“Call any of those names, and they can confirm I was either in class or working,” he said.
“Do you always keep a detailed calendar like this?” Bryce asked.
“Since the day I was released from prison,” Elijah said.
“You moved mighty close to Ann Bailey.”
“There’s no law against it,” Elijah said.
“No law, just curious why you’re so near her.”
“Good school district. House promises to be a good flip when it’s renovated. Is there anything else, Sergeant?” Elijah asked.
“Not for now.”
“Don’t forget my fingerprints and DNA are on file. My attorney couldn’t get those expunged, so unless you have hard forensic data connecting me to any crime, we don’t have much to say to each other.”
“I’m sure we’ll be in touch soon.”
“Can’t wait.”
Bryce quelled the desire to grab Elijah by the collar and demand to know what the hell he was planning. Because as sure as he was living and breathing, he knew Elijah Weston had a bigger plan.
Instead, he turned and strode back to his vehicle, knowing in his bones there was another shoe to drop with this son of a bitch.
Bryce arrived at the medical examiner’s office, slipped off his jacket, and shrugged on a surgical gown. Tugging on gloves, he moved through the double doors into the autopsy suite, where Gideon Bailey stood across the table from Dr. Christopher. Lying between them was the sheet-clad body of Edith Scott.
“Apologies for the delay,” Bryce said. “Interviewing an associate of the last victim.”
“How is the case going?” Gideon asked.
“All three victims have been identified,” he said. “They were all one of Elijah’s Fireflies. And the last victim was seen talking to Paul Thompson last week. Not hard to assume they were talking about Elijah Weston, who is the subject of Thompson’s story.”
Gideon’s frown deepened, as it did whenever Elijah’s name was mentioned. “Where’s Thompson now?”
“I tried his cell. He didn’t pick up. But it’s time to figure out where he’s staying in town.”
“When you talk to him, I want to be present.”
“I did stop by Elijah Weston’s house,” Bryce said. “You know he’s living around the corner from Ann?”
“I knew it was close but not that close.” Gideon cursed.
“How do you think Elijah would take to a reporter talking to the Fireflies?” Bryce asked.
“The media was all over him last year, but he didn’t seem to care. Now he’s emerging from his isolation and reinventing himself, so he might not be as patient about rehashing his past.”
“There was a murder in town last year. The victim allegedly beat up Elijah shortly after his release.”
“Yes. We never pulled any DNA or fingerprints from the scene. We never could officially close the case.”
“And now Edith Scott is dead,” Bryce said. “She served on the jury that convicted Elijah?”
“She was the foreman of the jury,” Gideon said. “And when he came up for parole five years ago, she was part of the citizens committee who filed their objections to the parole board.”
Bryce worked his fingers deeper into the gloves as he moved up to the table. Dr. Christopher pulled back the sheet to reveal the pale, drawn features of Edith Scott. The doctor adjusted the overhead microphone closer to his mouth.
“Today, we have the body of a forty-eight-year-old woman, Edith Scott, who suffered multiple knife wounds to the chest.”
Bryce counted six knife wounds, each tightly grouped around her heart. There was nothing haphazard about the patterning, which was very similar to the other three victims. As tempted as he was to comment, he let the procedure play out.
Dr. Christopher began with an external examination that detailed basic characteristics of the woman’s body, including an appendectomy scar, several old burns, and a heart-shaped tattoo on her right hip. She was underweight by about fifteen pounds, and her skin looked sallow.
The doctor lifted the eyelids and noted that the right pupil had been blown and the left eye was significantly bloodshot. “Interesting.”
“How so?” Bryce asked.
“These are signs of suffocation.” The doctor took swabs of the nasal passages. “I’ll check to make sure there are no fabric fibers.”
“Is there a way of telling if the other victims were suffocated?” Bryce asked.
“Not given the damage to the remains,” Dr. Christopher said.
The doors to the room opened, and Joan Mason appeared, gowned up. She stood beside Gideon, but other than a slight softening of her features, most would never have guessed they were dating.
“You’ve been through the victim’s house?” Dr. Christopher asked.
“Several times,” Joan said. “I found no traces of illegal drugs, firearms, or anything to suggest that Ms. Scott might have had another life her coworkers weren’t aware of. She was on heavy-duty pain medications and two drugs associated with nausea. Her refrigerator was stocked with soda, bread, and cheese. Not the best diet, but I’m guessing it was comfort food given the nausea.”
“Alcohol?” Dr. Christopher asked.
“An unopened bottle of white in the pantry. I went through her mail and saw nothing that appeared troubling. No overdue bills, no threatening letters, no alarming correspondence from doctors. She had five books from the library that are due in two days. Also, no pictures of family or friends on the refrigerator. No pets. She had a quiet life.”
Bryce had seen seemingly average people killed, but more often than not, they had engaged in some kind of risky behavior that no one had been aware of. That did not appear to be the case for Edith Scott. “Not the kind of behavior that makes an attack more likely,” he said.
“No.” Joan studied the body with a detached distance learned when she worked homicide back in Philadelphia. “I spoke to her neighbor as I was leaving.” She checked her notepad. “A neighbor told me Ms. Scott was worried about Weston. She had been on the jury that convicted Weston of arson. Ms. Scott was mulling her legal options with her neighbor while they were at the mailboxes the other day.”
“Unless he made a direct threat,” Bryce said, “she had none.”
“That was their conclusion,” Joan said. She slid her notebook in her pocket and worked on a pair of clean gloves over the ones in place as she shifted closer to the instrument table.
Dr. Christopher focused on the body as Joan handed him the scalpel from the instrument table. He carefully pressed it against the skin and sliced a neat Y incision. Soon he had peeled the skin open, and Joan handed him bolt cutters. He snapped the rib cage and, after careful inspection, set it on a tray Joan held out for him.
Congealed blood pooled in the interior cavity, which had to be suctioned out. Next Dr. Christopher inspected the heart. “Two direct cuts to the heart. This wound, here,” he said, pointing, “severed the aorta. She would have bled out in a matter of minutes. The knife also cut into her lungs. Whoever did this was efficient and knew what they were doing.” He searched the interior cavity.
“How do you compare the stab wounds to the other two victims?” Bryce said.