Triptych (Will Trent #1) - Karin Slaughter Page 0,13
mouth a few inches to get to it, in which case you couldn’t use your teeth.” He frowned, thinking for a moment. “Picture a dachshund trying to fit his snout into a badger hole.”
Michael didn’t want to, but he found the image playing in his mind, the yippy bark echoing in his ears.
“In this case,” Pete continued, “the incision separated the frenulum linguae from the organ, bisecting the submandibular duct.” He opened his own mouth and lifted up his tongue, pointing to the thin stretch of skin underneath. “The removal of the tongue in and of itself is not a life-threatening injury. The problem is, she fell onto her back. Perhaps the shock of the event or the various chemical substances in her body affected her. Subsequently, she passed out. Over the course of a few minutes, the blood from the severed tongue engorged her throat. My official cause of death will be asphyxiation due to the blockage of the trachea by blood, causing respiratory arrest, secondary to exsanguination from the traumatic amputation of the tongue.”
“But,” Michael said, “he didn’t mean for her to die.”
“It’s not in my purview to imagine what goes through a man’s mind when he is biting off a woman’s tongue, but if I were a gambling man, and my ex-wives will tell you I am, then yes. I would guess that the attacker did not intend for her to die.”
Trent said, “Just like the others.”
“There are more?” Pete asked, perking up. “I’ve not heard of any cases similar to this.”
Trent told him, “There are two girls that we know of. The first had her tongue bitten, but not completely severed. It was sewn back on and she was fine—relatively speaking. The second lost her tongue. Too much time had passed to safely reattach it.”
Pete shook his head. “Poor thing. Was this recent? I haven’t read anything about it.”
“The first attack happened on state land, so we were able to keep it quiet. The second girl’s parents shut out the press and the local cops held back the details. There’s no story if nobody’s willing to talk.”
“What about the third one?” Michael had to ask. “The little girl?”
Trent filled Pete in on the case. “My opinion is she bit it herself,” he concluded. “She’s young, ten years old. She must have been terrified. The local PD is good, but they don’t have a lot of experience with this sort of violent crime. I think it was probably very hard for them to elicit a statement from her.”
“No doubt,” Pete agreed, but Michael wondered why Trent hadn’t said any of this earlier. Maybe he had been feeling out Michael, seeing if he could pass the test.
Shit, Michael thought. He was tired of jumping through hoops. He asked the doctor, “How old do you think this one is?” He nodded to Aleesha Monroe.
“It’s hard to say.” Pete studied the woman’s face. “Her teeth are a mess because of the drug. Given the hard nature of her life and her prolonged drug dependency, I’d put her in the late-thirties; possibly older, possibly younger.”
Michael looked at Trent. “But not a teenage girl.”
“Definitely not,” Pete agreed.
“So, we’ve got two teenagers thirty miles away and an old junkie in Atlanta and the only thing linking them is this tongue shit.” He tried to stare his meaning into Trent. “Right?”
Trent’s cell phone rang. He glanced at the screen, then excused himself with an apology as he left the room.
Pete gave a heavy sigh, covering up the body, tugging the sheet tight over her head. “Messy situation.”
“Yeah,” Michael agreed. He was watching Trent through the glass doors, wondering what the fuck was up with the guy.
“He seems on the ball,” Pete said, meaning Trent. “I have to say, it’s a nice change of pace seeing one of your compatriots dressed so smartly.”
“What?” Michael asked. He’d been watching Trent, trying to hear the call.
“The suit,” Pete clarified. “It makes an impression.”
“Like a fucking undertaker,” Michael answered, thinking Pete wasn’t exactly ready to step into a GQ spread. His white lab coats were always starched and clean, but that was because the state took care of the laundry bill. Underneath, Pete generally wore jeans and a wrinkled button-down shirt, his collar wide open, revealing a patch of gray chest hair and a gold medallion that any of the Bee Gees would have been ashamed to wear.
“It is a tenuous connection,” Pete said. “The three cases.”