“Not really. Skin is elastic and the wound often distorts after the weapon is removed. Stab wounds are rarely the same size as the knife. The size of the entry can vary by at least plus or minus a centimeter.”
“That’s a pretty big margin of error in estimating the weapon size. You could be talking about anything from an ice-pick to a bloody Bowie knife.”
“It gets worse. The size of the wound is also affected if the attacker ‘rocks’ the knife, or the victim moves while the knife’s still in place.” Anya demonstrated with a bread-and-butter knife left over from lunch. She made a circle with her index finger and thumb and twisted the knife. “That makes a much bigger entry wound.” She chose one of the wounds on the chest. “It’s happened here. See, this one is triangular for that reason.”
“What about serrated edges?” Hayden asked. “Can you give us a bit more of an idea?”
“The ribs were nicked, but it doesn’t look like a serration. You’d have to check with a forensic anthropologist to be sure.”
“Is there anything else that could have caused the injuries?” Quentin stroked his chin. “We’re assuming it’s a knife.”
“Blunt objects like screwdrivers leave different patterns of injury. They’d split the skin. Scissors tend to leave a Z-shape.” She studied the wounds again, this time with a magnifying glass. “I’d say your killer, or killers, used a knife. A very sharp one.”
She scanned the reports of genital injuries. Faint bruises were visible on the inner thighs. “The bruises on her thighs are old. Normally people bruise on the outside of the thighs by bumping into things. It’s hard to bruise the inside unless there has been some kind of force used.”
Hayden sighed. “You mean like fists trying to open the legs in a rape?”
“Exactly.”
Quentin added, “There was no evidence of sexual intercourse at the crime scene, either, which I find intriguing. If this woman was killed by a rapist, he is most likely a fantasy rapist. He must be assuming he’s the real partner. If he was still watching Elizabeth Dorman, he could have become incensed that she still had her boyfriend. Although, from the different types of stab wounds, I still can’t discount two perpetrators at the murder scene.”
“We still haven’t excluded the boyfriend, either.” Hayden stood up and stretched, hands on his belt. “From what you two are saying, our killer, or pair of killers, wasn’t there to rape Elizabeth. She knew him or them, then something happened and he, or they, went crazy, hacking her to death. So we’re looking for one or two guys who may or may not rape women, but stab them to death in a fit of rage, and may even be friends.” He scratched his moustache. “Glad we’ve got that sorted. Can’t wait to see Sorrenti’s expression when I bring her the good news.”
“Wait a minute.” Anya pulled out one of the photos of stab wounds around the left collarbone and stared at it closely. “Could you please pass me the other magnifying glass?”
Hayden handed it across. “What is it?”
She collected more photos from the same part of the body and laid them in a row, scanning each one slowly.
“There are a series of faint bruise marks around the left clavicle. If you weren’t actually looking for them, you could miss them. But in context, they fit with the markings of a knife.”
Hayden leaned forward. “How do you mean?”
“I mean like the marks caused by a knife pressed against the chest. You need to use a bit of imagination, but I’m sure that’s what the bruising pattern is.”
The three bent over the pictures, squashed together in the lack of space.
Hayden squinted. “It doesn’t take imagination. It is faint, but I reckon it looks like the bruise you showed us on Jodie Davis.”
“As well as Melanie Havelock and the first victim,” Anya agreed.
The detective took a moment to digest the implications.
“So she was attacked. And probably by our serial rapist. Only this time, he came back to finish the job.”
24
Hayden stood and lingered over the photos after Quentin had excused himself for another appointment.
“The outline of the knife is definitely there. Can’t believe it got missed in the morgue.”
Anya measured the lengths for comparison. “It wasn’t missed, the bruises were just recorded separately.”
“If our guy is escalating the violence, we are running out of time before he does this again. Interviewed her yet?”
Anya had almost forgotten. “This morning she finally returned my call. At least her mobile-phone number hasn’t changed. She was pretty distraught about the other victims, but wants to put it all behind her. She reluctantly agreed to meet later this afternoon for a conversation, but that was all.”
Hayden sounded relieved. “What are the chances that I can come along?”
“Zero. I’m not violating confidentiality.”
“I’m not suggesting you do. At least phone and give her the option of having someone from the police listen in. You can even call her by a false name. If she hasn’t signed a statement, no one can hold her to it.”
Anya tried to hide her frustration. “What if you subpoena her?”
“I can’t if I don’t know her name or address. Blindfold me on the way, if you want.” He stood, looking like a starving puppy. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think she could make a difference. She could hold the piece of info we need to track this guy down.”
Anya relented and made the call. To her surprise, Louise Richardson agreed to let the detective sit in on their discussion.
An hour later, they were sitting in a cafe at a local bowling alley. They chose a table against the back wall, furthest away from the serving area. 1970s disco revivals blared out of the sound system. The cacophony put Anya on edge as they waited for Louise.
“I don’t think she’s coming,” Hayden said, checking his watch. “Did she say why she chose this place?”
“I didn’t ask. Let’s give her a few more minutes.” Anya watched through the glass window. A group of disabled children cheered as one pushed a bright pink bowling ball down the metal ramp. The next player had her wheelchair rammed by an opponent, just as she released the ball. She swore at the offender, but then the group laughed. Even a friendly game of bowling was competitive these days, she thought, feeling old.
The smell of chicken salt and fried food seemed to catch Hayden’s attention.
“Damn, that makes me hungry. Don’t suppose they serve salads here.”
“I doubt it, but they probably do reasonable coffee.”
Hayden tapped Anya on the elbow as he looked toward the cafe entrance.
A woman dressed in loose jeans and a baggy jumper stood, fingers twisting the shoulder strap on her bag.
Anya stood and walked over to Louise.
“Thank you for coming.”
“I almost didn’t,” Louise said. “I’ve been sitting outside in the car trying to decide what to do.”
“You’re here now, but you can leave or end this conversation at any time. All right?”
Louise grimaced. “I need to know. Do you trust this policeman?”
“With my life,” Anya said, surprising herself.
Hayden stood as Louise joined them, and asked if she minded if he took notes.
She sat with one hand pulling hair behind her ear. “I wanted to meet somewhere no one would notice us.”
Three people at a corner table in a bowling alley taking notes and speaking in hushed tones would make anyone notice, Anya thought.
“I figured kids and teenagers would be more interested in themselves,” Louise said.
She had a good point.
Hayden explained that he was there to gather information and not to identify her to colleagues. Anya studied
