“I like it when you cuss,” Riley said. “Confirms I’ve gotten under your skin.”
Carter opened his mouth to speak but stopped.
“Rest up, Jax,” Sharp said. “I don’t think you’ll get as much sleep in prison.”
Carter shook his head. “I ain’t going to prison.”
“You keep telling yourself that,” Riley said.
CHAPTER FIVE
Wednesday, September 14, 9:45 a.m.
After Hanna left for school, Riley spent an hour visiting the youth shelter, talking to street girls who might know Darla. Several of the girls had been off the streets for months and had severed all their connections. And the two newest girls, who’d moved in midsummer, had never crossed paths with Darla.
Riley handed out business cards to all the girls and told them to call day or night if they needed anything. The girls had been leery of her, many disappointed by family and friends before, so she wasn’t holding out a lot of hope as she left the shelter and crossed the parking lot to her car. While driving to the state medical examiner’s office in Richmond, a call to the hospital told her Jo-Jo was barely awake and still in no shape to answer questions.
Now, dressed in black slacks, white blouse, dark jacket, and low-heeled boots, Riley arrived at the medical examiner’s office just before ten. She parked on a side street and then hurried to the Marshall Street entrance, pushing through the front doors and stopping at the front desk to show her badge.
The receptionist, an African American woman in her fifties, glanced up. “Who you here for?”
“A Jane Doe brought in yesterday. Brown hair, young. Teenager. Caucasian.”
“Right. I heard about that one.” She reached for a stack of papers and clipped them together. “She was brought in from up north. Who’s the lead?”
“Agent Dakota Sharp.”
“He’s a hard-ass.” Grinning, the woman shook her head. “A skinny little girl like you, well, he’ll eat you right up if you aren’t careful.”
Riley smiled. “I’m all gristle. Don’t worry about me.”
“Well, good for you, baby doll.” She handed Riley a visitor’s pass.
“Thanks.”
Riley stepped into the elevator and rode it to the lower level. The doors opened to a tiled hallway, fluorescent lights, and the smell of strong chemicals. Squaring her shoulders, she kept her pace steady and clipped. She had this under control. She did. Granted, she’d never witnessed a body being cracked open and taken apart by a doctor, but like any challenge, she’d figure it out. She hoped her stomach played along.
She pushed through the double metal doors and found herself facing a long stainless-steel counter outfitted with a sink and a hose attachment in the center. Angled next to the counter was a gurney carrying a body covered by a white sheet. Above the table were several adjustable lamps and a microphone ready for the doctor to dictate notes.
The room’s air was heavy with an unnatural smell that coiled inside Riley’s stomach. She pulled back her shoulders to ward off a gag reflex.
“Trooper Tatum, correct?”
So focused on the draped body, she didn’t notice the woman enter from a side door. Automatically, she extended her hand. “Dr. Kincaid?”
“Yes. Agent Sharp said you’d be here.”
Dr. Kincaid was tall and lean and in her midthirties. Under a white lab coat she wore simple khaki pants and a navy-blue blouse. Long dark hair feathered into lighter ends and curled around her angled face. A honey-olive skin tone accentuated her perceptive green eyes. Other than a trace of gloss on her lips and shadowing around her eyes, she wore little makeup. A gold chain looped through a gold ring, encircling her neck. The ring was wide, like a man’s, and Riley bet it was a wedding band.
Dr. Kincaid regarded her closely. “We haven’t worked together before.”
“That would be correct. I’m a trooper, so I don’t usually follow a case this far.”
“Well, welcome.”
The doors opened to Sharp, who looked tense and annoyed. Notebook in hand, he strode toward them. “Tatum.”
“Agent,” Dr. Kincaid said. “I’m running a little behind. Let me change into scrubs and we can get started.”
“Sure.”
The doctor vanished through a side door as a lab assistant pushed through another door. “Agent Sharp I know, but you, I don’t. I’m Ken Matthews.”
“Nice to meet you, Ken,” Riley said, taking his hand.
He eyed her closely. “You have a slight pasty look. You a virgin?”
“Excuse me?” Riley asked.
Sharp lifted a brow, grinned, but had the good sense not to comment.
Matthews chuckled. “First time to the show?”
“Yep.” Don’t deny or apologize for the obvious. Acknowledge it and move on.
“I bet you do fine.”
“There’re gowns in the locker over there,” Ken said. “It’s a good idea if you put one on. You can also stow your purse and grab a barf bag if you need one.”
Sharp moved toward the lockers and shrugged off his jacket. Without a word, he reached for a gown and slid his arms into it.
“Right. Sure.” Riley turned from the table, glad to have it out of her line of sight. As she crossed to the locker and removed her jacket and slipped on a gown, a saw buzzed behind her. She flinched and glanced at the paper barf bags.
“Breathe,” Sharp said. “Ken’s trying to rattle you.”
“Right.” Her stomach turned at the thought of the saw cutting into flesh, but she left the bag behind.
She and Sharp were in gowns by the time Dr. Kincaid emerged, dressed in scrubs, her dark hair pinned under a surgical cap. At the instrument table, she unwrapped a pair of latex gloves and snapped them on over her slender fingers with practiced ease.
Turning, she moved toward the table with a steady, determined gait. “If you have questions, ask. We’re gathering evidence.”
“Sure.” Questions were sometimes tricky. The benefit of an answer didn’t always outweigh telegraphing the questioner’s ignorance.
Dr. Kincaid removed the sheet and held up a pale hand. “She has a fresh manicure and pedicure.”
The victim’s hands were long, slim, and graceful. They were suited for playing a piano. Instead, Riley pictured those fingers picking through trash like many runaways did.
Sharp pulled on latex gloves, knitting his fingers together and working the slack from his gloves. He glared at Riley, studying her closely. “You good with this?”
“Never better.”
Riley, drawn by curiosity, moved closer, inspecting the victim’s now-cleaned face. Without makeup, the victim looked years younger. Eighteen, tops. Pierced ears, twice on the left. A small mole on her right cheek. A thin, inch-long white scar crossed the upper-left side of her forehead.
“Just a kid,” Sharp said.
“No missing persons report on her yet?” Riley asked.
“None,” he said.
“I stopped at the youth shelter this morning,” Riley said. “No one knew her, but I’ll ke
ep trying.”
“I’ve requested Jax Carter’s phone records. Assuming she worked for him, we should find a connection.”
Dr. Kincaid said her name into the microphone and stated the date and time along with the list of the four people in attendance for the autopsy. She leaned toward the body, studying the slim rings of bruises around the girl’s neck. “Exterior exam suggests strangulation. Ken, do you have X-rays for me?”
“Sure do, doc.” He turned and pushed two X-ray slides up onto a light box and switched it on.
The doctor turned, and as she examined the image, traced a horseshoe-shaped bone in the center of the victim’s neck. “Broken hyoid bone.” Returning to the table, she said, “There’re two rings of bruises on her neck.”
Riley studied the bands of purple marks. “He wrapped a rope around her neck, squeezed, and then stopped?”
“Stopped, screwed up his courage, and started again,” Sharp said. “Not all killers do clean work. Strangulation takes time and steady pressure. It’s a very personal way of killing.”
Dr. Kincaid pulled the sheet back farther and revealed the girl’s too-thin nude body. In the twenty-four hours since the body was found, the chemicals triggering rigor mortis had eased. She now lay flat.
Lifting the right arm, Dr. Kincaid inspected it. “I don’t see needle marks, but there’s some bruising by the upper-right forearm.” Moving to the other side, she noted a heart-shaped tattoo on the girl’s right thigh and the crudely written letters JC on the back of her neck.
With slow precision the doctor moved up the left side of the body, indicating the presence of more bruises on the left hip and left arm, along with a fresh needle mark in the central vein at the elbow.
“There are no signs of scarring from old puncture wounds. However, there is faint scarring on her wrist. Crisscross pattern. None of the marks were enough to kill. It could have been a suicide attempt or she might have been cutting herself.”
“The physical pain distracts from the mental turmoil,” Riley said.
“So I’ve heard,” Dr. Kincaid said.
“You’ll run a toxicological screen?” Riley asked, inspecting the mark. “She could have been drugged.”