“We’re keeping you busy, it seems,” Kay added, her voice tinged with sadness. “We’re disrupting your retirement way too often.”
“The problem is not the disruption,” Dr. Whitmore replied. “The problem is this young life wasted.” He sighed, leaning against the table with gloved hands as if to ease the weight off his feet. “Only seventeen years old, can you believe it?”
There was silence in the cold room for a moment, then Kay drew closer to the doctor.
“I see you haven’t started the Y incision yet,” she said. “Any preliminary information you can give us? I’m dying to get my hands on the bastard who did this.”
Yeah… no kidding, thought Elliot. He wanted to snatch the son of a bitch bald-headed and leave him flat for the buzzards to feast on.
Elliot drew closer, but chose to remain several feet away from the autopsy table. He was still uncomfortable looking at the girl’s partially covered body. Somehow, staring at a vulnerable, young woman exposed like that contradicted everything he’d been taught by his modest, church-going mother. That was a part of the job he was happy to cede in favor of his partner, the psychologist who could handle any autopsy without flinching. Kay was a natural, whatever life threw her way, while he was the awkward cop trained on the streets of Austin, Texas, who’d made Mount Chester his home five years ago but still felt he didn’t belong.
“We established a positive ID,” the doctor said, sounding a little pedantic, as if he were teaching a class, “so I can confirm she is a couple of months short of turning seventeen.” He cleared his throat silently and mumbled an apology after coughing a couple of times. “Cause of death is exsanguination due to laceration of both carotid arteries.” He pried open the neck wound by removing the foam block that supported the girl’s head, and pointed his gloved finger at the discolored, fibrous tissue. “As you can see, the attack was forceful, one slice cutting through both carotids, all four jugular veins, the esophagus and trachea, the blade leaving marks in the cervical vertebrae here.”
Kay leaned closer and examined the open wound, then nodded, and Doc replaced the block supporting her head.
“Was he left-handed?” she asked.
“Excellent observation,” Dr. Whitmore replied. “Yes, he was. The cut originated here,” he pointed at the right side of the girl’s throat, taking position behind the head of the table and wielding an imaginary knife with his left hand. “The man you’re looking for is strong and tall. The cut started at a slightly lower position on her throat than it ended, the upward angle an indication of his height.” He frowned for a moment, as if trying to remember something else he was going to say. “He held her by the chin and mouth, like this,” he demonstrated again, pretending to cover Rose’s mouth from behind, pulling her head backward. “You can see that at the terminal edge of the laceration, where the skin is torn for a few millimeters after the cut ends. That means he continued to force her head backward even after he finished slicing.”
“What kind of weapon are we looking for?” Elliot asked.
“I’d say a twelve- to fourteen-inch blade, probably serrated, but I can’t be sure.”
Elliot kept his eyes riveted on the doc’s face, silently insisting that he give them something they could use.
“If I had to guess,” Dr. Whitmore added with a sigh, “I’d be looking for a military knife, but that’s inference, and medical examiners are bound to stick to facts and evidence.”
“So, army knife—” Elliot started to say, but the doctor interrupted.
“Possibly an army knife.”
“Got it. Tall, strong man, possibly an army knife, experienced killer.” Elliot frowned, wondering if he should state the obvious. To him, the conclusion was evident. “Are we looking for former military?”
“Former or active,” Kay intervened. “Someone who spent years in the forces, and most likely has seen action and learned how to take lives quickly and silently. Slicing her trachea left her completely silent for the few moments she lived after that point. I’ve seen this MO in special forces, Army Rangers, Navy SEALS.”
“Got it,” he replied.
Kay squinted under the sharp lights, then asked, “Was she sexually assaulted?”
“I don’t see any evidence of assault,” Dr. Whitmore replied. “She was sexually active, but not recently.” He moved to the side of the autopsy table and removed his gloves, threw them in the bin, and plunged his hands into his pockets. “She was in excellent health.” His tone changed as he added, “This is preliminary, of course.” Kay nodded, and he continued. “Perfectly aligned white teeth, no cavities, recent cleaning. Recent manicure and pedicure, all professionally done.” He turned, then walked over to the evidence table, where he sifted through a few large evidence pouches containing Rose’s clothing. “Her slacks were labeled Anne Klein. Her blouse was from Neiman Marcus, one of its exclusive brands.” He looked at a couple of pouches, but didn’t say anything else. Putting his hands back into his lab coat pockets, he returned to the side of the autopsy table.
“How does a kidnap victim from fourteen years ago end up wearing high-end fashion and having her throat slashed in a cave behind a waterfall?” Kay asked, starting to pace the floor slowly.
“That’s for you two to find out,” Dr. Whitmore replied, putting on a fresh pair of blue nitrile gloves.
“Do you think she stayed local since she was taken?” Elliot asked, wondering how that could’ve been possible. Any kidnapper in his right mind would’ve put some serious distance between the scene of his crime and the twenty-five-to-life sentence carried by the offense.
“It’s possible,” Kay replied, speaking slowly, the way she did when she seemed to be thinking things through. “Where did she go to school? How come no one had recognized her? We’re not exactly a big city.” She turned to Dr. Whitmore and said, “Doc, you recalled this case from back then. That was impressive, by the way, remembering that
