Текст книги "Bones Never Lie"
Автор книги: Kathy Reichs
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CHAPTER 33
NONE OF THE photos looked recent. One was posed. A woman, seated, a baby on her lap and a toddler at her side. A red velvet band held long black hair back from her face. The woman looked straight at the camera with large brown eyes. Sad eyes.
The other two pictures were snapshots. One captured the woman walking hand in hand with two little girls. They looked about three and five. In the other, the trio was seated on a wall. Same kids but older, maybe six and eight.
Both girls had the woman’s dark eyes and hair. On both occasions, their hair was center-parted, braided, and tied off with bows.
My mind popped a series of flashbulb images. Leal. Donovan. Estrada. Koseluk. Nance. Gower.
I hurried back to the kitchen. Slidell was peering into the fridge. “Did you check out the photos in the bedroom?”
“Probably the wife and kids.” Slamming the door.
“Did you see the resemblance—”
“You telling me how to do my job?”
Cutting, even for Slidell. Knowing pressure from Salter and friction with Tinker were combining to make him overly defensive, I let it go. “Are you getting any feel for who Ajax is?”
“Bollywood freak.” Far from apologetic but more tempered.
“The DVDs?”
Slidell nodded. “Lousy dresser. Eats healthy. Likes baseball.” I cocked a questioning brow. Wasted, since Slidell wasn’t looking at me. “He gets the major league package on cable.”
I scanned the countertop beyond the island. Not a crumb or smudge. No canisters or cookie jar. Only a portable phone in a charger.
Slidell turned and saw where I was looking. “Yes. I hit redial. The last call went to Mercy.”
“Any stored numbers?”
“No.”
“Any messages?”
“No.”
“You’re right about the place being spotless.”
“The worm’s got every spray and polish ever put in a bottle.” Jerking a thumb at a pantry I hadn’t noticed before.
“Does he use a cleaning service?”
“None of the neighbors ever saw anyone but him come and go. Hell, they hardly ever saw him.”
“Yard service?”
“No.”
“What about mail?” I noticed a small white box on the wall beside the back door.
“Utility bills. Circulars. Catalogues. Nothing personal.”
“No indication he maintained contact with his family?”
“They’re in India.”
“They have phones and mailboxes there.”
“No shit.”
“Catalogues might mean he shopped online.” The box had a sticker.
“I don’t shop online, and I get the same crap.”
“Was the security system activated when you came in?” The sticker had a logo. ADT.
“Yeah.”
“Ajax gave you the code?”
“I persuaded him that sharing was in his best interest.”
“So he sets the alarm when he’s away.”
“Where you going with this?”
“If ADT keeps records, they could tell you when Ajax entered and left the house.”
“They could tell me when someone entered and left the house.”
“So this was a bust,” I said.
“You kiddin’? Double score.” Slidell stripped off his gloves. “First, this house ain’t a crime scene.”
Slidell’s phone buzzed. He yanked it from his belt. Checked the screen. Sighed and raised it to his ear. “Slidell.”
A tinny voice. Female. Strident.
“Yeah?”
The voice boiled again.
“Musta been a misunderstanding.”
More boiling.
“On my way.” Hooking the device back into place. “Salter’s putting me up for cop of the year.” Slidell looked at me, eyes bloodshot from worry and unrest. Then strode toward the door.
“And the second?” I asked.
“What?” Turning.
“What’s the second thing you learned?”
“The prick keeps another crib for his dirty work.”
While Slidell reported to Salter, I went to the MCME.
Larabee’s bones weren’t as straightforward as he’d hoped. Though far from complete, the skeleton was obviously human. A male, middle-aged, edentulous, probably white. Cortical flaking, discoloration, and adherent fibers suggested the man had occupied a coffin for many years.
Larabee was off somewhere. I wrote a preliminary report and left it on his desk. It would be up to him to investigate or not.
Slidell phoned late in the afternoon. His mood made the morning’s seem happy-go-lucky.
Salter had gotten two calls before noon. One was from Ajax’s lawyer, Jonathan Rao, accusing the CMPD of denying his client the constitutional right to counsel. The other was from the judge who’d issued the search warrant—Rao had also reamed out Her Honor.
Since neither caller was happy, Salter wasn’t happy. After laying into Slidell, she’d relented and said he could re-interview Ajax. Wearing gloves made of very young goat. The session yielded nothing. The few answers Ajax gave were filtered through Rao. At three, both walked out the door. It was the last time anyone would talk to Hamet Ajax.
Slidell had received video from Walmart and Harris Teeter that covered the day Leal went missing. So far, he hadn’t spotted Ajax or his car. He planned to continue working through the footage.
I got through two reports, knocked off at five. Back home, I ate Bojangles’ chicken with Bird and watched a rerun of Bones. For some reason, the cat is nuts about Hodgins.
Slidell called again at nine. “He’s on tape.”
“Which one?”
“Walmart and the Manor.” Gloomy. Obviously not wanting Ajax to be there.
“LSA for Leal was 4:15 at the convenience store on Morningside.”
“Ajax was in the Walmart on Pineville-Matthews Road. Entered at 3:52. Left at 5:06.”
“Rush hour, and those locations are at least ten miles apart.”
We both gnawed on that.
“Maybe you were right.” Slidell sighed. “Maybe this douchebag don’t work alone.”
Or maybe. Just maybe.
I didn’t say it.
That night, sleep was elusive.
The rain was back. I lay in the dark, listening to drops hit the screen and patter on the sill. To the subtle hum of my bedside clock.
And thought the thought again.
Impossible.
I reviewed what I knew about serial killers. Their victims usually conform to a type. A tall blond woman. A teenage boy with short brown hair. Cher. A hooker. A homeless codger with a cart full of trash.
The individual means nothing to the killer. He or she is irrelevant, a bit player in a carefully constructed ballet. The dance alone matters. Each battement and pirouette must be carried out with precision.
The killer is both dancer and choreographer, in control at all times. Victims enter and leave the stage, interchangeable, bit players in the corps.
I thought about Pomerleau. About Catts. About the mad tango that had left so many dead in Montreal.
I thought about Ajax. To what sick music was he moving? Did he learn it from Pomerleau? Or did he compose the score himself?
In his subconscious, who might Ajax be killing? His daughters? His wife? The babysitter who seduced him and ruined his life?
Birdie jumped onto the bed. I scooped him close. He readjusted, settled, and head-bumped my palm. I stroked him and he started to purr.
Ajax was shopping when Shelly Leal disappeared. Did he have an accomplice? Was it someone at the hospital? If not there, where? Did he have a killing place, as Slidell believed?
Or.
I thought of the home on Sunrise Court. So architecturally right and yet so wrong. Lifeless. Sterile.
I pictured Ajax working crossword puzzles in his bed. Paying bills at his desk. Watching baseball or DVDs from the chartreuse chair. Alone. Always alone. A common pattern with serial killers.
In my mind, I went back through each room. Recalled not a single thing to suggest that Ajax had a life outside his home or the hospital. No woman’s robe in the closet. No Post-it on the fridge saying, Call Tom. No picture of himself with friends or co-workers. No reminder on a calendar to meet Ira for lunch. Nothing to suggest anyone in Ajax’s life cared about him. That he cared about anyone.
No. That wasn’t true. He’d kept the three photos. Old photos. Of whom? Had to be his wife and daughters. Was the woman the template for his victims? One of the girls? Why?
No one at Mercy knew Ajax. No one on his street. No one in New Hampshire or West Virginia remembered him.
Again the unsettling thought. Could we be wrong? Could Ajax be innocent?
Could we be bullying a man who cut himself off from the world out of self-loathing? A man who had made a hideous mistake and lost everything? A man unable to forgive his own actions? Unwilling to trust himself outside the confines of the workplace or home?
There was no excuse for taking advantage of a child. But had anyone followed up on that? Talked to those involved in the arrest and prosecution? The babysitter would be in her thirties now. Had anyone talked to her?
I would ask Slidell in the morning.
Outside, the rain fell softly. Inside, the annex was dark and still.
My mind refused to clock out.
Over and over, I glanced at the time.
11:20.
12:10.
2:47.
My iPhone woke me from a sound sleep. The room was dim. The digits on the clock said 5:40.
Mama!
Heart banging, I clicked on.
My mother wasn’t dead.
Hamet Ajax was.
CHAPTER 34
SLIDELL PICKED ME up with no more greeting than a sour glance. Which was fine.
He handed me a Styrofoam cup with a white plastic cover. The tepid contents bore some vague resemblance to coffee.
As we drove, the horizon bled from black into pearly pink. Trees and buildings took shape, and gray oozed into the spaces between.
The lighter it got, the worse Slidell looked. His lower face was dark with five o’clock shadow; the bags under his eyes were large enough to house small mammals. His outfit was a color-clashing, coffee-stained rumple that stank of cigarettes and sweat.
Slidell briefed me in a voice gravelly from too much smoking and too little sleep.
After collecting his car, Ajax had driven to the hospital. He’d committed to a double shift that day, a practice not out of character. Thirty minutes after arriving, he’d left. Definitely out of character.
Ajax had told his supervisor, Dr. Joan Cauthern, that he was a victim of police harassment. Said he hadn’t been home all day and needed to shower and check his house. Assured Cauthern he’d be back by seven.
The surveillance team had followed Ajax from Mercy to Sunrise Court. He pulled into his garage at 5:22. Never left.
When Ajax failed to return as promised, Cauthern began phoning. Tried repeatedly throughout the night. By early morning, she’d grown concerned. Ajax had been perspiring heavily and acting fidgety, behaviors she’d never seen him exhibit. At four A.M., when the ER grew quiet, Cauthern went to his home to see if he was ill.
The surveillance team observed a vehicle pull into Ajax’s driveway at 4:20 A.M. A woman got out and rang the bell. Dialed a cellphone. Rang again. Getting no response, the woman shifted to the garage. Appeared to listen with an ear to the door. Walked to the side and peered through a window. Ran toward the cruiser, waving her arms.
The officers approached. The woman appeared agitated. Gave her name as Joan Cauthern. Stated she was Ajax’s superior at Mercy Hospital.
Cauthern said a car was running inside the garage. Said she feared Ajax was in it.
Hearing engine sounds, the officers forced open the door. Found an adult male unconscious behind the wheel of a Hyundai Sonata. Tried to resuscitate, but the victim failed to respond. Called for a bus. Called Slidell.
The ambulance was now gone, and the MCME van had taken its place. Larabee’s car was there. The CSS truck. A cruiser with bubble lights flashing. A Lexus I assumed belonged to Cauthern. The garage door was up, the overheads on. Ditto every light in the house.
A gurney had been rolled up the drive. On it lay a black body bag, unzipped, ready. Beside it were the same CSS techs who’d worked the site less than twenty-four hours earlier. One held a video camera, the other a Nikon.
Slidell and I got out. The sky had morphed to a foggy gray. The color of Ajax’s lonely rooms, I thought.
The air was cool and damp. The frost-coated lawn pulsed red and blue. As Slidell and I crossed it, my insides felt like a lump of granite.
Larabee stood in the space between the Hyundai and the garage wall. Beside him was Joe Hawkins, an investigator with the MCME. On the floor between them was the metal death scene kit. Hawkins was shooting pics.
The driver’s door was open. Through it I could see Ajax slumped over the wheel, head twisted to the side, nasal mucus and saliva crusted on one cheek. His hands hung limp at his knees. A pair of tortoiseshell glasses lay on a mat by his feet. The macabre tableau brightened every time Hawkins’s flash went off.
“Doc.” Slidell’s way of announcing our arrival.
Larabee turned, thermometer in one gloved hand. Hawkins kept snapping away. “Detective Slidell. Dr. Brennan. Gotta love a brisk winter dawn.”
“What have we got?” Slidell opened his spiral.
“Probable carbon monoxide poisoning.”
“The guy offed himself?”
“The first responders found no signs of forced entry in the house or garage. No note. I’m seeing minimal trauma.”
“Minimal?”
“Abrasions on the forehead and right ear. Probably caused by the head impacting the wheel.”
“Probably?”
“Possibly.”
“Meaning suicide.”
“I’ll know after the autopsy.”
Most carbon monoxide deaths are due to accident or suicide. A few are due to foul play. Larabee knew and was being guarded.
“The garage door was down when Cauthern arrived?” Slidell asked.
“So I’m told.”
“The car hood wasn’t raised, right?”
“Right.”
“The vic have any grease on his hands?”
“No.”
Slidell scanned the small space where we stood. “No tools lying around.”
“I agree, Detective. This doesn’t look like an accident.”
“Time of death?”
“Based on body temp, I’d put it somewhere between twelve and two this morning. As usual, that’s only a rough estimate.”
“How long’s it take?”
“Death by carbon monoxide poisoning?”
Slidell nodded.
“Not long.”
Slidell frowned.
“It requires very little CO to produce lethal levels of carboxyhemoglobin in the body.”
The frown continued.
To his credit, Larabee showed no impatience. But he kept it simple. Very simple. “Carboxyhemoglobin disrupts oxygen supply to the cells.”
“Gimme a little more than that.”
“Okay.” Larabee did some editing. “Hemoglobin is a molecule found in the red blood cells. Its job is to circulate oxygen throughout the body. But hemoglobin has a strong affinity for carbon monoxide, CO. If both oxygen and carbon monoxide are present, hemoglobin is much more likely to bind with the CO. When that happens, you get carboxyhemoglobin, which can’t do the job.”
Larabee didn’t go into the fact that hemoglobin has four binding sites to maximize the capture of oxygen from arterial blood flowing from the lungs and to expedite its release into the tissues and organs. That in the presence of both oxygen and carbon monoxide, hemoglobin is two to three hundred times more likely to bind with the latter. That this binding with CO inhibits the release of O2 molecules found on the hemoglobin’s other binding sites. That, as a result, even if blood concentrations of oxygen rise, the O2 remains bound to the hemoglobin and isn’t delivered to the cells. That, as a consequence of oxygen deprivation, the heart goes into tachycardia, increasing the risk of angina, arrhythmia, and pulmonary edema. The brain short-circuits.
That carbon monoxide is very bad shit.
“We’re talking how much?” Slidell pressed.
“High blood levels of carboxyhemoglobin can result from air containing only small amounts of CO.”
“You breathe the stuff.”
“Yes.”
I was sure Slidell knew the basics, that he’d worked similar cases in the past. I wondered at his uncharacteristic interest in the physiology of carbon monoxide poisoning.
My brain fired a series of stats on CO blood levels. Of symptoms of toxicity. Bizarre. A stored holdover from some long-ago grad school course. 1 to 3 percent: normal. 7 to 10 percent: normal in smokers. 10 to 20 percent: headache, poor concentration. 30 to 40 percent: severe headache, nausea, vomiting, faintness, lethargy, elevated pulse and breathing rates. 40 to 60 percent: disorientation, weakness, loss of coordination. 60 percent: coma and death.
Slidell sighed. “How ’bout a ballpark?”
“Of?” Larabee had squatted to inspect Ajax’s hands.
“How long you last.”
“Inhaling air with a carbon monoxide level as low as point two percent can produce carboxyhemoglobin levels exceeding sixty percent in just thirty to forty-five minutes.”
“That’ll kill ya?”
“That’ll kill ya.”
Slidell jotted, then gestured with the spiral. “And we got that here?”
“Engine running in an enclosed one-car garage. Door lowered. Windows shut. Definitely.” Larabee spoke without looking up. “In as little as five to ten minutes.”
“So Ajax was toast soon after he turned the key.”
“Assuming he turned the key.”
“Assuming that.”
“And that he was breathing when he went into the car.”
“And that.”
“Which I suspect was the case. See this?” Larabee lifted one of Ajax’s hands.
Slidell eyeballed it from where he was standing. “That blood-settling thing. Because the arms are hanging down.”
“Yes. But I’m talking about the nail beds.”
Slidell bent for a closer look. “They’re bright pink.”
“Yes again. Which suggests he was alive.”
I pictured the cherry-red blood and organs Larabee would see when he made his Y incision. The slivers of liver, lung, stomach, kidney, heart, and spleen still cherry red when floating in formalin. Still cherry red when sliced into thin sections and placed on microscope slides.
“Remind me. When does the blood-settling thing start?”
“Livor. Within two hours of death. Peaks in six to eight.” Larabee stood. “But it’s cold out here. That would slow the process.”
“The livor in the fingers. That says no one moved the body, right?”
“Yes.”
“And he ain’t in rigor.” Slidell pronounced it “rigger.”
“There’s some stiffening in the smaller muscles of the face and neck. But that’s it.”
“Rigor starts when?”
“In roughly two hours. But low temperatures would slow that, too.” Larabee stood. “I’ll run a full tox screen.”
“Looking for what?”
“Whatever he had in him. People often self-medicate before killing themselves.”
“What’s the story in the house?”
“According to the first responders, the bed was made, the TV and radio were off, there was a single coffee cup in the sink, clean and upside down.”
“No note?”
“No note.”
“Nothing to suggest a visitor.”
“Not last I heard.”
“I’m done with my prelim.” Larabee turned to Hawkins. “Joe?”
Hawkins shot a couple more angles, the flash burning Ajax white-hot onto my retinas. Draped over the wheel, he looked like a man dozing, or drunk after a night on the town.
Slidell and I stepped outside. Hawkins positioned the gurney as close to the car as possible. Then he bent and grasped Ajax by the shoulders. Ajax slid free, lifeless and limp. Hawkins pinned the arms to his chest. Larabee caught the legs before the feet hit the ground. Together they transferred him to the body bag.
Flash recall. Maneuvering Pomerleau from her barrel in Vermont with Cheri Karras.
After collecting Ajax’s glasses and placing them by his head, Hawkins zipped the bag. Then he rolled the gurney to the van, loaded it, and slammed the doors.
I watched the van disappear. Feeling cold inside and out.
“I want to see what this piece of dog shit’s got in his trunk.”
I turned. Slidell was pulling on gloves. After yanking the key from the ignition, he circled to the rear of the Hyundai and jammed it into the lock.
The trunk popped with a soft thunk.
An odor floated out. Sweet, acrid.
Familiar.
CHAPTER 35
IT WAS OUR worst nightmare.
And Ryan’s big bang.
Jaw clamped, Slidell lifted a Ziploc from a cardboard box holding other Ziplocs and a small plastic tub.
Through the clear side of the bag, I could make out four things. A silver seashell ring. A key on a red cord. A yellow ribbon. A pink ballet slipper.
We all stared. Dejected. Appalled. Angry.
“Whose ribbon?” My voice sounded high and taut.
“It don’t matter. This nails the sonofabitch.”
Slidell laid down the bag and chose another. It contained vials filled with a dark liquid that looked like blood. A third held hypodermic needles. A fourth had cotton-tipped swabs, a fifth wadded-up tissues.
“What’s in the tub?” Larabee asked.
Slidell pried off the lid. A noxious odor slapped our nostrils.
“Bloody hell.” Slidell’s head jerked sideways.
“Let me see,” I said.
Slidell extended his arm. Have at it.
Larabee’s breath caught. I think mine did, too.
I saw pale hair floating in muddy brown soup. An unrecognizable mass below.
“It’s some kinda body part, right?”
No one had an answer to that.
“Another souvenir?”
Or to that.
“You believing this? All the time the bastard’s stonewalling us, he’s driving around with this freak show in his car.” To Larabee. “Take the body parts. I’ll send the rest to the lab.”
Larabee nodded.
Yanking off a glove with his teeth, Slidell stormed over to the CSS techs. I couldn’t hear his instructions but knew what they were. Bag and tag everything, impound the car, burn the house down looking for more.
As Larabee sealed the plastic tub into an evidence bag, the techs pulled rolls of yellow tape from their truck and began securing the scene. Slidell hurried to his car and threw himself in.
I watched him gun up the street, mobile mashed to one ear.
Larabee decided to examine the tub first. He didn’t really need me, still asked that I assist. Said if there was anything requiring an anthropology consult, I could proceed with that while he autopsied Ajax.
I agreed willingly. I was jittery and on edge. Knew the annex would feel cramped and claustrophobic, peopled with the ghosts of five dead girls. Maybe six.
Besides, I had no ride home.
We were at the MCME by eight. After changing into scrubs, I met Larabee in the stinky room. Hawkins was busy doing prelims on Ajax, so we’d decided to proceed unassisted.
As I readied the camera, Larabee set the tub on the counter. I asked the case number, prepared labels, and shot pics. When I set the Nikon aside, Larabee gloved and raised his mask. I did the same. He opened the tub. Same stench. Same hair and shit-brown slop.
I took more photos, then, using a fine mesh strainer, Larabee poured the liquid off into a beaker. Unfolded and spread a green towel in the sink.
When he tipped the strainer, a glob dropped onto the cloth, spongy and slick and covered with hair.
Larabee used a probe to uncurl and lay the glob flat. It was thin in cross section, oval, approximately one inch wide by two inches long.
Larabee tested the glob with a probe. Lifted its tangle of hair.
My mind flashed a series of images. I saw flesh the color of curdled milk. Darkness at the end of each pale strand.
I felt a pang of nausea. Swallowed. “It’s scalp.”
“Human?” Larabee bent closer. “Could be.”
“Not could be.” Forcing my voice even. “It is.”
Larabee’s gaze cut to me. Without a word, he got the handheld magnifier, positioned it, and bent close. “I see what you mean. The hair is bleached.”
“It’s from Anique Pomerleau.”
“You’re kidding.” Twisting to face me.
“I assisted at the Pomerleau autopsy.”
“In Burlington.”
I nodded. “Pomerleau had three scalp lesions we couldn’t explain.”
“Areas of necrosis?”
I shook my head. “The tissue was gone right down to the skull. Each lesion was oval and measured roughly one inch by two.”
Above our masks, our eyes held. Larabee’s showed bewilderment. Mine undoubtedly showed revulsion.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying the killer took”—I struggled for the right word—“specimens from Pomerleau and placed them on his victims.”
“The hair in Leal and Estrada’s throats?”
I nodded.
“The vials. Christ, he also took blood? Maybe used the Q-tips as swabs to get DNA?”
“I think it’s possible.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Larabee’s brows drew together. He started to speak.
At that moment Hawkins’s head popped through the door. “Ready,” he said quietly.
“Be right there,” Larabee said.
A long minute passed.
“Ajax was a doctor. He’d have the skill to draw blood. To incise tissue.”
“Yes,” I agreed.
“If the liquid in those vials tests positive as human blood, serology should fire it through for DNA sequencing.”
“I’ll phone Slidell,” I said.
“Thanks.”
Stripping his mask and gloves, Larabee hurried from the room.
After shooting a final series of photos, I repackaged the slice of scalp and placed it in the cooler. Then I went to my office.
Maybe it was fatigue. Maybe distraction. Slidell showed no reaction to my news. Just asked that I phone when Larabee finished the autopsy. He was at Mercy, talking to Ajax’s co-workers.
At three-thirty Larabee came into my office. His scrubs were dark at the underarms and stained with blood. Spatter on one sleeve reminded me of the electric icicles framing my neighbor’s front door.
I set aside my report and assumed a listening pose. The boss liked to share detail.
Larabee found no fluid or adhesions in the pleural cavities, no congestion or hemorrhage in the lungs, no infarction in the heart, no ulcer in the stomach, no fibrosis in the liver, no thromboembolism, no varices in the arterial, venous, or lymphatic systems.
Except for minor arteriosclerosis, normal in a man of forty-eight years, Hamet Ajax was in good health. He hadn’t eaten all day. Had only coffee in his stomach.
Larabee had observed the telltale cherry-red blood and musculature, as well as marked hyperemia, or blood engorgement, in all tissues. He’d noted hyperemia, edema, and diffuse punctate hemorrhages throughout the cerebral hemispheres of the brain, widespread degeneration of the cortical and nuclear ganglion cells, and symmetric degeneration of the basal ganglia, particularly the nuclei.
“Asphyxia by acute carbon monoxide poisoning.”
“Manner?” I asked.
“Tougher call.”
“Any hints at something other than suicide?”
“Not really. But I’ll wait for tox results before signing it out. I also want to know what they find in that house.
“And now.” His elbows winged out as he pushed to his feet, one palm on each knee. “I have a Christmas party to attend.”
“Holiday.”
“What?”
“Can’t forget Hanukkah.”
“And Kwanzaa.”
With that he was gone.
I passed none of the minutiae on to Slidell. Simply reported that Ajax’s death was confirmed as due to carbon monoxide poisoning. And that Larabee would know more when he received toxicology results.
I also called Ryan. As I laid it all out, I could picture him running a hand through his hair.
“So Slidell thinks the souvenirs nail the coffin on Leal, Gower, and Nance. And possession of Pomerleau’s DNA ties in Estrada,” he said.
“He wasn’t chatty, but I’m sure that’s his thinking.”
“Skinny should be decking the halls. Four solves and bye-bye, Tinker.”
“He sounded exhausted.”
“What about the others?”
“I don’t know.”
“It sucks that Slidell can’t question Ajax,” he observed.
“It does.”
“Stand down on my end?”
“I guess so.”
“I was out of road anyway.”
A long stretch of silence.
“Merry Christmas, Brennan.”
“Merry Christmas, Ryan.”
I hung up and sat a moment, hand still on the phone. I should have felt pleased. Relieved. Why didn’t I?
The others. Koseluk. Donovan. Would they remain open MP cases? Would active investigations continue? Was someone somewhere searching for the child whose skeleton lay on my shelf?
Annually, over eight hundred thousand people vanish in the United States. At least four years had passed since ME107-10 died. Three since Avery Koseluk went missing. I knew the sad answer.
But Ajax was wearing a tag on his toe. The madness was over.
My eyes drifted to a flyer tacked to my corkboard. Larabee’s comment reminded me. I also had invitations.
The UNCC anthropology department’s holiday gathering was scheduled that night. Often the venue was a zillion miles out in the country. This year it would take place at a faculty home in Plaza-Midwood. Not far from the annex.
Still, I wasn’t in the mood. Rarely am. Hot crowded rooms. Bad sweaters. Merrymakers rosy with eggnog and yuletide beer. It’s not the drinking. I’ve learned to live without alcohol. Small talk over canapés just isn’t my strong suit.
Nevertheless, I like my colleagues. Most of the grad students.
I bought a bottle of pinot, put on a red silk blouse, and headed out for some holly jolly.
I should have been ready to party. We finally had our killer. No motive. No explanation how Ajax hooked up with Pomerleau. Why or how he killed her. Why he continued to follow her playbook. Those answers would come later. What mattered was that he’d never strike again.
Still, troubling questions kept me distracted.
I thought of Ryan’s words. Had Ajax wanted to be caught? Then why the lawyer? Why the innocent act when finally reeled in?
That one was easy. Ajax was a sociopath. Sociopaths lie. And they do it well.
I recalled the interviews. Ajax had expressed no sympathy for the murdered girls. For a child he had treated.
Ajax killed himself. If he was planning suicide, why promise Cauthern he’d return to the hospital? Had the decision been spur-of-themoment? Triggered by what?
Ajax was ten miles away when Leal was abducted. How could he be in two places at once? Did he have an accomplice?
When I look back on that Christmas, on those cases, I always remember the moment we opened that trunk. The quavery fluorescents carving our features. The lights strobing blue and red in the cold dawn air. The overnight frost yielding to the warmth of sunlight.
I always wonder—had I voiced my concerns then, might things have gone differently?
I’ll never know. I said nothing.
