“It is for me … for her, too.” Root lifted his chin, took a deep breath. “Please take me to her.”
McBride winced at his first sight of the sheet-draped corpse. What had once been a living, breathing human being was now a misshapen lump of … nothing. The ME had done his best, of course, but there was no hiding the ravages of the explosion and fire.
Root walked stiffly into the small, windowless viewing room. The walls were painted a soft cream. The only furniture was the stainless-steel gurney. Overhead, a fluorescent light hummed. McBride caught the scent of heavy disinfectant; beneath it, the faint odor of decay.
The ME said, “Mr. Root, it’s important you understand the nature of your wife’s injuries.”
“Pardon me? It was a fire—”
“Yes, but with an explosion … She’s largely intact, but the concussive force … damaged her. She was also wearing a hood, which melted under the heat—”
Root’s head dropped. McBride could see his eyes squeezed shut.
“I’m sorry,” the ME murmured. “We’ve done our best to—”
“I understand. Go ahead, please.”
The ME stepped up, grabbed the edge of the sheet, and drew it down the table.
Amelia Root was charred from head to foot, save a few patches of raw, weeping flesh. She lay curled in a fetal ball, her hands clenched into fists against her chest. Her legs were obviously broken, but the damage was unlike anything McBride had ever seen. The force of the explosion had pulverized the bones, tendons, and ligaments, leaving her legs flattened and tapered like a pair of deflated balloons. Her head was a patchwork of melted rayon and matted and singed hair. Her facial features were obliterated, either rendered smooth where the hood had melted or gnarled by the flames.
Root stared at the corpse for a long ten seconds, then let out a low moan and lowered his head.
The ME covered the body. “We recovered her wedding ring. It’s partially melted, but …” He held out a small glassine envelope containing a yellowish oval.
Root blinked at it, then took it. He cleared his throat. “Did she … Did she suffer?”
“No, sir. The explosion would have caused instant death. She never felt a thing. Of course, the autopsy will determine the precise cause of—”
“No,” Root said. “No autopsy. She’s been through enough.”
“Sir, it’s standard procedure in cases like this. We need to compare dental records—”
“I don’t want her put through any more.” Root pulled a card from his shirt pocket and handed it to the ME. “I’d like her transported to that funeral home. The director is expecting your call.”
“I’ll be happy to make the arrangements, but the law requires me to conduct an—”
The governor stepped forward. “You’re authorized to waive the autopsy and release the body. My authority. I trust you don’t have a problem with that?”
“Uh, no, sir. If you authorize it—”
“I do. Make the arrangements.” The governor cupped Root’s elbow and led him toward the door. Root paused at the threshold and turned back to McBride and Oliver. “Thank you both. I appreciate everything you did.”
Thirty minutes later, McBride and Oliver were through their second beer at the pub across the street. It was just past noon. Most of the stools were empty. McBride, surprised to find the jukebox well stocked with seventies tunes, had plugged it full of quarters. “Hey Jude” by the Beatles was playing.
“I love this song,” Oliver said, “but it always make me sad.”
McBride stared at his glass. “Yeah, but it’s a good sad.”
“I guess. So what do you think about the autopsy thing?”
“I don’t know. I might feel the same way if I were him.”
“Me, too.”
“What bothers me is … Ah, hell, never mind.”
“What?”
McBride took a sip. “I was watching Root’s face when the ME pulled back the sheet.”
“And?”
“Collin, I’ve seen dozens of loved ones go through the exact same thing. I’ve watched mothers who were just told their baby is dead; I’ve stood face-to-face with fathers suspected of brutalizing and murdering their daughters. If you look close enough — if you know what you’re seeing — their eyes will tell you everything.”
“What’s your point?”
“I saw something in Root’s eyes.”
“Me, too — shock, horror—”
“You were looking at his face. I was looking at his eyes.”
Oliver shifted uncomfortably. He took a gulp of beer. “What’d you see?”
“Relief,” McBride replied. “There was a part of him that was horrified, but there was another part — something I can’t pin down — that was … overjoyed.”
22
Lorient, France
Tanner heard her words, but they’d come so unexpectedly he couldn’t immediately wrap his mind around them. Her seeming obsession with Litzman now made sense. Right or not, Susanna had come to believe Litzman was responsible for the maiming of her father and for tearing their lives apart.
Briggs asked the first question that popped into his head. “Does he know?”
“Of course not.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Because the son of a bitch talked about it, that’s how.”
“Explain.”
“About a month after we hooked up, he and his cronies were drinking — sharing war stories. Litzman was talking about a snatch-and-grab job he’d taken in Bucharest. He said just before they moved in he spotted a minder — that’s what he called it, a minder. He shot the man. He was ready to finish him off, but changed his mind at the last second.”
“Why?”
Susanna paused, cleared her throat. “He said — and I remember his words exactly — he was feeling generous, so he decided to ‘let the wichser off with an old-fashioned crippling.’ Those were his words. He was laughing; they were all laughing. They thought it was funny as hell.”
Tanner felt the skin on his arms turn to gooseflesh. “What else?”
“I wanted to get up and rip his face off, but I didn’t. God knows how, but I didn’t. Over the next month I brought it up a few times. The date, the street, the time of day — everything fits. It was him, Briggs. I’m sure of it.”
And still she stayed on him, Tanner thought. What must it have been like for her over the past nine months? Not only had she stayed with the man who’d crippled her father, but she’d given herself to him, hoping to uncover what he was up to. Anyone else would have broken by now. The war inside her psyche must have been gut wrenching. She was damaged, Tanner knew. Regardless of the outcome she was going to need help.
“I can’t let him get away,” Susanna said. “I won’t. I’ve come too far.”
Gently, slowly, Tanner reached out and laid his hands on her shoulders. She flinched, but didn’t back away this time. “Susanna, you’re hurting. I know you don’t see it, but—”
“Of course I see it. Ifeel it. Every time he touches me, I feel it. Every time he …” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Briggs, please—”
“I’m taking you home. We’ll find another way—”
Susanna shrugged of his hands. “I won’t let you take me. I’ll fight you every step of the way. You won’t get out of the country.”
It was no idle threat. Without her cooperation, he and Cahil had little chance of getting her out of France, especially now that every cop and immigration official from here to Paris was looking for them. Plus, as much as he hated to admit it, there was a part of him that agreed with her: She deserved to see this through.
Even so, there was no way he was going to send her back into the lion’s den alone. Nor was he going to let her kill Litzman. The man deserved it — Briggs knew that better than most — but he didn’t want that on Susanna’s conscience. Movie portrayals notwithstanding, taking a life isn’t something you simply shake off like a bad day at the office. Tanner had gone through it himself, and it never got easier. He’d met people who found the act trivial, and they scared the hell out of him. When the time came to finish Karl Litzman, he’d do it himself.