“It’s not likely. Most of the bleeding happened inside the belly, even after the knife was pulled out. There’s the defensive wound on his hand, but the ulnar and radial arteries are intact and none of the digital arteries were compromised. If the cut on his hand was deeper or if one of the fingers was sliced open or off, you could expect a significant amount of blood loss. But that’s not the case with Estevez, so I’m guessing Evelyn would’ve had a minimal amount of blood on her clothes.”
Will said, “There was a lot of blood on the floor. You could see footprints back and forth across the tiles.”
“How big was the space?”
“Kitchen sized,” he said. “Bigger than yours, but not by much, and enclosed. The house is older, ranch-style.”
Sara thought about it. “I’d have to see the crime scene photos, but I’m fairly certain that if there was enough blood on the floor to show a struggle, that blood didn’t come from Estevez’s hand or belly. At least not all of it.”
“Could Estevez just get up on his own and walk off after sustaining his injuries?”
“Not without help. Any type of damage to the abdominal wall makes it difficult to breathe, let alone move.” Sara put her hand to her stomach. “Think about how many muscles have to fire just to sit up.”
Amanda asked Will, “What are you getting at?”
“I’m just wondering who struggled with Evelyn if this guy couldn’t get up after being stabbed and there wasn’t a lot of blood from his wound.”
Sara followed his logic. “You think Evelyn was injured.”
“Maybe. They did blood typing on scene, but they didn’t look at all of it, and DNA won’t be back for another few days.” He shrugged. “If Evelyn was hurt, and Estevez didn’t bleed much, that could explain the extra blood.”
“I’m sure if she’s injured it’s nothing serious.” Amanda waved away Will’s theory as if swatting a fly. Any logical person would’ve already accepted the very real possibility that Evelyn Mitchell’s chances of survival were very slim considering how much time had elapsed. Amanda seemed to be holding on to the opposite theory.
Sara wasn’t going to be the one to tell her otherwise.
There was a large magnifying glass on one of the trays. Sara pulled down the overhead light and went back to the examination, checking the dead man head to toe for trace evidence, needle marks, anything unusual that might lead them to a clue. When it was time to roll him over, Will put on a pair of surgical gloves and helped flip the body.
“Well, that’s interesting,” Amanda said with her usual flair for under statement.
Estevez had a large tattoo of an angel on his back. The image covered the width of his shoulders and reached the bottom of his sacrum, and was so intricate that it more closely resembled a carving. “Gabriel,” Sara said. “The archangel.”
Will asked, “How do you know that?”
She pointed to the horn in the angel’s mouth. “There’s no biblical foundation, but some religions believe that Judgment Day comes when Gabriel blows his horn.” Sara knew that Will had never been to church. “It’s the sort of thing they teach kids in Sunday school. And it tracks with his name—Marcellus Benedict. I believe those are the names of two different popes.”
Amanda asked, “How recently would you say this tattoo was worked on?”
The skin at the small of his back was still irritated from the needle. “A week, maybe five days?” She leaned in closer to look at the scrollwork. “This was done in stages. Whoever did this took a long time. Probably months. It’s not the kind of thing you’d forget, and I imagine it’d be very expensive.”
Will held the dead man’s hand in his. “Did you see this under the fingernails?”
“I saw they’re dirty,” she admitted. “That’s fairly typical for a man this age. I can’t do any scrapings. The ME’s office would have a fit and anything I found would be inadmissible because we haven’t established the chain of evidence.”
Will put his nose close to the man’s fingers. “It smells like oil to me.”
Sara smelled for herself. “I can’t tell. The police told me that they checked the outside security cameras. They’re not static. They sweep back and forth across the back lot, which the bad guys obviously knew because they managed not to get caught leaving the body. The time stamp says that Estevez was by the Dumpster at least twelve hours. The smell could be anything.” She rolled over the hand to show Will. “This is more interesting. Estevez obviously worked with his hands. There’s a hardening of the skin on the ball of the thumb and here on the side of the index finger. He held some kind of tool for long periods of time. It would’ve had some weight to it and moved around a bit.”
He asked Amanda, “You said he was unemployed?”
“The state shows he’s been collecting unemployment insurance for almost a year.”
Sara thought of something else. “Can you hand me that?” She pointed to the magnifying glass. Will picked it up and waited as Sara forced open Estevez’s mouth. The jaw was stiff. The tendon popped when she pried open the lips. “Hold it here,” she told Will, indicating he should focus on the upper teeth. “Do you see these tiny indentations in the bottom edges of his top front teeth?” Will leaned in closer, then let Amanda take a look. “These are repetitive impressions. They come from constantly gripping something between his teeth. You see this sort of thing with seamstresses who bite thread or finish carpenters who put nails in their mouth.”
“Or cabinetmakers?” Will asked.
“That’s possible.” Sara looked at Estevez’s hand again. “These calluses could come from holding a nail gun. I’d have to see the tool for comparison, but if you told me he worked as a carpenter, I’d agree that his hands show signs of working in that industry.” She picked up the man’s left hand. “Do you see these scars on his index finger? These line up with common injuries for carpenters. Hammers slip. A nail pinches the skin. Threads from screws scrape off the top dermal layer. Do you see this scar down the center line of his nail?” Will nodded. “It cuts through his cuticle, too. Carpenters use carpet knives to cut edges or score wood. Sometimes the blade skips down the fingernail or shaves the skin off the side of the finger. A lot of times they’ll use their nondominant hand to smooth out putty or caulk, which causes wearing at the tip. His fingerprints would be different week-to-week, sometimes day-to-day.”
Amanda said, “So, he’s been at this job for a while?”
“I’d say whatever job he’s been working at that caused these marks has been going on for two to three years.”
“What about Heeney, the shooter?”
Sara reached under the sheet to check the other man’s hands. She did not want to look at his face again. “He was left-handed, but I would hazard he worked in the same industry as Estevez.”
Will said, “There’s one connection, at least. They both worked for Ling-Ling.”
Sara asked, “Who’s Ling-Ling?”
“A missing person of interest.” Amanda checked her watch. “We should hurry this along. Dr. Linton, can you examine our other friend here?”
Sara didn’t give herself time to think about it. She pulled back the sheet in one quick motion. It was the first time she’d looked at Franklin Warren Heeney’s face since he’d tried to kill her. His eyes were open. His lips were wrapped around the tube that had been inserted into his throat to help him breathe. A crusty layer of blood circled his neck where the flesh gaped open. He was still dressed from the waist down, but his jacket and shirt had been cut open so that the ER staff could try to save his life. The exercise had been perfunctory; the man had sliced open his own jugular. He’d lost nearly half his blood volume before they’d managed to pick him up off the floor and put him on the table. Sara knew this because she had been the doctor working on him.
She looked up. Both Amanda and Will were staring at her.
“Sorry,” she apologized. She had to clear her throat before she could talk again. “He’s around the same age as Estev
ez. Mid-to-late twenties. Underweight for his build.” She pointed to the needle tracks on his arm. The IV port she’d inserted was still taped to his skin. “Recent user, at least intravenously.” She found an otoscope and checked inside the man’s nose. “There’s significant scarring in the nasal passages, probably from snorting powder.” She shoved the scope in farther. “He’s had surgery to repair the septum, so you’re looking at coke or meth, maybe Oxy. They’re all extremely corrosive to cartilage.”
Will asked, “What about heroin?”
“Oh, heroin, of course.” Sara apologized again. “Sorry, most of the heroin users I see are smokers or needle junkies. The snorters usually go straight to the morgue.”
Amanda crossed her arms. “What about his stomach?”
Sara didn’t have to check the file. No X-rays had been taken. The man had expired before any tests could be ordered. Instead of continuing the exam, Sara found herself looking at his face again. Franklin Heeney hardly resembled a choirboy, but the acne-scarred skin and sunken cheeks were recognizable to someone out in the world. He had a mother. He had a father, a child, perhaps a sister or brother, who right at this moment was probably hearing that their loved one was dead.
Their loved one who had killed a man in cold blood and punched Sara so violently that the breath had gone out of her body. She felt the bruise on her chest start to throb at the memory. She had a mother, too—a sister, a father—all of whom would be horrified if they heard what had happened to Sara today.
Amanda asked, “Dr. Linton?”
“Sorry.” In the time it took to walk over to the box of gloves and put on a fresh pair, she had managed to pull herself back together. She ignored Will’s look of concern and pressed her fingers into the dead man’s belly. “I don’t feel anything unusual. The organs are in their proper position and are normal size. No swelling or compaction in the bowel or stomach.” She snapped off the gloves and threw them into the trash. The water in the sink was cold, but Sara washed her hands anyway. “I can’t send him to X-ray because they’ll need a patient ID, and frankly, I’m not going to make a living person wait to satisfy a curiosity. The ME’s office will have to give you a definitive answer.” She squirted antibacterial gel into her palm, fighting to keep her voice steady. “Is that all?”
“Yes,” Amanda said. “Thank you, Dr. Linton.”
Sara didn’t acknowledge the answer. She ignored Will. She ignored the two bodies. She kept her eyes on the door until she had passed through it. In the hallway, she concentrated on the elevator, the button she would press, the numbers that would light up over the door. She only wanted to think about the steps ahead, not the ones behind her. She had to get out of this place, to get home and wrap herself in a blanket on the couch and pull the dogs around her and forget this miserable day.
There were footsteps behind her. Will was running again. He caught up with her quickly. She turned around. He stopped a few feet away.
He said, “Amanda’s putting out an APB on the tattoo.”
Why was he just standing there? Why did he keep rushing up to her and doing absolutely nothing?
He said, “Maybe we’ll find—”
“I really don’t care.”
He stared at her. His hands were in his pockets. The sleeve of his jacket was tight around his upper arm. There was a small tear in the material.
Sara leaned her shoulder against the wall. She hadn’t noticed before, but there was a fresh cut at the top of his earlobe. She wanted to ask him about it, but he would probably tell her that he’d cut himself shaving. Maybe she didn’t want to know what had happened. The Polaroid of his damaged mouth still burned in her memory. What else had they done to him? What else had he done to himself?
Will said, “Why is it that none of the women in my life call me when they need help?”
“Doesn’t Angie call you?”
He looked down at the floor, the space between them.
She said, “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair. It’s been a really long day.”
Will didn’t look up. Instead, he took her hand. His fingers laced through hers. His skin was warm, almost hot. He traced his thumb along the inside of her palm, the webbing between her fingers. Sara closed her eyes as he slowly explored every inch of her hand, caressing the lines and indentations, pressing his thumb gently against the pulse beating in her wrist. His touch was palliative. She felt her body starting to relax. Her breathing took on an easy cadence that matched his.
The doors to the morgue swished open. Sara yanked away her hand at the same time as Will. Neither of them looked at each other. They were like two kids caught in the back of a parked car.
Amanda held her cell phone in the air, triumphant. “Roger Ling wants to talk.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
FAITH FELT AS CLOSE TO A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN AS SHE’D ever been in her life. Her teeth kept chattering despite the sweat dripping down her body. She’d thrown up her breakfast and had to force down lunch. Her head ached so badly that it hurt to even close her eyes. Her blood sugar levels were just as fragile. She’d had to call her doctor’s office to find out what to do. They had threatened to put her in the hospital if she didn’t get her numbers under control. Faith had promised to report back, then she’d gone into the bathroom, turned on the shower as hot as she could stand it, and sobbed for half an hour.
The same series of thoughts kept running through her mind like tires wearing a groove in a gravel road. They had been in her house. They had touched her things. Touched Jeremy’s things. They knew when he was born. They knew his schools. They knew his likes and dislikes. They had planned this—all of it, down to the last detail.
The threat was like a death sentence. Mouth shut. Eyes open. Faith didn’t think her eyes could open any wider or her mouth could close any tighter. She’d searched the house twice. She was constantly checking her phone, her email, Jeremy’s Facebook page. It was three o’clock in the afternoon. She had been trapped in the house like a caged animal for nearly ten hours.
And still nothing.
“Hey, Mom?” Jeremy came into the kitchen. Faith was sitting at the table, staring at the backyard, where Detective Taylor and Ginger were talking earnestly to the ground. She could tell from their bored demeanors that they were just waiting for the word from their boss so they could get back to their real jobs. As far as they were concerned, this case had come to a screeching halt. Too many hours had passed. No one had made contact. She could read the truth in their eyes. They honestly believed that Evelyn Mitchell was dead.
“Mom?”
Faith rubbed Jeremy’s arm. “What is it? Is Emma up?” The baby had slept too long last night. She was fussy and irritable, and had screamed for nearly a full hour before finally relenting to her afternoon nap.
“She’s fine,” Jeremy answered. “I was gonna go for a walk. Get out of the house for a minute. Take some fresh air.”
“No,” she told him. “I don’t want you leaving the house.”
His expression told her how hard her voice was.
She squeezed his arm. “I want you to stay here, all right?”
“I’m tired of being cooped up inside.”
“So am I, but I want you to promise me you won’t leave the house.” She played at his emotions. “I’ve already got Grandma to worry about. Don’t make me add you to my list.”
His reluctance was obvious, but he told her, “All right.”
“Just do something with your uncle Zeke. Play cards or something.”
“He pouts when he loses.”
“So do you.” Faith shooed him out of the kitchen. She charted his path through the house and up to his room by the familiar squeaks in the floorboards and on the stairs. She should put Zeke to work on her list of handyman repairs. Of course, that would involve actually talking to him, and Faith was doing her best to avoid her brother. Miraculously, he seemed to be doing the same. He’d been in the garage for the last three hours, working on his laptop.
Faith pushed
herself up from the table and started pacing in hopes that she could work out some of her nervous energy. That didn’t last long. She leaned over the table and tapped the keyboard on her laptop to wake it up. She moused up to reload Jeremy’s Facebook page. The rainbow wheel started to spin. Jeremy was probably playing some game upstairs that was slowing down the wireless network.
The phone rang. Faith jumped. She startled any time there was an unexpected noise. She was as nervous as a cat. The back door slid open. Ginger waited while she took the receiver off the hook. She could tell from his tired expression that he felt this was not only perfunctory, but beneath his talents.
She put the phone to her ear. “Hello?”
“Faith.”
It was Victor Martinez. She waved away Ginger. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
Now that the easy part was out of the way, neither of them seemed capable of talking. She hadn’t spoken to Victor in thirteen months, not since she’d sent him a text that he needed to get his stuff out of her house or she was going to leave it on the street.
Victor broke the silence. “Is there any news on your mother?”
“No. Nothing.”
“It’s been over twenty-four hours, right?”
She didn’t trust herself to speak. Victor had a habit of pointing out the obvious, and his love of crime shows meant that he knew as well as Faith that time was against them.
“Is Jeremy all right?”
“Yes. Thank you for bringing him home yesterday. And staying with him.” She thought to ask, “You didn’t see anything unusual when you were here, right? No one hanging around the house?”
“Of course not. I would’ve told the police.”
“How long were you here before they arrived?”
“Not long. Your brother came about an hour later and I left.”
Faith’s exhausted brain struggled to do the math. Evelyn’s kidnappers hadn’t hesitated. They’d driven straight here from her house. They were familiar enough with the space to walk right upstairs to her room and plant the finger under Faith’s pillow. Maybe they were watching the house even before that. Maybe they had listened to Faith’s phone calls or checked her calendar on her laptop and knew that she would be away. Nothing in the house was password protected because she had always assumed that she was safe here.
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