Текст книги "Bones Never Lie"

Автор книги: Kathy Reichs

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CHAPTER 26

I WAS SO pumped, I overlooked the mélange of odors polluting Slidell’s Taurus.

“If Lonergan didn’t call Tasat, who did?” I said.

“You can count on one hand the cells still firing in that chick’s head.”

“She sounded so certain.”

Slidell offered a sniff.

“I can’t recall if the notation included a callback number.”

“Knock yourself out. I’m gonna run the swab by the lab.”

We were at the LEC in minutes. Rose through the building in silence.

My pulse was high-stepping. Was the discrepancy due to Lonergan’s impaired wiring? Had Tasat gotten it wrong in his notes? Or had we stumbled on to one of Ryan’s big bang breaks?

I got off on two and headed past the CCU to the conference room. Slidell continued up to four.

The Donovan file was on the table with the others. It took little time to locate the entry.

Investigative Notes (Tasat) (8/07/14)

Laura Lonergan, family member, phoned to ask about progress on MP Colleen Donovan. Lonergan is Donovan’s maternal aunt. When asked if she had thoughts where Colleen might be, Lonergan stated that she did not. When asked where she could be reached, she provided a cellphone contact and stated she had no work or home lines.

Lonergan’s mobile was listed at the end of the entry.

After blocking my own caller ID, I tried the number. A voice told me it wasn’t in service.

I was sitting there, frustration oozing from every pore, when Slidell lumbered through the door. “What?” Seeing my face.

“There’s nothing in the file to indicate where the call was made. The mobile number given by Lonergan”—hooking the name with air quotes—“is bogus. And Tasat’s not around to take questions.”

“I’m telling you. The woman’s brain is hamburger.”

“I think we should check it out.”

Slidell sighed, über-patient. Yanked out his spiral. “You got the date the call came in?”

“August seventh.”

“The time?”

“No.”

“I’ll have to get Tasat’s number.”

“That’s easy enough.”

“Then I’ll have to subpoena Ma Bell.”

“How long will that take?”

“A couple weeks, a couple days. Some companies are friendlier than others.”

“Shall we tell Barrow?”

“Tell him what? A tweaker’s having memory issues?”

Easy, Brennan. “Where is Barrow?”

“Heading here now.”

Slidell’s words were barely out when the head of CCU stepped into the room.

I explained the call. And my suspicion that someone other than Lonergan had placed it.

“Nice catch.”

“Maybe.” I knew in my gut that it was. “The mobile number Lonergan gave Tasat isn’t in service. And it’s not the one she’s currently posting on Backpage.com.”

“So she got dropped or switched carriers.” Slidell’s skepticism was a real buzzkill.

“You on the trace?” Barrow asked him before I could respond.

“Wanna bet it’s a waste of time?”

“I could pass it to Tinker.”

Slidell took his leave, muttering about paperwork. And horseshit.

Barrow took the chair opposite mine. “How was the far north?”

“Cold.”

“Bring me up to speed.”

I did.

Barrow listened, now and then clearing his throat.

When I finished, he sat thinking about it. Then, “The brass wanted stronger links between Leal and the other cases. Said they’d reassess when the situation changed.”

“They did.”

“We need to share this with the deputy chief.”

“When?” I looked at my watch. It was ten past five. I’d risen before dawn to fly back to Charlotte.

“Now.”

“Since 2007, three adolescent females have been abducted in broad daylight and later found dead. Nellie Gower, Hardwick, Vermont, 2007. Lizzie Nance, Charlotte, 2009. Tia Estrada, Salisbury, 2012. The victims are of a type. The VICAP crime profiles show striking similarity. In each case, the body was left in the open, fully clothed, and posed. In no case was there evidence of sexual assault. In no case could cause of death be determined.” At Barrow’s urging, I was taking the lead.

Deputy Chief Denise Salter kept her eyes level on mine. They were brown, darker than her caramel skin, lighter than the black hair pulled back and knotted at the nape of her neck. Her shirt was eye-scorching white, the creases on its long sleeves sharp enough to perform microsurgery. Black tie, black pants, black patent-leather shoes gleaming like marble.

Salter had rescheduled another meeting to make time for us. She was listening, her expression neither kind nor unkind.

“Over the same seven-year period, at least two others girls have disappeared in North Carolina. Avery Koseluk from Kannapolis in 2011. Colleen Donovan from Charlotte in late 2013 or early 2014.”

Barrow placed five photos on the desk facing Salter. She slipped reading glasses onto her nose and scanned the lineup. Then looked pointedly at me.

I went on, “Koseluk was thought to be a noncustodial-parent abduction, Donovan a runaway. Both remain open MP files.”

“Cut to the chase.” Behind the lenses, Salter’s eyes looked E.T. huge.

“Identical DNA was found on Gower and Nance.”

Barrow added the age-progressed pic of Pomerleau to the blotter. Salter picked it up and studied the face. “Hers?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Where’d you get the hit?”

“The NDDB, the Canadian equivalent of CODIS.”

If that surprised Salter, she hid it well.

“Who is she?”

“A Canadian national named Anique Pomerleau. She and an accomplice, Neal Wesley Catts, aka Stephen Menard, are wanted for the deaths of at least three individuals. Their MO was to imprison, torture, and rape young women. Angela Robinson, Menard’s first victim, was kidnapped in Corning, California, in 1985. Marie-Joëlle Bastien and Manon Violette were taken in Montreal in 1994. All three died in captivity.”

“You know this because?”

“I identified their remains.”

“Go on.”

“In 2004, Pomerleau slipped the net just as the Montreal cops closed in. She’s been in the wind ever since. Until now.”

“And Menard?”

“She either killed him or he killed himself just before she disappeared.”

“You think Pomerleau is now murdering kids on my turf?”

“No.”

Salter’s brows floated up in question.

“Two days ago I assisted at Pomerleau’s autopsy.”

I summarized my trip to Montreal and St. Johnsbury. Ryan. The interviews with the Kezerians, Sabine Pomerleau, the Violettes.

I described the Corneau property, the barrel, the autopsy. The furnace mechanic who’d seen a second person present at the farm.

“You think Pomerleau and an accomplice killed Nellie Gower. Then, a year and a half later, the pair came here and killed Lizzie Nance.”

“We do.”

Barrow and I exchanged glances. He nodded. “And we believe there were others,” I added.

A flick of Salter’s wrist told me to continue.

“A skeleton was discovered in Belmont in 2010. I determined that the bones were those of a twelve– to fourteen-year-old female, probably fully clothed when her body was dumped.”

“Probably?”

“The remains had been scavenged by animals.”

Salter tossed her glasses to the blotter and leaned back into her chair.

“During Shelly Leal’s autopsy, Larabee pulled hair from her throat,” I said.

“The child just discovered under the I-485 overpass.”

I nodded. “DNA sequencing says at least one of those hairs came from Anique Pomerleau.”

“That’s big.”

“But puzzling. Circumstantial evidence suggests Pomerleau died in 2009.”

“Explanation?”

“The hairs could have transferred from Pomerleau to her accomplice,” Barrow said. “Maybe via a shared article of clothing. Or his ritual could include wearing something Pomerleau wore.”

“Larabee also found a lip print on Leal’s jacket,” I said. “It contained DNA. Amelogenin testing indicated the DNA came from a male.”

“I’m guessing lip boy is not in the system.”

“No.”

Silence filled the room for a very long moment. Salter broke it. “Let me get this straight. Pomerleau and a male accomplice operated out of a farm in Vermont until 2009.”

“Yes.”

“Was anything found to suggest kids were held there? A soundproof room? Handcuffs bolted to a wall?”

“No.”

“Uh-huh.” Neutral. “This mysterious accomplice eventually kills Pomerleau and stashes her body in a barrel of syrup.”

“Yes.”

“Motive?”

“We have none.”

“He then moves south. Does Nance, Estrada, maybe Koseluk, Donovan, and the kid found near Belmont. Now Leal.”

“Yes.”

“Why shift his blood sport here?”

I described the Health Science article. The picture of me clipped and saved at the Corneau farm.

“You’re saying the perp’s in my town because of you.”

“I’m saying it’s a possibility.”

“Why?”

“Revenge? Taunting? Who knows?”

Salter’s phone rang. She ignored it.

“Explain the dates again,” Barrow said to me.

I did, leaving out Mama’s role in spotting the pattern.

“So victims are taken on the anniversaries of abductions in Montreal.” Statement, not question, Salter wanting affirmation.

“That’s the idea,” I said. “Possibly on the dates they died.”

“And Pomerleau’s accomplice continues the game even though he’s taken her out.”

“So it appears.”

“And the intervals are decreasing.”

“Yes,” Barrow said. “And another anniversary comes up in two months.”

I could hear my own breathing in the silence that followed. Salter’s folded glasses tapping the desktop. Finally, when I thought she was about to blow us off, “Slidell’s working Leal, right?”

“Yes,” Barrow confirmed.

“Anyone else assigned to this?” She swept a hand over the photos.

“Ex-officio, a detective from Montreal, another from Hardwick, Vermont.”

“I’ve seen Beau Tinker in the halls. The SBI here at your invitation?”

“Not exactly.”

Another beat. Then Salter pocketed the glasses. “Write it up. Everything you’ve got.”

CHAPTER 27

THE WEATHER HAD turned colder while I was in the LEC. Not enough to make me hate it. But enough to make me think about getting out gloves I’d stashed in a closet last March.

Birdie showed more interest in the contents of my Roasting Company bag than in my return. I filled his bowl, clicked on CNN, and settled at the kitchen table.

The Situation Room had closed for the night. A Democrat was bickering with a Republican about health care and immigration reform. Irritating. I want news at the end of the day, not a bout of extreme verbal sparring.

I turned off the set. Tossed down the remote.

Birdie jumped onto the chair beside me, preferring warm chicken to the hard brown pellets I’d served up. Couldn’t blame him.

As I ate, Tasat’s note filled my thoughts.

“Lonergan didn’t make that call,” I said through a mouthful of succotash.

Birdie cocked his head. Listening, or hopeful for poultry.

“So who did?”

The cat rendered no opinion.

“A relative? A friend? Supposedly, Donovan had none.”

I placed a sliver of drumstick on the table. Bird tested it with one in-curled paw, then seized it delicately with his front teeth.

“Donovan’s killer, that’s who. It’s classic felon behavior. Like returning to a crime scene.”

Bird and I looked at each other, thoughts definitely not on the same page.

My mobile rang.

“Your flight went well?” Ryan sounded as exhausted as I felt.

“I can’t remember that far back.”

“I’m beat, too.”

“Any progress?” I offered Bird another scrap of fowl. He repeated his pat-and-snatch maneuver.

“None. Where are you?”

“Home. I spent the day with Slidell.”

“And?”

“He often addressed me in an ill-mannered fashion.”

“Any breaks?”

“Maybe.”

I described the visit with Lonergan and the meeting with Salter. Explained Tasat’s notation and Lonergan’s denial about making the call. “Slidell’s convinced there’s nothing to it.”

“Has he agreed to subpoena the phone records?”

“Grudgingly. Says it could take weeks. Meanwhile, we—” A bottle rocket exploded in my head. “Shit!”

“What?”

“How did I miss it? I must be totally brain-dead.”

“Earth to Brennan.”

“Tia Estrada.”

“The kid from Salisbury.”

“I was distracted by Slidell and Tinker sniping at each other.”

“Stay on point.”

“According to the case log, a journalist called six months after Estrada went missing.”

“And?”

“I’m almost certain that was the last entry in the chronology. And the file contained no news clipping dating to 2013.”

“You’re thinking that call might also be bogus?”

“It’s identical to Donovan. Someone calls six months after the child vanishes. Maybe it was the same person who phoned for info on Donovan. If so, there’s a pattern. Something linking the cases.”

“Worth some following through.”

Suddenly, I was on fire to hang up. “I’ve got to go.”

“Slow down.”

“Slow down?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Jesus, Ryan. You sound like Slidell.”

There was a long empty pause on the line. Then he asked, “Anson County, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Do you remember who caught the case?”

“Cock.”

“Very helpful.” Actually, it was. “Henrietta something, right?”

“I think so.”

“And I thought of something else. We need to compare pics of the Gower, Nance, and Leal scenes. See if any gawker makes a repeat appearance.”

“No one’s done that?”

“Not that I know of.”

I disconnected, my weariness dispelled by the prospect of a big bang.

After clearing the table, I grabbed my purse and jacket, and bolted.

The second floor of the LEC was quiet. I went straight to the conference room and spread the Estrada file on the table.

The last article ran in the Salisbury Post on December 27, 2012, roughly three weeks after Tia was found. At least that was the last one saved.

The story was little more than a summary of facts. The child’s disappearance. The discovery of the body four days later, near the Pee Dee National Wildlife Refuge. The mother’s deportation to Mexico. It ended with an appeal to the public for further information. There was no byline credit.

I got online and Googled the Salisbury Post. A woman named Latoya Ring seemed to be covering a lot of the crime beat. A link provided her email address. I composed a brief message, explaining my interest in the Estrada case and asking that she call me.

Setting aside the Post clipping, I reread the entire file. Every few minutes checking my iPhone. When finished, I’d learned nothing.

But I had the name I needed. Henrietta Hull, Anson County Sheriff’s Office.

My head was pounding from struggling over lousy handwriting and blurry text. And the fatigue was back double-time.

I closed my eyes and rubbed circles on my temples. Call Hull? Or wait to hear from Ring?

It was after nine on a Friday. Unless Hull was working the night shift, she was probably home enjoying a beer. Maybe at church or bowling with her kids. Better to talk to Ring first. If she or a colleague had phoned about Estrada, end of story.

Screw it.

I dialed.

“Anson County Sheriff’s Office. Is this an emergency?”

“No. I—”

“Hold, please.” I held.

“All right, ma’am, what’s your name?”

“Dr. Temperance Brennan.”

“The purpose of your call?”

“I’d like to speak to Deputy Hull.”

“All right, can I tell her what it’s about?”

“The Tia Estrada homicide.”

“Okay. May I ask for specifics?”

“No.”

A slight hesitation. Then, “Hold, please.”

I held. Longer than before.

Things clicked.

“Deputy Hull.” The voice was guarded. Husky but softer than I’d expected. Perhaps a bias on my part due to the nickname.

I explained who I was and my reason for contacting her.

“Suddenly, everyone’s interested.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Two years go by, nothing. Then three queries in a week.” I could hear dialogue in the background, the cadence of a sitcom laugh track.

“You’ve spoken to Detectives Ryan and Slidell.”

“Slidell. He’s a pip.”

“Did he mention Colleen Donovan?”

“No.”

“Donovan was reported missing in Charlotte last February. We suspect her case may be linked to that of Tia Estrada.”

“Who did you say you’re with?”

“The medical examiner. And the CMPD cold case unit.”

“Okay.”

“Six months after Colleen Donovan vanished, an aunt phoned asking for an update. Donovan’s only aunt denies making that call. Six months after Estrada was abducted, a journalist contacted your office. We’re wondering if that call was also a sham.”

“Who’s the journalist?”

“The notation is handwritten, one line that provides no name or number. And there’s no clipping in the file.”

“I’m not surprised. Estrada was killed on Bellamy’s watch, and he already had one flip-flop out the door. I inherited the case when he retired to Boca.”

“I’ve left a message for Latoya Ring. Do you know her?”

“Ring is solid.”

“This might turn out to be nothing. Donovan’s aunt is a tweaker and pretty wasted. But if no one at the Post made the call, do you think you can find and trace the number?”

Twice, canned laughter cued me that something was funny. Finally, “Done. Now tell me what you know.”

I did. Along the way remembered another loose end. “According to the autopsy report, the local ME found hair in Estrada’s throat. Do you know if that hair was tested for DNA?”

“I’ll check.”

“If not, find out what happened to it.”

“Will do.”

A long silence came down from Wadesboro.

“Thanks, Dr. Brennan. This kid deserves better.”

“Tempe,” I said. “I’ll call if I hear back from Ring.”

“You’ll hear back.”

I spent another hour going over photos from the Gower, Nance, Estrada, and Leal scenes. Scrutinizing faces with a handheld magnifier. Comparing features, body shapes, clothing, silhouettes. It was no good. The vessels in my head were trying to blast through my skull. Someone with superior skills and equipment would have to do it.

At ten I packed up and headed home. I’d just pulled in at the annex when my mobile launched into “Joy to the World.” I’d switched the ringtone to try to be festive.

The number was blocked. I hesitated a moment, then clicked on. “Brennan.” Shifting into park.

“It’s Latoya Ring. I’ve just spoken with Hen Hull.”

“Thanks for returning my call.”

“No one here at the Post phoned the sheriff.”

I felt an electric shock fire through my body. “You’re certain?”

“We’re not The New York Times. Only two of us cover the crime beat. He didn’t call, I didn’t call.”

Across the yard, something rippled the tangle of shadows thrown by an enormous magnolia. A dog? A late-night walker? Or did I imagine it?

“And I phoned my editor just to make sure,” Ring continued. “A move that will not contribute to my being named employee of the month. He green-lighted no follow-up on Estrada.”

“You’re certain of that?” Straining to see through the dark.

“The assignment would have fallen to me. I’d asked several times. Was repeatedly told no.”

“Why?”

“There was no point. The cops had zip—no suspects, no leads. The mother wasn’t even in the country by then.”

Tia Estrada wasn’t a blue-eyed darling with Shirley Temple curls.

“Thanks for jumping on this,” I said.

There. Was that movement just past the coach house? A deer?

“The whole thing stinks.”

I waited for Ring to elaborate.

“Some bastard murdered this kid. Then the system let her fall through the cracks.”

“We’ll get him,” I said, squinting into the thick vegetation surrounding my car.

“Take care.”

I sat a moment, mildly uneasy. Then got out and scurried to the annex.

I was in bed in seconds.

Unconscious in minutes.

Unaware of what I’d set in motion.

CHAPTER 28

THAT WEEKEND IT rained in Charlotte, not hard but constantly. At times a mist, at times ramping up to a halfhearted drizzle. A cold dampness saturated the air, and water dripped from the eaves and off the broad green leaves of the magnolias outside.

On Saturday, Mary Louise dropped by to see Birdie. That day’s hat was a striped bucket affair with a tassel on top.

Maybe I was lonely for Ryan. Maybe just lonely. Or maybe I was avoiding a stack of reports that needed my attention. Hell, maybe it was the weather. I surprised myself by asking Mary Louise to stay for lunch.

After gaining parental clearance, we made and ate ham and cheese sandwiches. Then we baked cookies and decorated them with M&M’s. Mary Louise talked about her desire for a dog. Her problems with math. Her love of Katniss. Her goal of becoming a fashion designer. The kid was good company.

On Sunday I drove up to see Mama. At higher elevations, the precipitation hovered on the brink of snow. We sat by the fireplace, watching soggy flakes dissolve into puddles on the deck.

Mama seemed tired, distracted. She asked only once about the “poor lost angels,” drifted through other topics, as though she’d forgotten or lost interest in what had energized her less than two weeks earlier.

Mama’s stance on chemotherapy hadn’t softened. When I broached the subject, she shut me down. The only spark she showed all day.

On my way out, I conferred with Dr. Finch. She urged acceptance. I asked how long. She refused to speculate. Inquired what hospital I preferred should the time come when Heatherhill was no longer adequate. As before, her eyes said more than her words.

Once in the car, I phoned Harry. She refused to acknowledge the inevitable. Talked only of new therapies, miracle cures, a woman in Ecuador who had lived a decade following diagnosis. Classic baby sister.

After disconnecting, I let the tears flow. Riding the salty gush, I focused on my headlights arrowing through the dark.

The trip down the mountain seemed endless. The slushy snow triggered thoughts of my trip from St. Johnsbury to Burlington. I almost welcomed them. But not the horrendous collage that followed in their wake.

A pale body floating in amber liquid. A small bloated corpse on a stainless steel table. Adolescent bones stored in a box on a shelf.

That night the same images kept me awake. When sleep finally came, they invaded my dreams.

Nellie Gower on the edge of a quarry. Lizzie Nance in a field at Latta Plantation. Tia Estrada beside a gazebo at a campground. Shelly Leal under a highway overpass.

Facts. Leading to questions. Which looped into more questions. Never to answers.

Anique Pomerleau hadn’t acted alone in Montreal. Her MO had involved an accomplice.

Pomerleau’s second killing season had begun at a farm in Vermont. Her DNA was found on a victim there, on another in Charlotte.

DNA from a lip print said the current doer in Charlotte was male. That fit the theory that Pomerleau had a killing partner.

But Pomerleau was dead. Had her accomplice taken her off the board? Why? When?

Had he brought his perverse delusions south? Why North Carolina? Was I the draw? Why?

Was he following Pomerleau’s pattern of kidnapping on the anniversaries of previous abductions? Why continue the legacy without her?

Would he strike again soon?

I awoke to bright sunlight. Made coffee and went to bring in the paper.

Blown leaves dotted the patio bricks. The sky was blue. The trees were alive with the businesslike twitter of mockingbirds and cardinals.

I’d just filled my mug when my mobile sounded. At first I didn’t recognize the caller ID. Then I did.

“Hope I didn’t rouse you.” Something in Hen Hull’s voice kicked my pulse up a notch.

“Awake for hours,” I lied.

“Took some doing, but I got it,” Hull said. “Ready?”

I grabbed pen and paper from the counter. “Shoot.” She read off a number, and I wrote it down. “Can you trace—?”

“Ready?”

“Shoot.”

“The call to Bellamy inquiring about the Estrada case came from a pay phone near the intersection of Fifth and North Caswell in your fair city. I thought mobiles had put pay phones up there with the horse and buggy. That and vandalism.”

“The line might be long gone.”

“Or the booth could be a toilet stall.”

I thought a moment. “Even if the phone exists, and there’s video surveillance on that corner, there’s no chance footage would still be around.”

“Not after two years.”

The number was another dead end. I wanted to scream in frustration. “You think the caller was Estrada’s abductor?”

“It wasn’t a journalist at the Post.”

“Any word on the hair?” I asked.

“The autopsy was done by a guy named Bullsbridge. I’m waiting for a callback.”

“Is he competent?”

“I’m waiting for a callback.”

“I’ll brief Slidell,” I said.

“Keep in touch.”

I disconnected. Redialed. The line was busy.

I left a message. The device was still in my hand when Slidell phoned back.

“I got—”

“Hull got—”

We both stopped.

“Go ahead,” I said.

“I got the number of the call on Colleen Donovan. From Tasat’s phone.”

I read off the digits I’d written down.

“Where the hell’d you get that?”

I told him about the caller claiming to be a journalist at the Salisbury Post.

“Same phone. I’ll be goddamned.”

“Undoubtedly the same person. A solid link between Estrada and Donovan.”

“Still don’t tie ’em to Gower and Nance. Or those two to the others.”

“Jesus, Slidell. What do you need?”

“I’m advocating the devil.”

I was too amped to point out that he was garbling the metaphor.

“Now what?” I asked.

“Now I get my nuts handed to me by the DC.”

“You’ve asked for another meeting with Salter?”

“No. Special Asshole Tinker has.”

“Why?”

“He’s got issues with my attitude.”

“Tell Salter about the calls.”

“Eeyuh.”

I tried Ryan. Got voicemail. Rodas. Barrow. Voicemail. Voicemail.

My pulse was humming. I couldn’t sit still.

I changed my ringtone. Did a load of laundry. Ran the vacuum. Put eggs on to boil. Forgot them until the smell of burning shells made me race to the kitchen.

At noon I pulled on gym shorts, a sweatshirt, and Nikes and pounded out two miles on the booty loop. Breathing hard, I inhaled a mixture of wet cement and rain-soaked grass and leaves. Of sun-warmed metal from the cars lining the curbs.

When I finished, students were streaming between the buildings at Queens University. As I walked the last block back to Sharon Hall, the air felt cool on my sweat-slicked skin.

At home, I checked my mobile and landline. No one had called. I wondered if Slidell was still in his meeting with Salter. Or if he’d left it too peeved to bother with me.

I showered and changed into jeans and a sweater. Continuing to feel agitated, I pulled out the copy I’d made of the Nance file.

What was the definition of insanity? Repeating the same action and expecting different results?

Knowing it was futile but needing to do something, I began going through every entry again. Photos. CSS and ME reports. Interview summaries. As with the files in Montreal, the exercise felt like a faded letter from another time.

But today there was an added element. Something nagging at the periphery of my thoughts. Something that refused to come into focus.

Was my subconscious noting a detail that I was missing?

At three I tried Slidell again. With the same result. I thought about calling Tinker. Didn’t, knowing Skinny would rip the skin off my face.

Harry called at four. Should she send Mama flowers? Should she come for a visit? For now, I endorsed FTD.

A cup of Earl Grey, then back to the file.

Still my subconscious tickled. What? A photo? Something I’d read? Something Ring had said? Hull?

At five I gave up.

Out of ideas but unable to rest, I got online and called up a map of Charlotte. After locating the intersection of North Caswell and Fifth Street, I switched to satellite view and zoomed in.

I spotted the pay phone. Beside it was a parking lot filled with vehicles. Below that a sprawling brick structure.

I activated the label function. A purple bubble appeared. I clicked on it. Saw the words “CMC—Mercy.”

Carolinas Medical Center—Mercy Hospital.

Something flickered in my lower centers. Was gone.

I stared at the screen, willing the pesky spark to burst through.

It did. With a high-voltage jolt.

Lizzie Nance had been researching ER nursing for a school project. They’d found the report on her laptop after she died.

Shelly Leal had gone to an ER for dysmenorrhea.

Colleen Donovan had been transported to an ER after falling and hitting her head.

A caller using fake identities had dialed from a pay phone across from a hospital. To check on Estrada. To check on Donovan.

As I thought about it, I could feel my blood pumping faster.

I grabbed the phone. Had to key the digits twice. “Come on. Come on.”

“Yo.” Slidell was chewing on something.

My words came out at breakneck speed. In finishing, “You need to call Shelly Leal’s mother. Ask what hospital they took her to. Then find out where Donovan was treated.”

“I’ll get back to you.” Gruff.

The wait seemed endless. In fact, it was under an hour.

“CMC—Mercy,” Slidell said.

“Sonofabitch,” I said. “That’s where the victims were chosen.”

“I’ll get a list of employees.”

“Without a warrant?”

“I’ll persuade them.”

“How?”

“Personal charm. If that don’t work, I’ll threaten to dime the Observer.”

Slidell had the roster by ten. “You got any idea how many people work at a hospital?”

“Now what?” I asked.

“I’m running the names against those I got from the DMV on the license plate ID. Special Asshole’s gonna start sending ’em through the system.”

“Doesn’t every hospital employee undergo a background check?”

“Yeah. That stops the bad guys.”

“Focus on those with an ER connection.”

We hung up.

While waiting to hear back from Slidell, I tried Ryan again. This time he answered.

He was as pumped as I was. Congratulated me. “Not much dropping here,” he said.

“Have you found Tawny McGee’s psychologist?”

“Yeah. Pamela Lindahl. She’s actually a social services psychiatrist.”

“Is she still affiliated with the General?”

“Yes. But she sucks at returning calls. I’ll keep on it. But I doubt finding McGee will lead anywhere.”

I couldn’t disagree. And wondered if opening the wound was worth the cost. “What about Rodas?” I asked.

“He called in some chits with the press. Had Pomerleau’s face published statewide, along with a description and a plea to the public for pics or video taken between 2004 and 2009 in which she might be seen in the background. You know, photo bombing at a store, a gas station, a parking lot.”

“If she’s with a guy, it could put a face to her playmate.”

“Exactly. It’s unlikely, but you never know. He’s also got people canvassing door-to-door in Hardwick and St. Johnsbury.”

I asked Ryan if he was planning to return to Charlotte. He said soon.

There was an awkward pause. Or I imagined one. Then we disconnected.

Knowing I wouldn’t sleep, I made tea and returned to the Nance file.

Gran’s clock ticked softly from its place on the mantel.

As expected, I found nothing further.

At midnight I switched to the reports awaiting my attention. My mind kept drifting. I speculated. Pomerleau’s accomplice was an EMT. A nurse. A security guard.

The hours dragged by at glacial speed.

Slidell finally called at two A.M.

He had learned three things.