“Picture a dachshund trying to fit his snout into a badger hole.”
Michael didn’t want to, but he found the image playing in his mind, the yippy bark echoing in his ears.
“In this case,” Pete continued, “the incision separated the frenulum linguae from the organ, bisecting the submandibular duct.” He opened his own mouth and lifted up his tongue, pointing to the thin stretch of skin underneath. “The removal of the tongue in and of itself is not a life-threatening injury. The problem is, she fell onto her back. Perhaps the shock of the event or the various chemical substances in her body affected her. Subsequently, she passed out. Over the course of a few minutes, the blood from the severed tongue engorged her throat. My official cause of death will be asphyxiation due to the blockage of the trachea by blood, causing respiratory arrest, secondary to exsanguination from the traumatic amputation of the tongue.”
“But,” Michael said, “he didn’t mean for her to die.”
“It’s not in my purview to imagine what goes through a man’s mind when he is biting off a woman’s tongue, but if I were a gambling man, and my ex-wives will tell you I am, then yes. I would guess that the attacker did not intend for her to die.”
Trent said, “Just like the others.”
“There are more?” Pete asked, perking up. “I’ve not heard of any cases similar to this.”
Trent told him, “There are two girls that we know of. The first had her tongue bitten, but not completely severed. It was sewn back on and she was fine-relatively speaking. The second lost her tongue. Too much time had passed to safely reattach it.”
Pete shook his head. “Poor thing. Was this recent? I haven’t read anything about it.”
“The first attack happened on state land, so we were able to keep it quiet. The second girl’s parents shut out the press and the local cops held back the details. There’s no story if nobody’s willing to talk.”
“What about the third one?” Michael had to ask. “The little girl?”
Trent filled Pete in on the case. “My opinion is she bit it herself,” he concluded. “She’s young, ten years old. She must have been terrified. The local PD is good, but they don’t have a lot of experience with this sort of violent crime. I think it was probably very hard for them to elicit a statement from her.”
“No doubt,” Pete agreed, but Michael wondered why Trent hadn’t said any of this earlier. Maybe he had been feeling out Michael, seeing if he could pass the test.
Shit, Michael thought. He was tired of jumping through hoops. He asked the doctor, “How old do you think this one is?” He nodded to Aleesha Monroe.
“It’s hard to say.” Pete studied the woman’s face. “Her teeth are a mess because of the drug. Given the hard nature of her life and her prolonged drug dependency, I’d put her in the late-thirties; possibly older, possibly younger.”
Michael looked at Trent. “But not a teenage girl.”
“Definitely not,” Pete agreed.
“So, we’ve got two teenagers thirty miles away and an old junkie in Atlanta and the only thing linking them is this tongue shit.” He tried to stare his meaning into Trent. “Right?”
Trent’s cell phone rang. He glanced at the screen, then excused himself with an apology as he left the room.
Pete gave a heavy sigh, covering up the body, tugging the sheet tight over her head. “Messy situation.”
“Yeah,” Michael agreed. He was watching Trent through the glass doors, wondering what the fuck was up with the guy.
“He seems on the ball,” Pete said, meaning Trent. “I have to say, it’s a nice change of pace seeing one of your compatriots dressed so smartly.”
“What?” Michael asked. He’d been watching Trent, trying to hear the call.
“The suit,” Pete clarified. “It makes an impression.”
“Like a fucking undertaker,” Michael answered, thinking Pete wasn’t exactly ready to step into a GQ spread. His white lab coats were always starched and clean, but that was because the state took care of the laundry bill. Underneath, Pete generally wore jeans and a wrinkled button-down shirt, his collar wide open, revealing a patch of gray chest hair and a gold medallion that any of the Bee Gees would have been ashamed to wear.
“It is a tenuous connection,” Pete said. “The three cases.”
“You’re telling me.”
“But it does give one pause that the tongues were all bitten off. That’s not a common twist.” He picked up the evidence bag with the tongue and held it up as if Michael hadn’t seen it plenty last night. “I’d have to say in all my years doing this job, I’ve never run across anything similar. Bite marks, yes. I always say if you want scientific proof that we have evolved from animals, you need only look at the average rape victim.” Pete placed the tongue beside Monroe’s arm. “Bite marks were all over her breasts and shoulders. I counted at least twenty-two. It’s a base instinct, I suppose, to bite during a vicious attack. You see dogs and big cats do it in the wild.” He chuckled. “I cannot tell you how many nipples I’ve seen bitten off. Five or six instances of the clitoris being severed. One finger…” He smiled at Michael. “If only these monsters had horns. It would be so much easier finding them.”
Michael did not like the way the doctor was looking at him, and he sure as hell didn’t want to hear his opinions on sexual predators. He said, “Tell Trent I’m downstairs when he’s finished yapping on the phone.”
He left through the emergency exit, taking the steps at a full trot. His instinct was to get into his car and leave Trent with his thumb up his ass, but he wasn’t about to fuck around with the guy. Even if Greer didn’t call him on it, Michael knew better than to make an enemy of the well-dressed asshole from the GBI.
“Where’s the fire?” Leo asked. He was standing at the bottom of the stairs smoking a cigarette.
“Give me one,” Michael said.
“Thought you quit.”
“You my mother?” Michael reached into Leo’s shirt pocket and took the pack.
Leo clicked the lighter and Michael took a deep drag. They were on the garage level of the building. The odor of car exhaust and rubber was overwhelming, but the cigarette smoke burning through Michael’s nostrils cut the smell.
“So,” Leo began. “Where’s fucknuts?”
Michael let out a stream of smoke, feeling the nicotine calm him. “Upstairs with Pete.”
Leo scowled. Pete had banned him from the morgue after a predictably ill-timed joke. “I went down to Records.”
Michael squinted past the smoke. “Yeah?”
“Will Trent’s file is sealed.”
“Sealed?”
Leo nodded.
“How do you get your file sealed?” Got me.
They both smoked for a minute, silent in their thoughts. Michael looked down at the floor, which was covered with cigarette butts. The building was strictly nonsmoking, but telling a bunch of cops they couldn’t do something was like telling a monkey not to throw its shit.
Michael asked, “Why’d Greer call him in? Him specifically, I mean. This SCAT team, whatever the fuck it is.”
“Greer didn’t call him.” Leo raised his eyebrows like he was enjoying the mystery. “Trent was sitting in his office when Greer got to work.”
Michael felt his heart start beating double time in his chest. The nicotine was getting to him, making him light-headed. “That’s not how it works. The state boys can’t just come in and take over a case. They have to be asked in.”
“Sounded to me last night like Greer was gonna ask him anyway. What’s the big deal how it came down?”
“Never mind.” Despite Leo’s disgusting people skills, the man knew a lot of people on the force. He had made an art out of developing contacts and could usually get the dirt on anybody.
Michael asked, “You able to find out anything about him?”
Leo shrugged, winking his eye against the smoke from his cigarette. “Sharon down in Dispatch knows a guy who dated a girl he worked with.”
“Christ,” Michael hissed. “Next you’re gonna tell me you gotta friend who knows somebody who’s gotta friend who-”
