The Silent Wife (Will Trent #10) - Karin Slaughter Page 0,111
about the volume of blood between Leslie’s legs that told a story none of them wanted to learn. He thought about his previous phone conversations with Bonita Truong. The woman had probably reached Macon by now. Jeffrey had told many parents over the years that their child had passed away, but he couldn’t quite figure out what to say to the mother when she finally arrived. The truth would destroy her. The truth might destroy him.
Your daughter was brutally attacked. She was drugged. She was sexually assaulted. She was terrorized by a madman who left her in the woods where she slowly succumbed to her injuries. And I should probably mention that all of this was preventable, but please don’t let that get in the way of your grief.
Sara slipped on a pair of exam gloves. She asked Brock, “Ready?”
He nodded, pressing the red button. The Camcorder whirred to life.
Sara provided the date and time. She called out all of their names for benefit of the recording. Then she started the preliminary exam.
She used a penlight to check the eyes. “No petechia.”
The girl had not been choked or strangled.
Sara gently turned the head to better see the red mark on the temple. She told Jeffrey, “She had time to bruise. This could be the first blow. Based on the location, one strike could knock her cold. I’d say the weapon used is consistent with a hammer.”
Brock took in a sharp breath. He turned his attention to the camera. He tilted the LED screen. He adjusted some of the settings. Jeffrey could see that his hands were shaking.
Jeffrey’s hands were still, but they were sweating profusely. The feeling of violence permeated the air. The smell was nauseating, even with the mask. Witnessing unnatural death came with the job, but something about this particular victim, this particular case, sent dread into every fiber of his being.
Jeffrey had hunted his share of murderers and rapists.
He had never before hunted a predator.
Sara looked in the nostrils, inside the mouth. She pressed her fingers along the girl’s throat. She said, “I’m not detecting any blockages.”
“Blockages?” Brock asked.
“Caterino had something in her throat, probably regurgitated pastry.”
Brock nodded as he carefully stepped around the body.
Sara turned the girl’s head at a more severe angle to look at the back of the neck. Jeffrey saw dried blood around a tiny hole.
“There’s a puncture wound at C5,” she said. “That would’ve gotten the job done.”
“What job?” Brock asked.
Jeffrey said, “We think the killer wanted to paralyze the victims.”
Brock shook his head in disgust. Jeffrey could see a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face.
Sara worked her way down. She lifted the sweatshirt. There was bruising on the torso. “She was punched. It feels like one of the ribs was dislocated.”
Jeffrey looked down at his notebook. The page was clean. He started a rough sketch of the body. He noted the location of trees and rocks.
Sara ran her finger under the waistband of the yoga pants. She told Brock, “Get closer on this.”
Her exam glove showed a red streak, but not from blood. Jeffrey recognized the distinct rust color of Georgia clay.
Brock asked, “Could she have rolled over?”
“Maybe,” Sara said. “Can we look at her back?”
Jeffrey took the camera from Brock so that the man could glove up. It wasn’t easy. The vinyl gloves kept getting caught on his sweaty skin.
“Sorry.” Brock finally managed to yank the gloves down to his wrists. The band tore. Jeffrey could see an old scar on the inside of Brock’s wrist.
“Ready.” Brock knelt at the girl’s head. He braced his hands on the shoulders. Sara positioned her hands on the waist. They moved in tandem to rotate the girl onto her side.
The waistband of Truong’s pants was bunched up in the back. Dirt and twigs stuck into the bare skin of her buttocks.
Sara said, “Her pants were pulled up while she was lying on the ground.”
Brock asked, “What do you think that means?”
They carefully rolled the girl back to the ground.
Sara said, “It could mean he returned to the scene.”
“After he left her for dead?” Brock asked. “Why would he come back?”
Sara looked at the girl’s hands. Her fingertips were stained red. “I suppose it’s possible she pulled up her pants herself.”
Jeffrey considered the implications. Leslie Truong bleeding to death in the woods, her hands reaching down to cover herself in a futile attempt at modesty.