and his crew had captured a British fort. By some accounts he was a military genius, by others an ignorant, cold-blooded killer.
She had thought then as she did now that the namesake was not far off.
Forcible sodomy. Rape.
Lena knew only a little bit about Ethan’s life before he’d moved t
o Grant County. Ethan’s father had run out on him when he was a kid. His mother, a rabid racist, had married a man named Ezekiel White, a preacher of some kind. Ethan had changed his name to Green when he dropped out of his skinhead family. Lena had no idea why he didn’t go back to Mueller, his biological father’s name. Ethan didn’t like to talk about his dad.
When Lena had first met Ethan, he had claimed that he was working hard to change himself. Lena had accepted that, even respected it. As time passed, she had told herself there was no way he would be dating her if he still held on to his old beliefs. She was Hispanic—clearly so. She had become roommates with a lesbian—not just any lesbian, but Sibyl’s lover. Ethan seemed not to care. He was more than cordial to Nan. He had said that he was in love with Lena, wanted to share the rest of his life with her. He had said that being with her was the only good thing he had ever done with his life. That his words from his mouth so sharply contrasted with the blows from his fists wasn’t something she let herself think about too long.
HEIGHT: 5´6? WEIGHT: 160 SEX: MALE HAIR COLOR: BROWN EYE COLOR: BLUE RACE: WHITE
Race. His skin privilege, he called it. His white birthright.
TATTOOS.
There were so many—some Lena had even forgotten about. The arresting officer had documented them all, making notations about their origin, what they symbolized. Lena studied the photographs, really looking at the tattoos for the first time. She had always averted her gaze or kept her eyes closed when he took off his clothes. Even then, some of the images had managed to bleed through.
A row of SS soldiers on the left side of his chest saluted an image of Hitler on the right. Below this was a large black swastika that undulated across his ripped abs. His left arm was covered with scenes of war, soldiers shouldering rifles, their hats emblazoned with the double S. The other arm had barbed wire snaking up it, faint outlines of camp barracks in the background.
How had she touched this body? How had she let this body touch hers?
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