Brock took in a sharp breath. He turned his attention to the camera. He tilted the LED screen. He adjusted some of the settings. Jeffrey could see that his hands were shaking.
Jeffrey’s hands were still, but they were sweating profusely. The feeling of violence permeated the air. The smell was nauseating, even with the mask. Witnessing unnatural death came with the job, but something about this particular victim, this particular case, sent dread into every fiber of his being.
Jeffrey had hunted his share of murderers and rapists.
He had never before hunted a predator.
Sara looked in the nostrils, inside the mouth. She pressed her fingers along the girl’s throat. She said, “I’m not detecting any blockages.”
“Blockages?” Brock asked.
“Caterino had something in her throat, probably regurgitated pastry.”
Brock nodded as he carefully stepped around the body.
Sara turned the girl’s head at a more severe angle to look at the back of the neck. Jeffrey saw dried blood around a tiny hole.
“There’s a puncture wound at C5,” she said. “That would’ve gotten the job done.”
“What job?” Brock asked.
Jeffrey said, “We think the killer wanted to paralyze the victims.”
Brock shook his head in disgust. Jeffrey could see a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face.
Sara worked her way down. She lifted the sweatshirt. There was bruising on the torso. “She was punched. It feels like one of the ribs was dislocated.”
Jeffrey looked down at his notebook. The page was clean. He started a rough sketch of the body. He noted the location of trees and rocks.
Sara ran her finger under the waistband of the yoga pants. She told Brock, “Get closer on this.”
Her exam glove showed a red streak, but not from blood. Jeffrey recognized the distinct rust color of Georgia clay.
Brock asked, “Could she have rolled over?”
“Maybe,” Sara said. “Can we look at her back?”
Jeffrey took the camera from Brock so that the man could glove up. It wasn’t easy. The vinyl gloves kept getting caught on his sweaty skin.
“Sorry.” Brock finally managed to yank the gloves down to his wrists. The band tore. Jeffrey could see an old scar on the inside of Brock’s wrist.
“Ready.” Brock knelt at the girl’s head. He braced his hands on the shoulders. Sara positioned her hands on the waist. They moved in tandem to rotate the girl onto her side.
The waistband of Truong’s pants was bunched up in the back. Dirt and twigs stuck into the bare skin of her buttocks.
Sara said, “Her pants were pulled up while she was lying on the ground.”
Brock asked, “What do you think that means?”
They carefully rolled the girl back to the ground.
Sara said, “It could mean he returned to the scene.”
“After he left her for dead?” Brock asked. “Why would he come back?”
Sara looked at the girl’s hands. Her fingertips were stained red. “I suppose it’s possible she pulled up her pants herself.”
Jeffrey considered the implications. Leslie Truong bleeding to death in the woods, her hands reaching down to cover herself in a futile attempt at modesty.
Sara gently parted the legs.
Jeffrey clenched his teeth at the smell.
“The crotch of the pants is torn.” Sara used the penlight again. She moved the legs farther apart. She told Jeffrey, “Zoom in.”
He watched the LED screen as the Camcorder’s lens went into macro-mode. The spandex between the girl’s legs had been torn apart. He saw thick clots of dried blood and what looked like sharp slivers of glass shredding through the material, similar to an explosion caught mid-detonation. The pants had been ripped from the inside out.
Brock asked, “What is that?”
“A wooden handle,” Sara said. “He broke off the hammer inside of her.”
Atlanta
15
Faith stared at the picture of the broken handle. The photographer had laid it out on a piece of white paper with a ruler beside it for scale. The weapon had been cleaned, but blood and feces had soaked into the grain. The part where the head of the hammer would’ve been was splintered off. The wooden spikes jutted out like broken teeth.
Sara said, “The severed handle could only be removed by dissecting the vaginal vault. It was deep inside of her, far enough to fracture the bones of the pubic arch. Best guess is that the killer kicked the head of the hammer. It broke off at the thinnest point, which is the neck.”
Faith had stopped breathing. She had to look away from the photograph.
Sara said, “There was a manufacturer’s mark on the base of the handle. The hammer was of a type called a mechanic’s or a machinist’s hammer. The handle is wide at the bottom, then tapers up to the neck.”
Will said, “That’s the kind you use to beat out dents in car panels.”
“Right,” Sara said. “It’s got a flat head on one end and the other end has a long peen tipped with a conical dye. From my recollection, there was nothing special about it. You could buy it off the shelf or order it online.”
“Recollection?” Amanda asked. “You didn’t find the information in the reports?”
“A copy of the autopsy report was in the files last night, but I don’t have access to my personal notes. Those would be in Brock’s files along with toxicology, lab reports, measurements, and photos that were taken at the scene. By law, he was the coroner of record, so I was simply treated as an advisor to his office. We didn’t want to break the chain of evidence.”
Amanda said, “I want that information.”
“I’ll call him.” Sara went back to the autopsy. “Leslie Truong had a puncture wound at C5. Based on films, the puncture is consistent with the circumference and length of the device that paralyzed Beckey Caterino.”
Amanda said, “And Alexandra McAllister, the White County victim who was autopsied yesterday, had the same type puncture, located at C5.”
“What about the other stuff?” Faith asked. “Did McAllister have the fistula?”
“No, but she was violently raped.
