Drained (Edgars Family #6) - Suzanne Ferrell Page 0,63

said, standing in the waiting room with Dad and him. “She’s a very rare blood type, and a trauma this afternoon used up all that blood that was available.”

“How long do you think it will take to get more?” Dad asked.

The doctor shook his head. “I have no idea. The blood bank has put out a call to those donors who match her exact blood type, there are a few on the list. If they’re available and haven’t donated in a while, then we could have some in an hour or two.” The man rubbed his hands over his face, weariness and resignation etched in every line. “I just don’t know if she’ll last that long.”

She hadn’t.

That was the day he decided to go into the medical world. He’d wanted to go to med school, but a summer job in a hospital lab his sophomore year in college changed his mind. The scientific part of testing blood he watched the lab technicians do and their limited contact with patients appealed to him. So, he shifted his major just slightly and after graduation, he got a job in a private lab and learned the art of not only testing blood, but how the system worked.

Then three years ago, he’d been working when the order came in for his mother’s blood type, AB negative. He’d just sent the last bag in the hospital up for a homeless man who’d been injured. Frantic and with the memory of his mother’s death running through his mind, he’d called every blood bank in town and the surrounding area, only to be told the nearest supply was an hour and a half away in Canton.

Unfortunately, even airlifting it in was too late.

Anger bubbling inside him again, he walked over to the worktable and stared at the lifeless lump of human flesh lying on it.

“You had such potential. You could’ve been a role model for other kids. But no, you had to take your talent and good fortune and waste it with drugs.” He slammed his fist in the middle of the naked chest of the former college football standout. Then he patted the cooler in his hand. “But I’m putting you to good use.”

He’d done the first cleansing immediately to get rid of the stench and also keep bacteria from gaining a foothold on him. Tomorrow he’d begin the more thorough cleansing. Now it was time to head to work and fill the larder.

18

“I think we need to establish some sort of timeline for this guy’s killing pattern,” Jaylon said, drawing a long line on one of the whiteboards in the conference room. “We know Art was last seen alive about a week or ten days ago, right?”

Aaron nodded. “Our witness, Paula, said she knew he was missing a week ago Thursday when Stanley showed up at the shelter alone. The last time she can remember seeing him was the Thursday before.”

“Right,” Brianna said, “but remember, she said Stanley wasn’t very hungry, so Art was there to feed him between those two Thursdays.”

Jaylon made a slash mark across the long line, wrote the date for the previous Thursday on it and pinned Art’s picture below. “We ever get a name on this guy?”

“Not yet,” Aaron said, pulling up his email on his phone. “Still no word back from the Veteran’s administration. But it’s only been less than twenty-four hours and he stayed off the grid for years. Might take them a while.”

Carson picked up the picture of Mia, one they’d gotten off the data base for her previous drug arrests and put it at the beginning of the line, to the left of Art. “There may be more bodies before her, but given her freezing by the killer, we’ll assume for now, Mia’s victim one.” He picked up the red dry erase marker and put April of the previous year over her name.

“That’s wrong,” Brianna said.

Carson paused, drawing his brows down in confusion. “We don’t know how long she’s been frozen, yet. For all we know, she may have been killed immediately after she left the shelter last spring.”

“No, because a woman that works at the women’s shelter with me saw her last fall,” Brianna argued then turned her attention to Aaron. “Remember, I told you Flora talked with her last October. She was playing her violin for change.”

“So, our guy’s been doing this for six months?” Stedaman said, the look of abhorrent realization on his face. “How many other bodies does he have stored away