Dying Scream (22 page)

Tammy glanced around the room. Dark and dim and windowless, the room had a dank smell. She sat a little straighter and ran a trembling hand through her hair.

As the seconds passed she realized she wasn’t drunk or coming off a bender. Her heart started to race a little faster as memories flooded back. The parking lot. That guy and the stun gun.

Tammy tried to stand and then realized a chain bound her to the floor. She jerked at the chain but it was a good inch thick and made of galvanized metal. She screamed, “Help!”

Her voice echoed off the concrete walls and bounced back like a rubber ball. She screamed again. After nearly fifteen minutes, her voice was hoarse and scratched. And no one had heard her.

Over the last three years she’d wished for death often enough. Now she feared she’d finally landed in hell.

“Oh God, oh God.”

A light rain ushered in the evening as Gage and Vega arrived at the medical examiner’s office. They moved through the antiseptic hallways at a brisk pace and found Dr. Butler in his windowless small office. Shelves, jammed full of books and papers, lined the small space from floor to ceiling. In the center was a government-issue desk where two laptop computers hummed between towers of more papers and books.

Dr. Butler looked up from his computer, seemingly unaware of the chaos in his office. “Good. You got my text message.”

Gage nodded. “So what do you have?” There were two chairs in front of the desk but both were filled with files. He wondered how the guy could breathe in this kind of space.

Dr. Butler turned from one laptop to the other and with the few clicks of his mouse opened a document. “I’ve reviewed the bones carefully. Took x-rays, searched for birth defects, injuries both old and new, job-related anomalies, and anything that might set her apart.”

“And?” Gage said.

“Rhonda Minor had two fractures on her face. The left cheekbone and the bottom right jaw. The fracture on the left was just a hairline whereas the blow to her right jaw had enough force to break teeth. The injuries hadn’t fully healed, but the healing process had begun. Bone knitting begins immediately but takes time. It was the same with the other victim. Fractures to the face. Partial healing.”

Gage’s lips flattened. “Any guesses on how long he held them?”

“It would be a very, very rough guess.”

“I’ll take it.”

Dr. Butler rubbed his eyes. “Four or five days, a week maybe.”

Gage clenched and unclenched his jaw. Four or five days. A lifetime for a victim. Four days Jessie had been missing. Shit.

“How long has the other victim been dead?” Vega said.

“Based on the tree roots that had grown through and around her bones, I’d say she’s been dead about four or five years.”

“You can determine time of death by tree roots?” Vega said.

“Factoring in the average growth rate of an oak tree as well as rain we’ve had over the last couple of years, I can estimate how much the roots would have grown each year.”

Gage was impressed. “You said you were searching for job-related anomalies.”

“Right,” Dr. Butler said nodding. “If you work one part of your body more than another, over time muscle builds up. Increased muscle size is reflected on the bone.”

Gage nodded. “The bone grows to support the muscle.”

“Exactly.” Dr. Butler had an IQ that bumped two hundred yet could break any complex issue down to the simplest terms. “A horseback rider would have well-developed adductor magnus muscles and femurs. Butt and leg. A trumpet player builds up the cheek muscles and thus the lower jaw changes.”

“And what did you find on Jane Doe?”

“The tibia—lower leg bone—suggested strong calf muscles. And the outer edge of her right shoulder showed signs of a strong deltoid, suggesting she consistently carried heavy objects with her right hand.”

“Strong legs, one arm stronger. A waitress?” Gage said.

“That would be my guess.” Dr. Butler glanced at his notes. “Jane Doe also had shin splints, suggesting a high-impact sport. Maybe even high heels. The pounding of the feet while wearing high heels is murder on the frame. She had the beginnings of bunions on her feet. Whatever shoes the victim wore didn’t fit her feet so well. And her bones showed signs of malnutrition. When she was growing up, she didn’t eat as well as she should have and it left a mark on her bones. And changes to her pelvis tell me she gave birth at one point.”

“Supposing she was a waitress,” Gage said. “And let’s assume for the moment she knew Craig Thornton. Two and two equals…”

“A cocktail waitress,” Vega said. “They carry heavy trays, they do wear high heels, and they can make a lot of money in tips, which would appeal to someone who didn’t grow up with money and had a kid to support.”

Gage played devil’s advocate. “Why not a waitress who worked in a family restaurant who liked to play soccer or tennis?”

Vega grimaced. “All good theory if she weren’t found on Thornton land, the family home of our rich playboy. Four or five years ago, Thornton would have been in his midtwenties.”

Gage blew out a breath. “Thanks, Doc.” He turned to Vega. “We are going to need his financial records ASAP. Chances are if Thornton was a regular anywhere, he put the expense on plastic. Find the venue and we just might find Jane Doe.”

Chapter Fifteen

Friday, September 29, 9:00 a.m.

“And now I’d like to introduce Adrianna Barrington, the spokesperson for Virginians for Safer Roads. Let’s give her a warm welcome.” The brief introduction from Charles Norton, the principal at Goodman High School, sounded more like an order than a request. As he applauded he scanned the auditorium full of tenth-grade students, searching for any signs of trouble.

As the students clapped Adrianna moved toward the podium and smiled. She’d given this speech dozens of times in the last couple of years and now rarely used her notecards. However, each time she stepped in front of a crowd she couldn’t shake the sense that she was betraying Craig, the Thorntons, and her own family. Secrets, mistakes, even successes weren’t shared with the public.

Shoving aside the guilt, Adrianna laid her hands on the podium. “I had my last conversation with my husband on November twenty-first three years ago.” In the audience three cell phones rang at once and giggles erupted. Adrianna paused, not surprised by the interruption, which went with teen territory. Texts, IMs, and Facebook reigned in their world. It was her job to make drunk driving and death real.

However, the principal had less patience. He moved behind her, his arms crossed. When the room settled down, she continued. “Nearly three years ago,” she continued, “my husband and I were driving to a restaurant. We were talking about when and where we were going to have dinner.” When she’d first started giving the talks she didn’t mention the baby. It had been too painful. Lately she talked about her pregnancy. “I was three months pregnant and I still had morning sickness, so I wanted a restaurant that had good bread and tomato soup to settle my stomach. That is the last thing I remember thinking until I woke up in the hospital a day later.” She pressed a button and behind her a screen dropped. An image of Craig’s twisted and mangled BMW appeared on-screen. And as expected, the crowd grew silent. “What I later learned was that a drunk driver had run a stop sign and plowed right into the side of my husband’s car. I lost my baby. My husband survived the accident, but his head injuries were massive. He fell into a coma.”

She pushed another button and more images of the car appeared. Front. Side. Rear. In the background lights from the police and fire vehicles cast a deadly glow on the twisted metal.

The next slide was of Craig taken on his favorite sailing boat. His grin spread across his face. Wind swept through his thick blond hair. Blue eyes flashed. She clicked the button again to the picture taken of Craig lying in his hospital bed. A stunned hush fell over the room. “His head had been shaved for the initial brain surgery. The doctors were trying to reduce the pressure on his brain. As you can see, his face is so swollen he is almost unrecognizable.” The police had taken this picture after his accident in the hospital. They were trying to make a case against the drunk driver who had been arrested on the scene. “Craig was pronounced brain dead a day later by his doctors. They told me to take him off life support. After three days of praying and crying, I did. But he didn’t die for another two years.”

Adrianna spent a little more time talking about Craig’s injuries. She tossed in statistics about drunk driving as she clicked through more pictures of Craig, healthy and young and then again in his coma. The auditorium was silent. All eyes focused on her. “Now I’d like to answer any questions.”

It took a moment for the first hand to go up. A young girl. Perky, perfect skin and hair, polo shirt and khakis. “What can you tell us about the person who hit your husband?”

“She was thirty-two at the time of the accident. Pretty, smart, and a nurse at a local hospital. She was liked and respected by friends, many of whom spoke at her sentencing hearing.”

“Why would a hospital hire a drunk for a nurse?” the girl challenged.

“She always prided herself on showing up to work sober. The night she hit my husband’s car, she’d just come off an eighteen-hour shift in the emergency room. She’d managed to save the life of a fourteen-year-old who’d almost died from a fall out of a tree house. She was so proud that she’d decided to stop at her favorite bar and have a drink. She ended up having ten. By the time she got into her car, her blood alcohol was twice the legal limit. She ran a stop sign that she’d later swear she never saw. She hit my husband’s car going forty miles an hour—the force of several sticks of dynamite.”

The principal stepped up to the podium. “What happened to the driver?”

“She received three years in jail. It turns out she’d driven drunk before. This was her third offense. If Craig had died at the scene, she could have gotten ten years. That would have been vehicular homicide. But Craig had the misfortune of lingering and was still alive at the time of her sentencing.”

More questions followed.
What do you do for a living? How old are you? Do you think about your husband a lot?

Afterward, everyone in the room stood and gave her a round of applause. She knew they were moved by the moment. By her story. And hoped they remembered it past lunch tomorrow. Most wouldn’t. But one or two would. And that’s all she could hope for.

When her time ended, Adrianna walked into the bright sunshine escorted by the principal. He was her height but his body was soft, fleshy. “Thank you, Ms. Barrington. That was great.”

She always felt drained after talks like this one. It forced her to relive what she wanted to let go of but couldn’t quite. She slipped on her sunglasses. “Thank you, Principal Norton. I appreciate the opportunity.” She reached in her purse and pulled out two tickets. “Two tickets to our benefit next week. We’re auctioning off some very unique paintings. Please come as my guest. All proceeds benefit the new Thornton Neonatal Unit at Mercy Hospital.”

He accepted the tickets and smiled broadly. “Thank you.”

“See you then?” The wind blew. Gold bracelets on her wrist jangled as she brushed hair from her eyes.

“I will.” He hesitated. “Ms. Barrington, can I ask one question?”

“Sure.”

He glanced side to side as if he wasn’t sure he should be asking this question. “The woman who hit your husband, what’s her status?”

Her spine was ramrod straight. “She gets out of prison this month, I believe.”

His frown deepened. “Do you know if she’s stopped drinking?”

How many times had she been asked this question? “She tells me she has quit.”

As always, her frankness shocked. “You’ve spoken to her?”

“She’s written to me several times and I’ve responded.”

His mouth dropped open in shock before he quickly snapped it closed. “What could she say to you?”

She was grateful her sunglasses cloaked her eyes, which no doubt reflected sadness. “She wanted my forgiveness.”

“Did you give it to her?” The personal question struck into the heart of so many
what ifs
that stalked her and kept her in a constant state of tension these days.

Adrianna repeated what she told everyone. “It’s a process, Mr. Norton. It’s a process.”

In the light of day, she could embrace the idea of forgiveness. But the truth was when thoughts of her baby came to mind—his due date, his first birthday, his first steps—she realized she’d not forgiven Tammy Borden at all.

Tess tucked her motorcycle helmet under her arm and pushed through the main door of the medical examiner’s office.

It was her first day off in two weeks. And if she were in her right mind or had any semblance of a personal life she’d be doing something fun like wandering through the historic shops in Carytown, getting a manicure or massage, or maybe having lunch with a friend.

But she’d never developed the knack of having fun. That explained her lacking wardrobe, shorn nails, and tense muscles. Work was pretty much her life. The only place she felt right. All the Kiers were defined by their work. Her brother Zack, a reformed work junkie, had gotten better about putting in the long days since he and his wife had had their son, but she and her brother Malcolm were hopeless workaholics. It had cost them relationships, friendships, and too many hours of sleep.

But she’d stopped fretting over her work obsession years ago. It was what it was.

And she had a new case that was eating into her life. Last year she’d collected evidence on three other murdered women. Nightmares had plagued her on those cases for months. In her sleep she heard their screams. She felt the breath being choked from their bodies as they’d been strangled. He had been stopped. Warwick had been the one to break the case.

Last night she’d had dreams, not of killers, but of missing a key piece of evidence. What evidence linked these two bodies that she wasn’t seeing?

Tess pushed through the swinging doors of the medical examiner’s office in search of Alex. The guy had enough work to do without her hanging around and prodding him with questions, but she’d come this far and as her mother used to say, “Faint hearts never win.”