Brock asked, “I’m sorry, Sara, but for my notes, can you tell me where you got that time frame?”
Jeffrey answered the question. “Leslie Truong left the scene of Caterino’s attack around six yesterday morning. The rainstorm hit about half an hour later.”
“Ah,” Brock said. “The rain washed away the shoeprints.”
Jeffrey asked Sara, “What do you think happened?”
“I need to see a weather report to pin down the exact time the rain started, but taking a rough guess, I can imagine two different scenarios.” Sara explained, “In the first scenario, Leslie was walking back to campus. She was abducted and taken somewhere close, but private, like the back of a vehicle. She was raped and murdered. Then, the assailant brought her back here, probably in a fireman’s carry over his shoulder, before the rain started.”
Jeffrey figured that was possible, but not likely. “Second scenario?”
“The attack and murder happened here, and because of the storm, we’re not seeing signs of a struggle.” She made sure to include Brock. “Can you think of anything else?”
“No, but I’d say the second one sounds more like what happened.” Brock said, “In an abduction situation, you’d think the suspect would get messy. If he carried her, I mean.”
Sara said, “He would be covered in blood.”
“He’s gotta be a big fella to tote that gal so far,” Brock said. “I could barely carry that tent and the canvas weighs thirty, maybe forty pounds.”
Sara sat back for a moment. Jeffrey could see that the smell was making her eyes glisten. She was breathing through her mouth.
Brock said, “It’s risky to abduct her and bring her back. And I guess it’s risky to attack her in the first place. We’re off the beaten path, but there’s still a path.”
Jeffrey didn’t have to be told this killer was a risk-taker. What little they knew about him pointed to a man who relished hiding in plain sight.
He turned to Frank, who had been hanging back because of the smell. “I need a topographical map of this entire area. I want to see where that fire road is in relation to the scene. Whether or not he took Truong back to his vehicle or killed her here, he had to park somewhere.”
Frank started to leave, but Jeffrey said, “Get some more uniformed officers out here. I want a grid search back to the fire road. No matter where she was attacked, he got here from somewhere. Let’s expand our perimeter and make sure those spectators we saw aren’t trampling on evidence. Remind the searchers to lift their heads up occasionally. Not everything is on the ground.”
“Got it.” Frank had his radio to his mouth as he walked away.
Sara was looking at Brock. “I can handle the filming if you want to do the visual exam?”
“No. You’re the doctor. You should do the important parts.” Brock opened the crime scene kit. He reached for the ancient Sony Camcorder, but the clunky device slipped from his hands. “Sorry. This is just so terrible.”
“It is,” Sara agreed. “But we can take care of her together. All right?”
“Yes, you’re right.” Brock checked there was a VHS tape in the Camcorder. He took off the lens cap. He dropped it into his pocket.
Jeffrey found his notebook and pen. They were all feeling unnerved. There was something about the volume of blood between Leslie’s legs that told a story none of them wanted to learn. He thought about his previous phone conversations with Bonita Truong. The woman had probably reached Macon by now. Jeffrey had told many parents over the years that their child had passed away, but he couldn’t quite figure out what to say to the mother when she finally arrived. The truth would destroy her. The truth might destroy him.
Your daughter was brutally attacked. She was drugged. She was sexually assaulted. She was terrorized by a madman who left her in the woods where she slowly succumbed to her injuries. And I should probably mention that all of this was preventable, but please don’t let that get in the way of your grief.
Sara slipped on a pair of exam gloves. She asked Brock, “Ready?”
He nodded, pressing the red button. The Camcorder whirred to life.
Sara provided the date and time. She called out all of their names for benefit of the recording. Then she started the preliminary exam.
She used a penlight to check the eyes. “No petechia.”
The girl had not been choked or strangled.
Sara gently turned the head to better see the red mark on the temple. She told Jeffrey, “She had time to bruise. This could be the first blow. Based on the location, one strike could knock her cold. I’d say the weapon used is consistent with a hammer.”
Brock took in a sharp breath. He turned his attention to the camera. He tilted the LED screen. He adjusted some of the settings. Jeffrey could see that his hands were shaking.
Jeffrey’s hands were still, but they were sweating profusely. The feeling of violence permeated the air. The smell was nauseating, even with the mask. Witnessing unnatural death came with the job, but something about this particular victim, this particular case, sent dread into every fiber of his being.
Jeffrey had hunted his share of murderers and rapists.
He had never before hunted a predator.
Sara looked in the nostrils, inside the mouth. She pressed her fingers along the girl’s throat. She said, “I’m not detecting any blockages.”
“Blockages?” Brock asked.
“Caterino had something in her throat, probably regurgitated pastry.”
Brock nodded as he carefully stepped around the body.
Sara turned the girl’s head at a more severe angle to look at the back of the neck. Jeffrey saw dried blood around a tiny hole.
“There’s a puncture wound at C5,” she said. “That would’ve gotten the job done.”
“What job?” Brock asked.
Jeffrey said, “We think the killer wanted to paralyze the victims.”
Brock shook his head in disgust. Jeffrey could see a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face.
Sara worked her way down. She lifted the sweatshirt. There was bruising on the torso. “She was punched. It feels like one of the ribs was dislocated.”
Jeffrey looked down at his notebook. The page was clean. He started a rough sketch of the body. He noted the location of trees and rocks.
Sara ran her finger under the waistband of the yoga pants. She told Brock, “Get closer on this.”
Her exam glove showed a red streak, but not from blood. Jeffrey recognized the distinct rust color of Georgia clay.
Brock asked, “Could she have rolled over?”
“Maybe,” Sara said. “Can we look at her back?”
Jeffrey took the camera from Brock so that the man could glove up. It wasn’t easy. The vinyl gloves kept getting caught on his sweaty skin.
“Sorry.” Brock finally managed to yank the gloves down to his wrists. The band tore. Jeffrey could see an old scar on the inside of Brock’s wrist.
“Ready.” Brock knelt at the girl’s head. He braced his hands on the shoulders. Sara positioned her hands on the waist. They moved in tandem to rotate the girl onto her side.
The waistband of Truong’s pants was bunched up in the back. Dirt and twigs stuck into the bare skin of her buttocks.
Sara said, “Her pants were pulled up while she was lying on the ground.”
Brock asked, “What do you think that means?”
They carefully rolled the girl back to the ground.
Sara said, “It could mean he returned to the scene.”
“After he left her for dead?” Brock asked. “Why would he come back?”
Sara looked at the girl’s hands. Her fingertips were stained red. “I suppose it’s possible she pulled up her pants herself.”
Jeffrey considered the implications. Leslie Truong bleeding to death in the woods, her hands reaching down to cover herself in a futile attempt at modesty.
Sara gently parted the legs.
Jeffrey clenched his teeth at the smell.
“The crotch of the pants is torn.” Sara used the penlight again. She moved the legs farther apart. She told Jeffrey, “Zoom in.”
He watched the LED screen as the Camcorder’s lens went into macro-mode. The spandex between the girl’s legs had been torn apart. He saw thick clots of dried blood and what looked like sharp slivers of glass shredding through the material, similar to an explosion caught mid-detonation. The pants had been ripped from the inside out.
Brock asked, “What is that?”
“A wooden handle,” Sara said. “He broke off the hammer inside of her.”
Atlanta
15
Faith stared at the picture of the broken handle. The photographer had laid it out on a piece of white paper with a ruler beside it for scale. The weapon had been cleaned, but blood and feces had soaked into the grain. The part where the head of the hammer would’ve been was splintered off. The wooden spikes jutted out like broken teeth.
Sara said, “The severed handle could only be removed by dissecting the vaginal vault. It was deep inside of her, far enough to fracture the bones of the pubic arch. Best guess is that the killer kicked the head of the hammer. It broke off at the thinnest point, which is the neck.”