steady gaze.
“Damn!”
No one answered.
Ryan was right. Kathryn was not stable. I knew I couldn’t assure her safety, or that of her baby, so why did I feel responsible?
“She split, Bird. What can you do?”
The cat had no suggestions, so I followed my usual pattern. When anxious, I work.
I returned to the kitchen. The door was ajar and wind had scattered the autopsy photos.
Or had it? Hardaway’s report lay exactly as I’d left it.
Had Kathryn viewed the pictures? Had the grisly tableau sent her fleeing in panic?
Feeling another surge of guilt, I sat down and sorted through the stack.
Cleaned of its shroud of maggots and sediment, Jennifer Cannon’s body was better preserved than I’d expected. Though decomposition had ravaged her face and viscera, wounds were clearly evident in the bloated and discolored flesh.
Cuts. Hundreds of them. Some circular, others linear, measuring one to several centimeters. They clustered near her throat, in her thorax, and ran the length of her arms and legs. All over her body I could see what looked like superficial scratches, but skin slippage made these lesions difficult to observe. The mottling of hematoma was everywhere.
I examined several close-ups. While the chest wounds had smooth, clean edges, the other cuts looked jagged and uneven. A deep gash circled her upper right arm, exposing torn flesh and splintered bone.
I moved to the cranial photos. Though sloughing had begun, most of the hair was still in place. Oddly, the posterior views showed bone gleaming through the tangled mat, as though a section of scalp were missing.
I’d seen that pattern before. Where?
I finished with the photos and opened Hardaway’s report.
Twenty minutes later I leaned back and closed my eyes.
Probable cause of death: exsanguination due to stabbing. The smooth-bordered chest wounds were made by a blade that had severed critical vessels. Due to decomposition, the pathologist was uncertain as to the cause of the other lacerations.
I passed the rest of the day in a state of agitation. I wrote my reports on Jennifer Cannon and the other Murtry victim, then turned to the CAT scan data, stopping frequently to listen for Kathryn.
Ryan phoned at two to say that the Jennifer Cannon link had convinced a judge, and a search warrant was being issued for the Saint Helena compound. He and Baker were heading out as soon as they had the paper.
I told him about Kathryn’s disappearance, and listened to his assurances that I was not to blame. I also told him about Birdie.
“At least there’s some good news.”
“Yeah. Any word on Anna Goyette?”
“No.”
“Texas?”
“Still waiting. I’ll let you know what goes down here.”
As I hung up, I felt fur brush my ankle, and looked down to see Birdie worming figure eights between my feet.
“Come on, Bird. How ‘bout a treat?”
My cat is inordinately fond of canine chew toys. I’ve explained that these products are for dogs, but he will not be dissuaded.
I dug a small rawhide bone from a kitchen drawer and sailed it into the living room.
Birdie raced across the room, pounced, then rolled onto his prey. He righted himself, positioned the object between his front paws, and began gnawing on his kill.
I watched, wondering about the appeal of slimy hide.
The cat chewed a corner, then turned the toy and dragged his teeth the length of one edge. The object fell sideways and Bird nudged it back and sank a canine into the leather.
I watched, transfixed.
Was that it?
I went to Birdie, squatted, and pried his quarry from him. The cat placed his front paws on my knee, stood on hind legs, and tried to retrieve his prize.
My pulse quickened as I stared at the mangled leather.
Sweet Jesus.
I thought of the puzzling wounds in Jennifer Cannon’s flesh. Superficial scratches. Jagged tears.
I ran to the living room for my lens, then raced to the kitchen and rifled through Hardaway’s photos. I selected the head views and studied each under magnification.
