“The tongue was bitten off?”
“I’m not certain how it was removed,” Will told her. “Perhaps if I had known you were going to be late this morning, I could have taken the time to discuss this with the coroner so that I would be better informed for this briefing.”
“Don’t whine, Dr. Trent. It doesn’t suit you.” Her tone was soft, conciliatory, but he could tell from her smile that he had been given a point in her scorebook. That he was even playing the game meant she had already won.
Amanda went back to the case. “The tongues weren’t taken from the scene in the previous crimes?”
“No, ma’am,” Will told her. “The first girl’s tongue wasn’t completely severed. The second was holding it in her hand when they found her, but it was too late to do anything about it. Monroe’s tongue was left on the stairs. Spit out, most likely. Cynthia Barrett’s tongue was not found at the scene.”
“Did you search the Barrett house?”
“The DeKalb PD did,” Will told her. “From what I gathered, they didn’t find anything unusual.”
“From what you gathered?” she echoed.
“I didn’t want to step on their toes.”
“Probably wise,” Amanda admitted. DeKalb County was still tightly controlled by a handful of men who didn’t like the state-or anyone, for that matter-messing in their business. Six years ago, DeKalb sheriff-elect Derwin Brown had been assassinated in his own driveway while he was carrying in some Christmas packages from his car. He was three days away from being sworn into office, and Sidney Dorsey, the outgoing sheriff, hadn’t taken the defeat well.
Amanda took a file out of the top drawer of her desk and opened it to the first page. “What do you think of this Michael Timothy Ormewood?”
“I haven’t yet formed an opinion,” Will answered, thinking that if she had pulled Ormewood’s personnel file, she already knew more than Will did.
She read aloud as she traced down the page with her finger. “Army man. Sixteen years Atlanta PD. Worked his way up from foot beat to his gold shield. Accused in ninety-eight of excessive use of force.” She made a jerking-off motion with her fist, dismissing the complaint. “He moved up pretty quickly. Narcotics-not for long, probably got bored-Vice, and now Homicide. No college education.” She glanced up at Will. “Do try not to lord your fancy Two Egg degree over him, Dr. Trent.” Yes, ma am.
She turned the page. “Commendation for saving a civilian. Even you have one of those. They hand them out like candy.” She closed the file. “Nothing to shout home about. Wears beige and keeps quiet.” This was a general phrase she used for cops who did their jobs and waited out their pensions. It was not a compliment.
“Anything else?” Will asked, knowing full well there was.
She smiled. “I put in a call to a friend in uniform.” Amanda always had friends. Considering her personality, Will wondered about the nature of these relationships, and if by friend she meant someone she gripped by the short hairs. “Ormewood worked in supply when he was over in Kuwait. Never made it past the rank of private.”
Will was mildly surprised. “Is that so?”
“He was honorably discharged, which is all the Atlanta PD would have known-or cared-about. My guy says he was wounded his second week overseas, and that they never did find out who shot him.”
“The wound was self-inflicted?”
She shrugged. “Wouldn’t you shoot yourself in the leg to get out of that hellhole?”
Will would have shot himself in the leg to get out of Amanda’s office.
“So.” Amanda pressed her palms together as she leaned back in the chair. “Plan of action?”
“I need to talk to Ormewood. It can’t be a fluke that this has happened in his own backyard.”
“Do you think he might have gotten too close to the doer in the Monroe case?”
“Cynthia Barrett’s body was fresh when we got there, probably no more than an hour old. I was with Ormewood the whole morning and I didn’t see that we made any great strides toward breaking the case, let alone pushed someone so hard that they jumped in their car, went to his house and mutilated his next-door neighbor.”
Amanda nodded for him to continue.
“We talked to Monroe’s pimp. He didn’t strike me as the type to cut off a good source of income, but obviously I’ll go back at him today.”
“And?”
“And as I said, I’ll talk to Ormewood about this, ask if he saw or did anything unusual the night of the Monroe murder.”
“Is he in today or did he take compassionate leave?”
“I have no idea,” Will answered. “Wherever he is, I’ll find him.”
She picked up one of her messages. “A Leo Donnelly was trying to get your personnel file.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“I sealed it,” she said. “No one needs to smell your dirty laundry.”
“No one but you,” Will corrected. He looked at his watch as he stood. “If that’s all, Dr. Wagner?”
She held her hands out in an open gesture. “By all means, Dr. Trent. Go forth and conquer.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
8:56 am
John had been forced to get rid of his shoes. He wasn’t sure if he had left any footprints at the scene, but he wasn’t taking any chances. When he got back to the flophouse, he had cut at the soles with a kitchen knife, altering the waffle pattern. Not trusting his luck, he had then gotten on the bus, paying cash so his Trans Card wouldn’t track him, and ridden to Cobb Parkway all the way up in Marietta. There he had walked around for an hour, dragging his feet on the hot asphalt, scoring the soles some more.
At the Target, he’d bought a new pair of sneakers-twenty-six dollars he could ill-afford-then tossed his old shoes into a Dumpster behind a shady-looking Chinese restaurant. His stomach had rumbled at the smells coming from the kitchen. Twenty-six dollars. He could have bought a nice meal, had a waitress bring him food, keep his glass filled with iced tea, talked to her about the crazy weather.
All the tea in the world wasn’t worth going back to prison.
God, he was in such a fucking mess. He shuddered, thinking how that girl’s tongue had felt when he’d pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. Even through the latex glove, he could feel the texture of the thing, the warmness to it from being in her mouth. John put his hand to his own mouth, trying not to vomit. She’d been an innocent, just a little girl who had been too curious, too easily swayed.
John’s only consolation was the thought of Michael Ormewood’s face when he went into his garage in search of the porn he kept in the bottom of his toolbox and found his trusty knife sitting beside his teenage victim’s tongue.
“Shelley!” Art yelled. John bolted up. He had been kneeling beside a sedan, rubbing bug guts off the front bumper. Sir?
“Visitor.” Art jerked his head toward the back of the building. “Make sure you’re off the clock.”
John stood frozen in place. A visitor. No one visited him. He didn’t know anybody.
“Yo, yo,” Ray-Ray mumbled. They had worked out an uneasy peace since the hooker incident.
“Yeah?”
“It’s a girl.” Not a cop, was what he meant.
A girl, John thought, his mind reeling. The only girl he knew was Robin.
He told Ray-Ray, “Thanks, man,” tucking in his shirt as he headed to the back of the car wash. As John punched out, he caught his reflection in the mirror over the clock. Despite the chill in the air, sweat had plastered his hair to his head. Jesus, he probably smelled, too.
John ran his fingers through his hair as he opened the back door. His first thought was that the girl who stood there wasn’t Robin, then that the girl wasn’t really a girl. It was a woman. It was Joyce.
He felt more nervous than if it had actually been the prostitute come to see him, and ashamed by the cheap clothes he was wearing. Joyce was in a nice suit jacket with matching slacks that she sure as shit hadn’t bought at a discount store. The sun was picking out auburn highlights in her hair and he wondered if it was streaked or something she’d always had. He remembered the way Joyce’s face used to twist up when she got angry with him, the smile on her mouth when she gave him an Indian burn and the sneer she’d give when she slapped him for pulling one of her braids. He didn’t, however, remember the color of her hair when they were children.