“Suppose Dorton’s midnight companion was Sister Mary Innocent working to save his soul?” Slidell asked.
“Desk clerk suspected the woman was a hooker,” said Hawkins. “Thought Dorton had been there before. Same deal. Late-night checkin. Floozy date.”
“Get hopped. Get lucky. Get a room.” Larabee.
“Guess Ricky Don’s luck ran out.” Slidell tossed the report onto the body bag.
I watched the paper slip to the gurney and settle against Ricky Don’s pricey gold neckwear.
Before his departure, Ryan extracted a promise that I would discuss the previous day’s e-mails with Slidell or Rinaldi. Though my anxiety had diminished considerably overnight, my nerves were still on edge. I was inclined to view the messages as the work of some warped cyber-moron, but had promised myself not to let fear alter my life. Business as usual. But I agreed with Ryan on one point.
If the threat was real, Katy was also at risk.
I’d tried to caution my daughter on the night of her party, but Katy’s reaction had been to scoff at the e-mails. When I’d persisted, she’d become annoyed, told me my job was making me paranoid.
Twenty-something, bulletproof, and immortal. Like mother, like daughter.
In the privacy of my office, I described the pictures of Boyd, Katy, and myself. I acknowledged yesterday’s terror, today’s continuing uneasiness.
Rinaldi spoke first.
“You have no idea who this Grim Reaper is?”
I shook my head.
“What Ryan and I could make out from the AOL tracking information was that the messages were sent to my mailbox at UNCC through a couple of re-mailers, then forwarded from the university to my AOL address.”
“That last part your doing?”
“Yes. I have all my e-mail forwarded.” I shook my head. “You’ll never trace the original sender.”
“It can be done,” Rinaldi said. “But it isn’t easy.”
“The pictures began on Wednesday morning?” Slidell asked.
I nodded. “Probably taken with a digital camera.”
“So there’s no way to track prints through a film processing company.” Slidell.
“And the call was probably placed at a pay phone.” Rinaldi. “Would you like us to order surveillance for you?”
“Do you think that’s warranted?”
I had expected indifference, perhaps impatience. The sincerity of their responses was unsettling.
“We’ll step up patrols past your place.”
“Thank you.”
“How about your kid’s crib?” Slidell.
I saw Katy, relaxed and unaware on a front porch swing.
“Stepped up patrols would be good.”
“Done.”
When they’d gone I checked again with Mrs. Flowers. Still no fax from Cagle. She assured me she would deliver the report the second it finished printing.
Returning to my office, I tried to concentrate on a backlog of mail and paperwork. Thirty minutes later, the phone rang. I nearly knocked my soda to the floor snatching up the receiver.
It was Mrs. Flowers.
Cagle’s fax with the Lancaster skeletal report had not arrived, but Brian Aiker’s dental records had. Dr. Larabee had requested my presence in the main autopsy room.
When I arrived, the ME was arranging radiographs on two light boxes, each set consisting of twelve tiny films showing teeth in the upper and lower jaws. Joe Hawkins had taken one series on the privy skull and jaw. Brian Aiker’s dentist had provided the other.
One look was enough.
“Don’t think we’ll need a forensic dentist for this one,” Larabee said.
“Nope,” I agreed.
Brian Aiker’s X rays showed crowns and posts in two upper and two lower molars, clear evidence of root canal work.
The privy skull X rays showed none.
Wally Cagle’s report did not arrive on Friday. Nor did it come on Saturday. Or Sunday.
Twice each day I visited the MCME. Twice each day I called Cagle at his office, his home, and on his cell.
Never an answer.
Twice each day I checked my e-mail for the scanned images.
