“What about the kid who found her?”
The captain was a clear-eyed, narrow man in his early fifties. French looked past him. The kid was still in the car. “He’s pretty shut down. I’ll try him again in a bit.”
The captain nodded, already distracted. “This’ll be a media shit storm. You know that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So let’s keep it tight. You and Burklow, the medical examiner and me.” He pointed at other detectives. “Martinez. Smith. We’re the only ones who’ve seen the body, right?”
“The boy…”
“Of course, the boy.”
“And Dobson, I think. He looked pretty green when I showed up.”
“Right. First responder. Shit. I don’t know if we can keep this wrapped.”
French dipped his head at the structure. “Don’t forget the photographer, the fingerprint techs, the boy’s parents, when we find them.”
“I want time. Talk to your people. Give me what you can.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jesus, Bill…” The captain’s composure failed as he mopped sweat from his face. “As a father, what do you do with this?”
“I say a silent prayer and thank God for my sons.”
“I have girls.”
“The twins, I know.”
“Have you ever seen anything like that?” He wasn’t looking for an answer, so French didn’t give him one. “You know how long I’ve had this job? Too long, maybe.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“But you’ve got this, right? I can leave it with you?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good man. Thank you.” The captain gathered himself, buttoning his jacket. “If you need me, I’ll be at the high school, then at the station.”
“The high school?”
“I think I’ll give my girls a hug.”
“Good idea.”
“Oh, and Bill…”
“Yeah?”
“Call me when you identify the victim. She’ll have family and friends. Someone somewhere is worried.”
“Soon as we have a name.” French watched the captain nod, and slide into his car. Inside, the war raged on.
Her name is Tyra …
She’s been with my son …
* * *
When French returned to his car, the kid’s color was better. “Mind if I sit with you for a while?” He slid behind the wheel. “I’m sorry you had to wait. It’s kind of crazy out there.”
“I’ve been watching.”
“Ah, he talks.” French kept it light because the boy still looked as thin as glass. “Remember what I told you before? You’re safe here. The bad people are gone.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your name?”
“Samuel.”
“Do you live nearby, Samuel?”
The boy gave an address. French knew it.
“I know I’m supposed to be in school…”
“Don’t worry about that. You’re not in trouble. My name is Bill.”
The boy held out a small hand, and they shook. He looked like Gibby at the same age: the thin shoulders, the same solemn eyes. “Do your parents know where you are?” The boy shook his head. “Will you tell me their names?”
“It’s just my mother.”
“Your mother, then.”
“Kate.”
“Kate. Good. Thank you, Samuel. Will you tell me why you came here this morning?”
“Some older boys said I might find arrowheads.”
“Did you find any?”
He shook his head, eyes filling. “I found…”
“It’s okay, Samuel.”
“I found … I found…”
“You’re okay, son. Breathe.” French squeezed the narrow shoulders. “In and out. That’s a boy.”
* * *
When the kid stopped crying, he told a simple story. He’d wanted one thing and found another. When he finished talking, French put him in a car with a female officer who had kids of her own. It was a good fit. He saw it in the boy’s eyes.
After that, they cut the body down.
It took bolt cutters and three men with strong stomachs. When she was bagged and in the van, French called the medical examiner into a shady place by a different stairwell. Malcolm Frye was a small man with coffee skin and salt in his hair. He was good at his job. The two of them went back at least a decade. “What can you tell me?” French asked.
Frye pulled off latex gloves, his eyes as doleful as the kid’s. “Where should I start?”
“Cause of death?”
He shook his head, and used a handkerchief to polish wire-rimmed glasses. “I doubt any single cut killed her. Preliminarily, I’d say shock, cumulative trauma, massive blood loss.”
“Was she alive for all of it?”
“Probably.”
“Jesus.”
“It was precision work designed to keep her breathing and conscious. No damaged organs or nicked arteries. Whoever did this to her had training.”
“Surgical?”
“Not to that degree, but training. Paramedic, maybe. A corpsman. A med school dropout.”
“How long, do you think?”
“Once they subdued her and strung her up?” He lifted his shoulders, weary. “Long enough to chew through her own tongue.”
The ME settled the glasses back on his face, and French studied him more closely. “You okay, Doc?”
“I’m a black man in the South, Detective. What’s not to like about a good lynching?” The bitterness came out; he couldn’t help it.
“Listen, I’m sorry this one landed on you. If you want, we can get a different examiner.”
“No, no.” He waved off the suggestion. “Forget I said that.”
“Forgotten.”
“What else can I do for you?”
“Can you be more specific on timing? When it happened? How long she lived? This early in the case, even a guess would be helpful.”
“I can’t speak to her abduction, but she suffered for a long time, make no mistake. Inflicting that kind of damage would have taken hours. Methodical work. Careful work. Then there’s the underlying psychopathy.”
“Meaning?”
“That he probably enjoyed it. I doubt he rushed.”
French closed his eyes, but could not unsee the flayed skin, the exposed organs. Were there a theme to the crime, it would be that people, in their expressions of cruelty, could be endlessly inventive. “Anything else you can tell me?”
“Not before the autopsy. Speaking of which…” He gestured at the van, the body inside.
“Hang on one second, Doc.”
Burklow was moving in their direction. When he arrived, he nodded at the ME, but spoke to French. “We’ve been working from the inside out. No sign of her clothes or personal belongings. No usable footprints or tire tracks, but the chain out front is cut. Looks like they came right up the main drive.”
“Pretty brazen.”
“Dark of night. Light traffic. We did find this.” He brandished a clear, plastic evidence bag.