It was Sheriff Greene who had come to see her in the hospital and told her she owed it to herself to hold her son at least once. And when she still had hesitated, he had asked the nurse to bring the baby to her.
Sheriff Greene had laid Matt in her arms. Her boy had been a squawking, fussy bundle with a red face and dark hair that already looked like it needed to be cut. He wasn’t much to look at. And she had fallen head over heels in love with him.
Brooke was still pissed at Greene for his mishandling of the DNA, but no matter what, she could never hate the man.
She set the picture back on the nightstand. The shutters outside rattled in the wind. She rose up and went into her son’s room, sat on the edge of his bed, and rubbed his back until he sat up.
He yawned. “What’s going on, Mom?”
She pulled another cheek swab from her pocket. “Open wide, sport. Need a quick swab.”
He complied, and as she sealed the swab back in the case, he asked, “What’s that for?”
“Just a crazy ancestry project, buddy. No worries. Go back to sleep.”
When he rolled over and went back to sleep, she hurried down the front stairs and out the front door. She stood in the fresh air for a moment and drew in deep breaths. Jesus. Was this a hornet’s nest she really wanted to kick?
Footsteps pounded the ground behind her, and in an instant the seconds slowed. Her hand reached for her weapon. Her body braced for an attack. A flicker of movement caught her peripheral vision. A ski mask appeared right before a right cross connected with her jaw. Pain radiated through her skull and her brain short-circuited. She staggered and then dropped to her knees. She fumbled for the stock of her weapon, but the assailant grabbed it from her.
He then yanked her back, slamming her body into a tree. The pain rocketed through her body. She fell to the ground and instantly he was on top, pinning her midsection. He shoved a damp cloth against her nose and mouth.
She held her breath, still flailing her legs. She could hear his steady, even breathing as her own heart raced and her lungs burned for air.
“Breathe,” he ordered. When she didn’t comply, he lifted his weight and then slammed it against her midsection, knocking the air out of her. Agony rocked her body.
“Let it go,” he sang softly in her ear. “Let it go. Don’t want to wake up Matt, do you?”
He had been watching her. He knew about Matt. Knowing her son could be in danger lit twin flames of fear and anger.
“Give in to me,” he ordered. “Give me this win, and I’ll let Matt live.”
But he wouldn’t kill her right away. He would take his time with her. Her submission now could not only buy her son his life but could also give her time later to find a way to escape.
Memories of garish purple bruises around Beth Watson’s neck sent chills down her spine. She didn’t want to die at all, especially like that. There was so much in her life she had to do.
But she inhaled and took the chemicals into her bloodstream. She felt lightheaded, and the seductive wave of the drugs washed through her body, dulling the sharp pain burning in the side of her head.
As her muscles gave way, she heard him chuckling.
The pain receded, and what little light there had been from the moon faded to total blackness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Thursday, November 21, 7:30 a.m.
When Macy and Nevada arrived in Roanoke at the Western District Office of the Virginia State Medical Examiner, neither spoke as they showed identification and donned paper gowns and latex gloves before they entered the large autopsy room containing the remains of Beth Watson. Classical music played on the overhead speaker.
Dr. Squibb was gowned up and inspecting his instruments as a technician wheeled in a gurney and placed it against the stainless steel sink attached to his workstation. The tech locked the gurney wheels and then positioned the instrument table closer to the doctor.
“Thanks for working us in, Dr. Squibb,” Macy said.
“Of course,” Dr. Squibb said. “If you don’t mind, we need to get started. We’ve got a full caseload this morning.”
“Whenever you’re ready,” she said.
The technician clicked on an overhead light that glistened on the sharp instruments. Dr. Squibb pressed a button with his foot, which activated the overhead microphone.
The doctor stated his name, as well as Nevada’s, the tech’s, and hers. “These are the remains of Elizabeth Jean Watson, born June 3, 1999. Today is November 21, 2019, and it is 8:02 a.m.”
The technician carefully removed the sheet to reveal the pale body of Beth Watson.
Macy’s chest tightened as she thought about her own near-death experience. How close she had come to being dissected on a medical examiner’s table just like this one.
Dr. Squibb cleared his throat. “The subject today is female. She appears to have been a healthy weight and fit.”
The doctor moved to the top of the gurney and rotated the patient’s neck to the right and displayed the black-and-blue bruises that ringed her neck. The doctor inspected the markings more closely. In several spots, the bruises mirrored large fingers.
“Can we see the x-ray images?”
The technician clicked on a computer screen, and the victim’s neck appeared. The doctor studied it. “The hyoid bone is broken.” This delicate bone often snapped during strangulation. “However, the bruising on her neck shows different states of healing, meaning she wasn’t just strangled once but multiple times over several days.” The confirmation was no surprise, but it was necessary.
“Can you determine how many times she was strangled?” Macy asked.
The doctor rotated the neck several times and then asked to see the x-ray image of the sternum. “Three, maybe four times.” No one spoke for several beats before the doctor continued. “Note there are hairline cracks in her sternum. He performed CPR on her.”
“Just like Tobi Turner,” Nevada said.
“The bone evidence of both victims is almost identical,” Dr. Squibb said.
Macy tapped her fingers against her thigh, drawing in a breath as if she were somehow breathing for them both.
Dr. Squibb held up the victim’s right hand. The edges of the nails were jagged.
“Where did he keep her?” Macy asked, more to herself.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
The remnants of the dreams clawed out from the shadows, sending rippling chills through her body. “Has the dirt on the bottom of her feet been analyzed?” she asked.
“We sent a sample over to the lab,” Dr. Squibb said. “It’s a priority.” But that still meant it could take months. Television had conditioned the public to believe that lab results happened in a matter of hours, days at most. In reality, the state labs were swamped with DNA and blood samples from an endless number of cases. It was common for test results to linger for months in the lab queue.
The doctor began with the external examination, noting that Beth Watson weighed one hundred and sixty pounds and was five foot nine inches tall. There was minor bruising on her ribs, knees, and shins, and restraint marks ringed her wrists and ankles.
“You’ve sent her blood off for testing?” Based on the condition of Beth’s bedroom, which showed no signs of a struggle, Macy suspected Beth had been unconscious when the killer had taken her from the house.
“We’re running the standard toxicology screen analysis,” Dr. Squibb said.
Dr. Squibb noted there were no signs of drug use, nor were there scars from old injuries or surgeries. She had four tattoos, the most prominent being the image of a galloping horse on her right shoulder.
As the doctor lifted her right arm, he found two arching marks that resembled upper and lower teeth.
“Did he bite her?” Macy asked.
“Appears so.”
“Can you tell if a front tooth was chipped?”
“They don’t appear to be.”
“He may also have gotten it repaired,” Macy said.
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The technician photographed the marks and made a notation on a printed diagram representing a human body.
Macy squashed down a jolt of anger. “Did you recover any hair, fluid, or fiber samples from her body?”
“We collected semen samples and three hair strands.”
The doctor reached for the scalpel and drew it across the right side of her chest just above her breast, and then over the left side of her breast, joining the two incisions in a V shape. The blade tip then continued down her chest and over her abdomen, creating the classic Y incision. It was a savage but necessary final act.
For the next hour Macy and Nevada watched in silence as the doctor sliced through the thin layer of fat separating skin from bone. Bone cutters snipped through the ribs on both sides of her chest, allowing him to remove the breastplate and set it aside. The heart, lungs, and internal organs were now exposed. Over the next three hours he examined and weighed her internal organs. In the end, he determined she’d been perfectly healthy.
By the time Macy and Nevada left the autopsy room, a weight had settled on her shoulders, reminding her it was her job to eradicate the perpetrators.
“I want this guy so bad I can taste it,” Macy said.
“You’ll have to get in line behind me.”
When she and Nevada got into his vehicle, she checked her messages and found one from Andy. She dialed her number. “Andy, what do you have?”
“You have two more hits. A woman matching the description you gave me was strangled to death in 2015, and another in 2017.”
“Where?”