Karin Slaughter - Broken

“That sounds like a large folding knife.”

Sara thought he was right based on the bruise from the hilt, but she told him, “I really need to look at the wound in a better setting than inside the freezer.”

“Was it serrated?”

“I don’t think so, but really, let me get into the wound and I can tell you everything you need to know.”

He chewed his lip, obviously thinking about what she had told him. “It takes less than two pounds of pressure to penetrate skin.”

“As long as the knife is pointed and sharp and the blade is forcefully thrust.”

“Sounds like something a hunter would know how to do.”

“Hunter, doctor, mortician, butcher.” She felt the need to add, “Or anyone with a good search engine. I’m sure you can find all kinds of anatomical diagrams on the Internet. Whether they’re accurate is up for debate, but whoever did this was showing off his skills. I hate to keep banging the same drum, but Tommy had an IQ of eighty. It took him two months to learn how to tie his shoes. Do you really think that he committed this crime?”

“I don’t like to speculate.”

She gave him his own words. “It’s just us down here. I won’t tell anyone.”

Will didn’t give in as easily as Sara had. “Was Tommy a hunter?”

“I doubt Gordon would’ve let him have a gun.”

Will took a moment before asking his next question. “Why not drown her? She was standing by a lake.”

“The water must have been close to freezing. There was the chance of a struggle. She could’ve yelled. My house is—was—across the lake from Lover’s Point, but sometimes when the wind was right, I could hear music playing, kids laughing. Certainly, any number of people would have heard a young girl screaming for her life.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to cut the front of the throat instead of going in through the back?”

She nodded, saying, “If you cut the trachea, the victim wouldn’t be able to speak, let alone yell for help.”

Will pointed out, “Women tend to use knives.”

Sara hadn’t considered the possibility, but she was grateful his mind was moving off Tommy. “Allison was small. A woman could have overwhelmed her, then carried her to the water.”

“Was the killer left-handed? Right-handed?”

“Well—” Sara was going to ask if it mattered to someone who could not tell the difference, but answered him instead. “I’m assuming right-handed.” Sara held up her right hand. “The attacker would have been at a superior position, standing above her, possibly straddling her, when the blade went in.” She paused. “This is why I don’t like to make assumptions. I need to check her stomach and lungs. If we find lake water, then that means she was probably facedown in the water when he stabbed her.”

“Knowing whether she was in the water or in the mud when she was stabbed will be instrumental to my investigation.”

She furrowed her brow. “Are you being a smart-ass, Agent Trent?”

“Based on how you asked that question, I think my answer should be no.”

Sara laughed. “Good call.”

“Thank you, Dr. Linton.” He looked around the embalming suite and gave a shiver. “It’s cold down here. Aren’t you cold?”

She realized he was wearing the same clothes from yesterday but for the black T-shirt, which he’d changed for a white one. “Didn’t you bring a coat?”

He shook his head. “I’m in an awful situation with my clothes. I need to borrow your mom’s washer and dryer tonight. Do you think she’ll mind?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Have you heard from Frank Wallace today?”

She shook her head.

“It’s starting to annoy me that he hasn’t bothered to show up. Does he normally let Lena do all the heavy lifting?”

“I don’t know how they work together now. She used to go back and forth between Frank and my husband, whoever needed her at the time.”

“I’m just wondering if she’s reporting back to Frank or if they’re both doing their own thing.” Will gestured toward the gurneys. “Can I help you with anything?”

“What’s your squeamish level?”

“I don’t like rats and I’m bad around vomit.”

“I think we’re safe on both points.” Sara wanted to get started so she wasn’t here past midnight. “Can you help me get Allison onto the table?”

The joking camaraderie from before quickly turned into a more serious collaboration. They worked in silence, rolling the gurney into the freezer, lifting the body in unison. There was a scale in the floor. The digital readout already took the gurney into account. Sara rolled the bed onto the plate. Allison Spooner had weighed 102 pounds.

When Sara put on a pair of surgical gloves, Will followed suit. She let him help unzip the body bag and roll the girl left, then right, to slide the black plastic out from under her. He held one end of the measuring tape so she could get the girl’s height.

Will said, “Sixty-three inches. Five foot three.”

“I need to write this down.” Sara knew there was no way she could remember all these numbers. There was a whiteboard mounted to the back wall over the counter. Sara used the marker hanging on a string to record Allison’s height and weight. To be thorough, she then added age, sex, race, and hair color. The girl’s eyes were open, so she noted that her eye color was brown.

When Sara turned around, she found Will looking at the numbers. Sara had used abbreviations that even a reading person would have trouble understanding. She pointed to the letters. “Date of birth, height, weight—”

“I got it,” he said. His tone was as close to curt as she’d ever heard.

Sara resisted the urge to talk about the elephant in the room, to tell him that it was foolish for him to be ashamed. He had spent a lifetime hiding his dyslexia, and she wasn’t going to fix that by confronting him about it in the basement of the funeral home. Not to mention that it was none of her business.

She walked to the tall locker beside the office, assuming Brock still kept his supplies in the same place. “Crap,” she mumbled. The camera and all its pieces were laid out on velvet cloths covering two shelves. She picked up a lens. “I’m not sure I know how this thing goes together.”

“Mind if I try?” Will didn’t wait for her response. He picked up the lens and twisted it onto the camera, then bolted on the lights, the flash, and the metal guide that recorded depth. He pressed several buttons until the LCD display blinked on, then scrolled through all the icons until he found the one he was looking for.

Sara had two degrees and a board certification under her belt, but hell would have frozen over before she would’ve been able to figure out anything to do with the camera. Curiosity broke her earlier resolve. “Have you ever been tested?”

“No.” He stood behind Sara, holding the camera in front so she could see. “Zoom here,” he said, flicking the toggle.

“You could probably—”

“This is macro.”

“Will—”

“Super macro.” He kept talking over her until she gave up. “Here’s where you adjust for color. This is light. Anti-shake. Red-eye.” He clicked through the features like a photography instructor.

Sara finally relented. “Why don’t I point and you shoot?”

“All right.” His back was stiff, and she could tell that he was irritated.

“I’m sorry I—”

“Please don’t apologize.”

Sara held his gaze for a few moments longer, wishing she could fix this. There was nothing to say if he wouldn’t even let her apologize.

She told him, “Let’s start.”

Sara directed him around the table as he photographed Allison Spooner head to toe. The warm-up jacket. The stab wound that went through to her neck. The sliced material where the knife had cut through. The teeth marks on the inside of her lip.