Amanda said, “Leslie Truong’s headband was missing. That’s the only piece that makes me think she wasn’t chosen simply because she could identify the killer.”
“Gerald hedged on that, remember?” Faith asked. “She was a student living with students she probably met at the beginning of the semester. Kids steal each other’s crap all of the time. It drives me crazy.”
“Let’s take the headband out of the equation.” Amanda asked, “Sara?”
“The killer has always been very careful about covering his tracks. As far back as Tommi Humphrey, he brought a washcloth to the scene to wipe away DNA. The subsequent victims were believably staged to look like accidents.” Her brain had finally sparked back to life. “Think about this: with Leslie, he left a glaring piece of evidence on full display.”
Faith said, “The hammer handle had a manufacturing number.”
Amanda asked Will, “Is that common?”
“No,” he said. “It’s usually stamped into the metal.”
Faith had her notebook out. She was back in the game. “So A plus B equals C, right? Whoever attacked Tommi attacked Beckey attacked Leslie.”
Nick said, “The only thing is, Daryl Nesbitt was a damn solid suspect. There was some real evidence against him.”
“All right,” Amanda said. “Let’s look at that. Daryl was a good suspect because?”
“Mostly because of Leslie Truong.” Sara ran through the corroborating details that Jeffrey had outlined in his notes. “The hammer inside of Leslie was a very specific type. Daryl was in possession of Axle Abbott’s tools while he was in prison. Daryl was familiar with the woods. He skateboarded with Felix on campus. Security footage was later found of them both practicing outside the library. Daryl worked near the fire road that accessed the Leslie Truong crime scene. A burner phone was later located in his house that tied back to the phone number in both Caterino and Truong’s contacts.”
Faith said, “Devil’s Advocate here. There’s a reason Daryl Nesbitt’s in prison for possession of child porn and not assault and murder. That’s all circumstantial, or easily explained away.”
In retrospect, Sara could not disagree. Eight years ago, she had been just as certain as Jeffrey.
Amanda asked her, “What about the video from Truong’s case files?”
“I haven’t watched it yet.” Sara had hoped to preview it on her own so she could prepare herself, but that opportunity had passed.
She walked over to the giant tube television. Will often looked at the VCR with disdain, but the machine was finally earning its real estate. Sara slotted the videotape into the carriage. She pressed down the top. She found the remote. She unspooled the skinny cord as she sat back down. She pressed play.
The image on the screen zigzagged, then started to roll.
Will took over. He adjusted the dials, and suddenly, Sara saw herself eight years ago.
She looked so young, was the first thought that came into her mind. Her hair was shinier. Her skin was smoother. Her lips were fuller.
She was dressed in a white T-shirt, gray hoodie and a pair of jeans. Exam gloves covered her hands. Her hair was pulled back. Younger Sara was looking at the camera and giving the date, time and location. “I’m Dr. Sara Linton. I’m with Dan Brock, the Grant County coroner, and Jeffrey Tolliver, the chief of police.”
Sara bit her lip as the camera turned toward the face of each person her younger self named.
Jeffrey was in a charcoal suit. A cotton mask covered his mouth and nose. He looked concerned. They all looked concerned.
She watched the younger Sara begin the preliminary exam, using a penlight to check for petechia, turning the head to better see the round, red mark on Leslie Truong’s temple.
“This could be the first blow,” the younger Sara said.
The present Sara, the living breathing Sara, wanted to look at Will, to study his face, to deduce what he was thinking.
But she couldn’t.
On screen, the camera had tilted. The lens skewed out of focus. She could see the blurred white of Jeffrey’s mask. Sara could still remember the stench of feces and rot coming off the body. The smell had made her eyes water. Now, she studied the blue staining along Leslie Truong’s upper lip. She had expected to see a mark similar to the one that came from drinking the contents over a period of time. In retrospect, the blue looked like the liquid had been dropped onto her lips, then allowed to dry.
“Blockages?” Brock’s voice was loud. He had been holding the camera.
Sara listened to her younger self explain the findings. She sounded so damn sure of herself. Eight years later, Sara seldom spoke with the same conviction. The price for having lived those ensuing years was that she had come to understand that there were very few situations that could be viewed with absolute certainty.
Jeffrey said, “We think the killer was trying to paralyze the victims.”
A lump came into Sara’s throat. She had not thought far enough ahead to realize that she was going to hear Jeffrey’s voice again. It carried with the same deep resonance that she remembered. She had felt her heartbeat falter at the sound.
Her younger self was lifting up Leslie Truong’s shirt, finding a dislocated rib.
Sara let her gaze travel down until she was staring at the flashing clock on the VCR.
She heard her younger self tell Brock, “Get closer on this.”
Sara parted her lips. She took in a deep breath. She could feel Will’s eyes on her. Could almost hear the self-doubt troubling his mind. He was slightly taller than Jeffrey, but not as classically handsome. Will was more fit. Jeffrey more confident. Will had Sara. Did Jeffrey still have her, too?
On the video, Brock said, “Ready.”
Sara looked up at the TV. Brock was helping her roll Leslie Truong onto her side. Jeffrey was behind the camera. He had zoomed wide to get the full length of the body. Dirt and stray twigs were stuck to the young woman’s bare backside. Younger Sara was postulating about whether the girl had pulled up her pants, or if the killer had done it for her.
“Wait.” Faith stood up. “Pause it. Go back.”
Sara looked for the buttons, but Faith took the remote.
“Here.” She clicked the frame into slow motion. “By the trees.”
Sara squinted at the set. There were people in the distance, approximately fifty feet away. They were standing behind yellow police tape. She couldn’t make out Brad Stephen’s face, but she recognized his crisply starched uniform, his goofy gait, as he tried to cordon back the spectators.
“This guy.” Faith paused the image. She pointed to one of the students. “He’s wearing a black knit hat.”
Sara could make out the hat, but the face was a blur.
Faith said, “Lena’s notes outlined the witness statement she took from Leslie Truong at the Caterino scene. Truong reported seeing three women and one man in the woods. She couldn’t remember anything about the man, except that he was a student wearing a black, beanie-style knit cap.”
Sara walked over to the set for a closer look. The videotape was old, the technology even older. The man’s face was pixelated down to an amorphous blob. “I recognize Brad because I know Brad, but that’s it.”
Faith was looking at Amanda, a pleading expression on her face.
Amanda’s lips pursed. The chance that something could be done to enhance the image was slim. For Faith’s benefit, she said, “We’ll have IT look at it.”
Faith stopped the video. She punched the eject button. “I can take it downstairs now.”
“Go,” Amanda looked at her watch. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
Faith grabbed her purse. Sara heard her running down the hallway. Like all of them, she was desperate for something to break.
“Will,” Amanda said. “I want Faith on her desk tomorrow. There are plenty of phone calls that need to be made. We’ve got thirteen different jurisdictions to butt heads with. We’ll meet in my office at seven tomorrow morning and establish the parameters. Yes?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Nick,” she said. “Will can catch you up on what you missed. My last order is for all of you. Go home. Get some sleep. Today was hard. Tomorrow will be harder.”
Nick and Will both gave her a “yes, ma’am.”
Sara started gathering up the paperwork from Leslie Truong’s autopsy. She listened with half an ear as Will told Nick about the formation of a task force. Her phone vibrated in her pocket. Sara prayed it was not her mother, because she knew she couldn’t put off finding Tommi Humphrey any longer.
The text was from Brock, a question mark followed by—
Think this was meant for Cathy? I can ask around if you like?
Sara had accidentally sent Brock the text meant for her mother. She tapped out a quick apology, then copied and pasted the note to Cathy.
Surprisingly, her mother wrote back in seconds—