Karin Slaughter - A Faint Cold Fear

Surprisingly, Lena acquiesced, walking downstream.

Sara looked up at the bridge, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Frank, can you go up there and look for a note or something?”

“A note?” Chuck echoed.

Sara addressed Jeffrey. “I imagine he jumped from the bridge,” she said. “He landed on his feet. You can see his shoe treads punched into the dirt. The impact pulled down his pants and broke most if not all of the bones in his feet and legs.” She looked at the tag on the back of the jeans, checking the size. “They were baggy, and the force from that height would be pretty substantial. I imagine the blood is from his intestines detaching. You can see where part of the rectum was turned inside out and forced from the anus.”

Chuck gave a low whistle, and before she could think to stop herself, Sara looked up at him. She saw his lips move as he read the racial epithet on the bridge. He flashed a bright, obvious smile at Sara before asking, “How’s your sister?”

Sara saw Jeffrey’s jaw lock as he gritted his teeth. Devon Lockwood, the father of Tessa’s child, was black.

“She’s fine, Chuck,” Sara answered, forcing herself not to rise to the bait. “Why do you ask?”

He flashed another smile, making sure she saw him looking at the bridge. “No reason.”

She kept staring at Chuck, appalled at how little had changed about him since high school.

“This scar on his arm,” Jeffrey interrupted. “It looks recent.”

Sara forced herself to look at the victim’s arm, but her anger caught in her throat when she answered, “Yes.”

“Yes?” Jeffrey repeated, a definite question behind the word.

“Yes,” Sara said, letting him know she could fight her own battles. She took a deep, calming breath before saying, “My best guess is it was deliberate, straight up the radial artery. He would’ve been taken to the hospital for that.”

Chuck was suddenly interested in Lena’s progress. “Adams!” he yelled. “Check up thataway.” He pointed away from the bridge, the opposite direction she had been heading.

Sara put her hands on the dead boy’s hips, asking Jeffrey, “Can you help me turn him?”

As she waited for Jeffrey to put on a pair of gloves, Sara searched the tree line for Tessa. There was no sign of her. For once Sara was grateful Tessa was in her car.

“Ready,” Jeffrey said, his hands on the dead boy’s shoulders.

Sara counted off, and they turned the body as carefully as they could.

“Oh, fuck,” Chuck squeaked, his voice going up three octaves. He stepped back quickly, as if the body had suddenly burst into flames. Jeffrey stood up fast, a look of total horror on his face. Matt gave what sounded like a dry heave as he turned his back to them.

“Well,” Sara said, for lack of anything better to say.

The bottom side of the victim’s penis had been almost completely skinned off. A four-inch flap of skin hung loosely from the glans, a series of dumbbell-style earrings piercing the flesh at staggered intervals.

Sara knelt by the pelvic area, examining the damage. She heard someone suck wind through his teeth as she stretched the skin back to its normal position, studying the jagged edges where the flesh had been ripped from the organ.

Jeffrey was the first to speak. “What the hell is that?”

“Body piercing,” she said. “It’s called a frenum ladder.” Sara indicated the metal studs. “They’re pretty heavy. The impact must have pulled the skin off like a sock.”

“Fuck,” Chuck muttered again, staring openly at the damage.

Jeffrey was incredulous. “He did this to himself?”

Sara shrugged. Genital piercings were hardly commonplace in Grant County, but Sara had dealt with enough piercing-related infections at the clinic to know that this sort of thing was out there.

“Je-sus,” Matt muttered, kicking at some dirt, still turned away from them.

Sara indicated a thin gold hoop piercing the boy’s nostril. “The skin is thicker here, so it didn’t pull out. His eyebrow . . .” She looked around on the ground, spotting another gold hoop pressed into the clay where the body had fallen. “Maybe the clasp popped open on impact.”

Jeffrey pointed to the chest. “What about here?”

A thin trickle of blood stopped about two inches below the boy’s right nipple, which was torn in two. Sara took a guess and rolled back the waistband of the jeans. Caught between the zip and a pair of Joe Boxers was a third hoop earring. “Pierced nipple,” she said, picking up the hoop. “Do you have a bag for this?”

Jeffrey took out a small paper evidence bag, holding it open for her, asking with great distaste, “Is that it?”

“Probably not,” she answered.

Cupping the young man’s jaw between her thumb and forefinger, Sara pressed open the mouth. She reached in carefully with her fingers, trying not to cut herself.

“His tongue was probably pierced, too,” she told Jeffrey, feeling the muscle. “It’s bisected at the tip. I’ll know when I get him on the table, but I imagine the tongue stud is in his throat.”

She sat back on her heels, removing her gloves and studying the victim as a whole rather than by his pierced parts. He was an average-looking kid except for the line of blood dribbling from his nose and pooling around his lips. A reddish blond goatee hugged his soft chin, and his sideburns were thin and long, curving around his jawline like a piece of multicolored yarn.

Chuck took a step forward for a better look, his mouth dropping open. “Aw, shit. That’s—Shit . . .” He groaned, thumping himself in the head. “I can’t remember his name. His mama works at the college.”

Sara saw Jeffrey’s shoulders slump at the news. The case had just gotten ten times more complicated.

From the bridge Frank yelled, “Found a note.”

Sara was surprised at the news, even though she had been the one to send Frank to search in the first place. Sara had seen a number of suicides in her time, and something about this one did not feel right.

Jeffrey was watching her closely, as if he could read her mind. He asked Sara, “You still think he jumped?”

Sara left it open, saying, “It looks that way, doesn’t it?”

Jeffrey waited a beat before deciding. “We’ll canvass the area.”

Chuck started to volunteer help, but Jeffrey smoothly cut him off, asking, “Chuck, can you stay here with Matt and get a picture of his face? I want to show it to the woman who found the body.”

“Uh . . .” Chuck seemed to be trying to think of an excuse, not because he did not want to stick around but because he did not want to take an order from Jeffrey.

Jeffrey motioned to Matt, who had finally turned back around. “Get some pictures.”

Matt gave a stiff nod, and Sara wondered how he would take pictures without looking at the victim. Chuck, on the other hand, could not look away. He had probably never seen a dead body before. Knowing what kind of person he was, Sara was not surprised by Chuck’s reaction. He could have been watching a movie for all the emotion he showed in his face.

“Here,” Jeffrey said, helping Sara stand.

“I’ve already called Carlos,” Sara told him, meaning her assistant at the morgue. “He should be here soon. We’ll know more from the autopsy.”

“Good,” Jeffrey said. He told Matt, “Try to get a good one of his face. When Frank gets down here, tell him to meet me by the cars.”

Matt gave him a salute, still not saying much.

Sara tucked her stethoscope into her pocket as they walked along the riverbed. She glanced up at the car, looking for Tessa. The sun struck the windshield at an angle, turning the glass into a bright mirror.

Jeffrey waited until they were out of Chuck’s earshot before asking, “What aren’t you saying?”