Decker shook his head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Look at the porch.”
Jamison stepped to the window and looked at the small-roofed porch with open sides.
Decker said, “Mary and I got soaked going in, and that porch offered almost no protection. And I don’t see Hawkins having the foresight to bring an extra pair of shoes and socks. And how could he take the time to stop and change out of his shoes before breaking into a house with a bunch of people in it? Anybody could have looked out the front door or window and seen him. And hell, he’d have to have brought another set of clothes and a hair dryer before he set foot inside. Otherwise, there would have been traces.”
“Is there another way into the house that he could have used?”
“None that wouldn’t leave us with the same problem as now.”
“He could have cleaned up his wet traces on his way out.”
“After murdering four people he’s going to take the time to do that? And from all the different places he had to be in the house to kill them all? And there’s carpet too, so he’s going to what, get out a steam cleaner and fire it up and get rid of every single bit of mud, wet gravel, soaked blades of grass?”
“But, Decker, you know the alternative if that is the case.”
Decker glanced over at her. “Yeah, that Hawkins was right, and I was wrong. He was innocent. And I put him away in prison. And now he’s dead.”
“That wasn’t your fault.”
“The hell it isn’t,” said Decker.
Chapter 11
THERE WAS NO PLACE on earth colder than a morgue.
At least Decker was thinking that as he looked down at the body of Meryl Hawkins on the metal table. The ME had drawn back the sheet so that Hawkins’s emaciated body was completely exposed. On one side of Decker stood Jamison. On the other was Lancaster.
The ME said, “As I noted, the cause of death was a small-caliber soft-nosed or dumdum bullet. It deformed after cleaving through the skull and then cartwheeled through the soft tissue, breaking up more as it did so, just as it’s designed to do.” He pointed to the man’s brain that was sitting on another table. “You can see that it did considerable damage. Hawkins would have died instantly. Round was still in the soft tissue. In fragments. That’s why I can’t give you a more exact answer as to caliber.”
“And no way to do a ballistics comparison if we do find a gun to test?” said Lancaster.
“Afraid not. As I said, it’s just metal slivers and chunks dispersed over a wide area of the brain. Like a bomb exploded. Really no spiral lands or grooves from the gun barrel left to match it to, unfortunately.” He added, “There were also traces of polyurethane foam and microbeads embedded in the wound and brain tissue.”
“What?” said Jamison, looking puzzled.
Decker said, “The killer used a pillow to muffle the shot.”
“Cheap version of a muzzle suppressor,” added Lancaster. “The burn marks on his forehead would have been even more pronounced if the killer hadn’t used the pillow. It was pretty close to a contact wound.”
“They must’ve cleaned up the trace and taken the pillow with them,” said Decker. “There was no sign of it in the room.”
Decker pointed to the man’s forearms. “They’re healed now, of course, but that’s where the scratches were, presumably from Abigail Richards trying to fight him off.”
Lancaster added, “After he was arrested and jailed, we noted the wounds on his arms. Hawkins said he’d fallen down and scraped both arms. He’d cleaned them up and bandaged them before he was arrested. If any of Abigail Richards’s DNA was on him, that probably would’ve removed it. In fact, we found none. But we did find his DNA on her.”
Jamison said, “And that seems to be rock-solid evidence of his guilt. I mean, he was there. She tried to fight him off. He was good for the murders.”
“Yeah,” said Decker. “And all we have against that is a guy who said he was innocent and now he’s dead.”
Lancaster said, “Do you think it could be that Hawkins did commit the murders but wasn’t alone? He had an accomplice and now that accomplice killed him before he could reveal his identity?”
“He’s had thirteen years to do that,” pointed out Decker. “And you’d think Hawkins would have fingered an accomplice at his trial, if for no other reason than to cut a deal. And there’s something else.” He told Lancaster about his rain theory. He added, “Rain residue and other trace from the storm should have been found at the crime scene but wasn’t.”
Lancaster seemed taken aback by this. “I…I never focused on that.”
“Neither did I, until now.”
“Crap, Decker.”
“Yeah.”
“What’s that on his forearm?” asked Jamison.
The ME, a short, balding man in his fifties, pulled an overhead lamp on a long flex arm closer and turned it on, hitting that spot.
“Yes, I noted that,” he said. “Let’s take a closer look.”
The marks on Hawkins’s arm were black and dark green and brown. A casual observer might have concluded that they were bruises. Only they weren’t. Closer inspection under the intense light revealed clearly what they were.
“It’s a tattoo,” said Decker. “Or several tattoos.”
“That’s what I concluded too,” said the ME. “But poorly done ones. I mean, my daughter has one and it’s far nicer than these.”
Decker opined, “That’s because these were done in prison with very crude instruments and whatever they could find to use as ink.”
“How do you know it wasn’t done before he went to prison?” asked Jamison.
“Because I saw his forearms thirteen years ago. Several times. No tats.” Decker leaned down and looked at the marks from a few inches away. “Looks like they used paper clips or maybe staples. That tat looks like they used soot mixed with shampoo for the ink. The other two seem to be Styrofoam that’s been melted. Those are pretty popular choices for inmate tats.”
“Didn’t know you were such an expert on prison tattoos,” said Jamison.
“Decker and I have visited our share of prisons over the years,” noted Lancaster. “Seen a lot of convict skin with body art. Some cool, some hideous.”
Decker was still looking at the tat. “It’s a spiderweb.”
“Trapped,” said Lancaster.
“What?” asked Jamison.
“Symbolizes being trapped in prison,” explained Decker. “It’s referring to their prison sentence.”
“That looks like a teardrop,” observed Jamison, pointing to the mark near the crook of the elbow.
Decker nodded. “Right, it is.”
“What does that mean?”
Lancaster and Decker exchanged a glance. He said in a subdued tone, “Sometimes, it denotes that the person has been raped in prison. Usually it’s inked on the face, where everyone can see it.”
“Damn,” said Jamison.
Decker closed his eyes and felt sick to his stomach.