Jeffrey looked at the knife on the table, then back at the camera's LCD. He obviously knew where she was going with this, but still said, 'Okay.'
'The knife – this knife' – she indicated Lena 's knife on the table-'Would have made a wound with a V-shaped bottom and a squared edge at the top. A serration leaves a jagged edge in the skin. The top and bottom of the wound in Boyd Gibson's back is jagged.'
He was nodding. 'Based on the wound, the knife that killed Gibson was double-edged, serrated.' She could hear the excitement in his voice. Statistically, most stabbing victims were killed with single-edge serrated knives because that was what was usually in the kitchen drawer. Sara had never seen a double-edged serrated knife, let alone a stab wound from one. If there was someone out there in Elawah carrying such a weapon, he was more than likely the killer.
Jeffrey tapped his fingers on the table, processing the new lead. 'I'd bet it was a custom job. Maybe something off-market for the military. Definitely full tang, probably a custom handle to match the sheath… How long do you think the blade would have to be?'
'From the hilt to the point of the blade would have to be at least six inches long, then I'd guess from the wound that it's around an inch and a half wide, tops.' She pointed to Gibson. 'Look at how big he is. His chest is huge, his heart was enlarged. I found an entrance and exit wound through the left chamber.' She indicated Lena 's knife again. This blade might have pierced the back of the heart, but there's no way it could have gone all the way through the heart and out the front. It's not long enough – the whole thing tip to handle is eight inches long.'
'There's got to be a local who makes these things.' He could not wipe the smile off his face. 'With the handle, a six-inch knife would run close to nine, ten inches. The guy we saw outside the hospital had a big knife on his belt. He left it in his car before he got out.'
'It's not unusual for men to carry knives,' Sara pointed out. 'My dad keeps one on his belt for work.'
'Last time I checked, your dad doesn't have a big fat swastika on his arm,' Jeffrey countered. 'Whoever did this was trying to frame Lena. No wonder she ran.'
'Or maybe he was close to his knife and didn't want to let it go.' She walked over to the table where she had bagged Gibson's personal effects. 'Look at Gibson's knife. It's not off-the- shelf. He paid some good money for it. This isn't something you'd easily let go of.'
The door opened and Valentine appeared. He kept the door propped open with his foot, as if he didn't plan to stay long. The man was obviously furious when he told them, 'That was the principal from the high school on the phone.'
Jeffrey exchanged a look with Sara. 'And?'
'He found some blankets and a couple of empty bags of potato chips in one of the temporary classrooms.' He shook his head, his teeth clenched so tight that his jaw stood out like a carved relief. 'Looks like we've found out where your detective's been sleeping.' Jeffrey flashed a smile that sent Valentine straight over the edge. 'My
Jeffrey offered, 'Well, I wouldn't feel too bad, Jake. I'm sure Myra didn't let her sleep there on purpose.'
Valentine pressed his lips together, obviously struggling to think of a cutting response. He finally settled on, 'Go to hell,' then turned on his heel and slammed the door shut behind him.
LENA
SIXTEEN
Two years ago, Jeffrey had thrown Ethan Green's arrest jacket in Lena 's face, ordering her to read it.
Of course she never had.
She had pretended to skim the file, taking in every fifth or sixth word, then pushed it back in his face with a belligerent, 'So?'
Jeffrey had given her the highlights, the rundown of Ethan's crimes: grand theft auto, felony assault, forcible sodomy, rape. None of his words had penetrated – Lena was still in that phase where she thought of Ethan as two different people: the one who loved her and the one who would eventually kill her. The duality was not much of a stretch; at the time, Lena thought of herself in much the same terms.
Sibyl had been dead almost a year when Lena first met Ethan. She was living at the college dorms, working campus security, struggling to get through each day without putting a gun to her head. Ethan was working on his master's degree. He had pursued Lena relentlessly, almost wearing her down.
A few months later, Lena got her job back with the police force and moved in with Nan Thomas. Ethan was still in her life; Ethan was still her life. His arrest file had stayed in her Celica the whole time, well concealed behind the CD changer in her trunk. Lena hadn't wanted Nan to accidentally come across it. Truth be told, she hadn't wanted to take it into the house where Sibyl had once lived. It was bad enough when Ethan slept over.
Lena walked across the weedy strip of land between the motel and the bar, her shoes crunching on broken glass and other debris that had been swept off the road. She passed the motel lobby on the way to her Celica. Though the night air was turning cold, Lena could still feel herself sweating as if she was sitting back in Hank's hellhole of a house.
The file was exactly where she had secreted it two years ago, black tire treads marring the State of Connecticut seal on the outside of the yellowing folder. Lena took it out and for some reason felt the need to hide the file under her shirt as she bolted up the stairs to her motel room. No one was watching her. There was no need for these furtive moves. She still felt guilty, though. Still felt as if someone, somewhere was disapproving.
Maybe it would be better not to know. Ethan may have been calling Hank for money or support or perhaps he'd simply wanted to get in touch with Lena. She had moved from Nan 's and had a new phone number now. Had he sent letters to Nan? Had Nan hidden them from Lena, hoping she could sever the connection?
Lena hooked the do-not-disturb sign on her door. She yanked the curtains closed and sat cross-legged on the bed, still holding the file to her chest. She could feel her beating heart thumping against the thick stack of pages, sweat making the manila folder stick to her skin.
Slowly, she slid the file out from under her shirt.
She ran her hand along the print, tracing the circle of the seal. Her fingers found the edge and she opened the file to find exactly the thing she never wanted to see again: Ethan staring back at her.
The mug shot had been taken a few years before Lena had met Ethan, back when he was eighteen. He'd kept his hair cut short when she knew him, but in the photo, his head was shaved bald. His lips curled into a sneer as he glared at the camera, and the little sign he held in his hand was askew, as if he couldn't be bothered to keep it straight. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, something he never did anymore – or maybe he had stopped hiding his tattoos now that he was back in prison. They would serve him well inside.
ETHAN ALLEN GREEN a/k/a ETHAN ALLEN WHITE a/k/a ETHAN ALLEN
