Karin Slaughter: Blindsighted

"Shit," Lena hissed, catching the flash of blue lights behind her. She slowed the car, pulling over as the Civic passed her. The Yankee beeped his horn and waved. It was Lena 's turn to give the Ohioan a one-finger salute.

The Georgia highway patrolman took his time getting out of his car. Lena turned to her purse in the backseat, rummaging around for her badge. When she turned back around, she was surprised to see the cop standing just to the rear of her vehicle. His hand was on his weapon, and she kicked herself for not waiting for him to come to the car. He probably thought she was looking for a gun.

Lena dropped the badge in her lap and held her hands in the air, offering, "Sorry," out the open window.

The cop took a tentative step forward, his square jaw working as he came up to the car. He took off his sunglasses and gave her a close look.

"Listen," she said, hands still raised. "I'm on the job."

He interrupted her. "Are you Detective Salena Adams?"

She lowered her hands, giving the patrolman a questioning look. He was kind of short, but his upper body was muscled in that way short men have of overcompensating for what they lacked in height. His arms were so thick they wouldn't rest flat to his sides. The buttons of his uniform were pulled tight against his chest.

"It's Lena," she offered, glancing at his name tag. "Do I know you?"

"No, ma'am," he returned, slipping on his sunglasses. "We got a call from your chief. I'm supposed to escort you back to Grant County."

"I'm sorry?" Lena asked, sure she hadn't heard correctly. "My chief? Jeffrey Tolliver?"

He gave a curt nod. "Yes, ma'am." Before she could ask him any further questions, he was walking back to his car. Lena waited for the patrolman to pull back onto the road, then started off after him. He sped up quickly, edging up to ninety within minutes. They passed the blue Civic, but Lena did not pay much attention. All she could think was, What did I do this time?

THOUGH the Heartsdale Medical Center anchored the end of Main Street, it was not capable of looking nearly as important as its name would imply. Just two stories tall, the small hospital was equipped to do little more than handle whatever scrapes and upset stomachs couldn't wait for doctors' hours. There was a larger hospital about thirty minutes away in Augusta that handled the serious cases. If not for the county morgue being housed in the basement, the medical center would have been torn down to make way for student housing a long time ago.

Like the rest of the town, the hospital had been built during the town's upswing in the 1930s. The main floors had been renovated since then, but the morgue was obviously not important to the hospital board. The walls were lined with light blue tile that was so old it was coming back into style. The floors were a mixed check pattern of green and tan linoleum. The ceiling overhead had seen its share of water damage, but most of it had been patched. The equipment was dated but functional.

Sara's office was in the back, separated from the rest of the morgue by a large glass window. She sat behind her desk, looking out the window, trying to collect her thoughts. She concentrated on the white noise of the morgue: the air compressor on the freezer, the swish-swish of the water hose as Carlos washed down the floor. Since they were below ground, the walls of the morgue absorbed rather than deflected the sounds, and Sara felt oddly comforted by the familiar hums and swishes. The shrill ring of the phone interrupted the silence.

"Sara Linton," she said, expecting Jeffrey. Instead, it was her father.

"Hey, baby."

Sara smiled, feeling a lightness overcome her at the sound of Eddie Linton's voice. "Hey, Daddy."

"I've got a joke for you."

"Yeah?" She tried to keep her tone light, knowing humor was her father's way of dealing with stress. "What's that?"

"A pediatrician, a lawyer, and a priest were on the Titanic when it started to go down," he began. "The pediatrician says, 'Save the children.' The lawyer says, 'Fuck the children!' And the priest says, 'Do we have time?' "

Sara laughed, more for her father's benefit than anything else. He was quiet, waiting for her to talk. She asked, "How's Tessie?"

"Taking a nap," he reported. "How about you?"

"Oh, I'm okay." Sara started drawing circles on her desk calendar. She wasn't normally a doodler, but she needed something to do with her hands. Part of her wanted to check her briefcase, to see if Tessa had thought to put the postcard in there. Part of her did not want to know where it was.

Eddie interrupted her thoughts. "Mom says you have to come to breakfast tomorrow."

"Yeah?" Sara asked, drawing squares over the circles.

His voice took on a singsong quality. "Waffles and grits and toast and bacon."

"Hey," Jeffrey said.

Sara jerked her head up, dropping the pen. "You scared me," she said, then, to her father, "Daddy, Jeffrey's here-"

Eddie Linton made a series of unintelligible noises. In his opinion, there was nothing wrong with Jeffrey Tolliver that a solid brick to the head would not fix.

"All right," Sara said into the phone, giving Jeffrey a tight smile. He was looking at the etched sign on the glass, where her father had slapped a piece of masking tape over the last name TOLLIVER and written in LINTON with a black marker. Since Jeffrey had cheated on Sara with the only sign maker in town, it was doubtful that the lettering would be more professionally fixed anytime soon.

"Daddy," Sara interrupted, "I'll see you in the morning." She hung up the phone before he could get another word in.

Jeffrey asked, "Let me guess, he sends his love."

Sara ignored the question, not wanting to get into a personal conversation with Jeffrey. This was how he sucked her back in, making her think that he was a normal person capable of being honest and supportive when in actuality the minute Jeffrey felt like he was back in Sara's good graces he'd probably run for cover. Or, under the covers, to be more exact.

He said, "How's Tessa doing?"

"Fine," Sara said, taking her glasses out of their case. She slid them on, asking, "Where's Lena?"

He glanced at the clock on the wall. "About an hour away. Frank's going to page me when she's ten minutes out."

Sara stood, adjusting the waist of her scrubs. She had showered in the hospital lounge, storing her bloodied clothes in an evidence bag in case they were needed for trial.

She asked, "Have you thought about what you're going to tell her?"

He shook his head no. "I'm hoping we can get something concrete before I talk to her. Lena 's a cop. She's going to want answers."

Sara leaned over the desk, knocking on the glass. Carlos looked up. "You can go now," she said. Then, explaining to Jeffrey, "He's going to run blood and urine up to the crime lab. They're going to put it through tonight."

"Good."

Sara sat back in her chair. "Did you get anything from the bathroom?"

"We found her cane and glasses behind the toilet. They were wiped clean."

"What about the stall door?"

"Nothing," he said. "I mean, not nothing, but every woman in town's been in and out of that place. Last count Matt had over fifty different prints." He took some Polaroids out of his pocket and tossed them onto the desk. There were close-ups of the body lying on the floor alongside pictures of Sara's bloody shoe and hand prints.

Sara picked up one of these, saying, "I guess it didn't help matters that I contaminated the scene."

"It's not like you had a choice."

She kept her thoughts to herself, putting the pictures in logical sequence.

He repeated her earlier evaluation. "Whoever did this knew what he was doing. He knew she would go to the restaurant alone. He knew she couldn't see. He knew the place would be deserted that time of day."