Karin Slaughter - Triptych

She always did this. She always put herself right in the middle of trouble and did not give a damn that Will suffered the consequences. As long as he had known her, Angie had pushed people as hard as she could, constantly testing their limits. It was a game that would get her killed one day, and then Will would be the one sitting on the couch, some other cop the unlucky bastard who had to hold his hand and tell him that she had been found strangled, beaten, raped, murdered.

The girls had been trash-talking, but Will noticed they’d turned quiet. He heard a rustling from the woods and Angie came out, flashlight in her hand.

She looked at Will, then the girls, then back at Will. Her mouth was set, her eyes lit with fury. She turned on her heel, heading back into the woods, and Will followed her.

“Stop,” he said, trying to keep up. “Would you just stop?” She wouldn’t listen. All he could do was follow the beam of her flashlight.

About twenty feet into the woods, she turned on him. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Her tone was sharp as a knife. “I’m just your brother paying you a call.”

Angie looked over his shoulder and Will followed suit. He could clearly see the girls standing in front of the liquor store. They made no attempt to hide their interest.

She whispered hoarsely, trying to keep her voice down. “This is the wrong fucking place for this, Will. Lola already thinks something’s up.” He shoved John Shelley’s rap sheet in her face. She did a double take when she saw the photograph, and he could have sworn her eyes softened.

“Read it,” he ordered. “Read it to me so that I know I’ve got it right.” Angie shined the flashlight on the first page. He saw her eyes moving, reading the words. She looked up, said, “Will,” like he was being unreasonable. “Read it.”

She held the flashlight under her arm, training the beam on the first page, then flipping to the second and third.

Finally, she looked up again. “So?”

He wanted to shake her. “Did you read what it says?”

Taking her time, she turned back to the first page and read aloud in a bored tone, “ ‘Jonathan Winston Shelley, six-one, one hundred ninety-five pounds, brown hair, brown eyes. Prior record: theft by taking. Received May 10, 1986, Coastal State Prison, maximum security, special offender’s wing, age sixteen. Paroled July 22, 2005, age thirty-five. Registered sexual offender, pedophile.” “ She looked back up, repeated, ”So?“

“Read the last page,” he said, meaning the part he’d printed out from Caroline’s e-mail. Shelley’s rap sheet had been brief, just listing the highlights of his crimes, but the records Caroline had found filled in all the blanks in horrid detail.

“Read it,” he demanded.

She didn’t want to. He could tell that from the steely way she glared at him.

He asked, “You want me to read it for you?”

“I only get an hour break for supper.”

He snatched the pages from her hand, tried to find the right section. He was so angry that the words kept reversing on the page, their shapes morphing one into the other. He tried, “Ca…” Will felt a knife-sharp pain in the front of his temple. God damnit, he knew at least two of the words. “Jonathan Shelley.” He tried to pick out another one. “Drain. No, he-dead. He killed-”

Angie put her hand over his. She tried to take the report but he wouldn’t let go. “Come on,” she coaxed, gently, pulling the pages from his grasp.

Will clenched his fists as he stared at the ground. Christ. No wonder she couldn’t stand to be with him.

She spoke softly. “I’m sorry.”

He wanted to sink into the ground, just magically to somewhere else.

“I’m sorry.

“I read it before.”

“I know you did,” she told him, taking his hand again. “Look at me, Will. I’m sorry.”

He could not look at her.

“You want me to read it out loud?”

“I don’t care what you do.”

“Will.”

He knew he was sounding petulant, but couldn’t stop. “I really don’t.”

The flashlight had fallen to the ground and she reached down to pick it up, still holding on to him. She shined the light on the pages and read, “ ‘On June 15, 1985, Shelley sexually assaulted Mary Alice Finney, a fifteen-year-old white female, then removed her tongue with a serrated kitchen knife, resulting in her death. In addition, Shelley made several deep bite marks in the victim’s flesh and urinated on the body. Shelley’s bloody fingerprints were found at the scene and on the body. The murder weapon was found in Shelley’s bedroom closet. Known drug addictions: heroin, cocaine.”’‘

“Angie,” was all he could say.

She was silent, letting a couple of cars pass before she said, “Remember I told you that Michael Ormewood came by here that one time?”

He was sick of hearing about Ormewood. If he never heard the man’s name again, Will would die a happy man.

Angie said, “He told us to look out for a recently released sex offender named John Shelley. He said he was really a bad guy and to stay away from him.” She looked down at the rap sheet. “Michael went to Decatur High School. He must have grown up in the area.”

“Did you manage to ask him about his childhood years while you were going down on him?”

“Do you want me to go down on you, too, Will? Is that what this is about?”

He slapped her hand away. “Stop it.”

She told him, “I read his personnel file.”

“You’re real interested in Michael for some reason. Why is he different? What makes him so special?”

“You’re not listening to what I’m saying.” She was talking to him like he was a child and he did not like it. “Michael went to Decatur High School, so he must have lived in the area. He was a few years older than John, but he would have heard about the crime. He would have known the details about the tongue. Why didn’t he mention it to you? Why didn’t he say, ”Hey, this reminds me of something that happened about twenty years ago right down the street from me.“ ”

Will was too upset to even consider the question.

She said, “John told me that someone was blackmailing him.”

Will laughed. “You think that Michael Ormewood knows there’s a guy out there raping and murdering women, taking out their tongues, but instead of arresting the doer, Michael’s blackmailing him? For what? What could John Shelley possibly have that Michael Ormewood would want?”

“How do you explain Michael telling me to look out for John Shelley? How do you explain his not mentioning this same thing happening to a girl in the same neighborhood where he grew up?”

Will tried to make her see reason. “How do you explain the other girls?”

“What other girls?”

“Last year, two girls were sexually assaulted by a man wearing a black ski mask. Both of them had their tongues bitten off.”

Her lips parted in surprise.

“John Shelley’s been out seven months,” Will told her. “Both girls lived thirty, forty minutes away from here.” She was silent, so he added, “Julie Cooper’s fifteen. The other girl was only fourteen. What do these crimes have in common? What’s the link here?”

Angie said, “You know perps have their way of doing things. Why would he deviate? Why would he cut off some and bite off the others? Why would he go from little girls to a grown woman?”

Will recalled Michael’s answer to this question, but he did not share it with Angie.

She asked, “Why didn’t you tell me about the other cases before?”

“When, Angie? Over dinner? Maybe when we were holding hands, taking a long stroll in the park?”

“You could have told me.”

“Why?” he asked. “Who knew you’d end up screwing around with a convicted pedophile?”