The Unwilling(36)

“You called the police?”

“They said twenty-four hours. Maybe your dad…?”

“He’s working. I don’t know where he is. We can call the station.” She looked hopeful, but I wasn’t. When Dad worked late, he was impossible to reach. “How long until the twenty-four hours are up?” I asked.

“A few hours, maybe.”

“There you go. Not bad.”

“Will you come inside with me?”

“Um…”

“To be honest, I’m a little afraid.”



* * *



When French arrived at the hospital, Burklow was waiting outside the emergency room entrance. “I’m sorry, Ken. I know you had to wait.”

“It’s not like you to run silent.”

“Radio problems, some other stuff. Is he ready for us?”

“He said to bring you down.”

They passed through the emergency room doors, and into a waiting room. Bypassing the elevator bank, French took the stairs down, Burklow at his heels. At the bottom, a keypad allowed entrance to a hallway that served the medical examiner’s office. “Radio problems, huh?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Ken.”

“But later, you will.”

“Later. Absolutely.”

They moved past offices, labs, refrigerator banks. The autopsy suites were last in line, a group of rooms built around a central hub of scrub sinks, and observation windows. It could be a busy place, but was quiet now.

“There’s our vic.”

She looked worse under bright lights: the wounds that killed her, the Y cut, the open cavity. Most of her organs were out, but the medical examiner was still wrist-deep. “Gentlemen, come in.” He lifted his hands, and held them awkwardly. “Let me walk you through what I’ve found so far.” He did it methodically and precisely. It took time. “It appears that different blades were used at different times.”

“Multiple blades,” French said. “Does that mean multiple assailants?”

“Uncertain, but possible. Some cuts imply a certain amount of strength and viciousness. Others were of a more delicate nature.”

“Any kind of pattern?”

“The more precise incisions hurt the most.”

“Meaning?”

“Whoever made those cuts knew the big nerves, the sensitive areas. Something tells me he took his time. See the precision. Here and here.”

“And the breast tissue?”

“I’d argue that those excisions were made with the smaller blade and with exceptional care.”

Burklow said, “Jesus Christ.”

“Keep going,” French said.

The ME continued with the same dispassion. “No tattoos or birthmarks. She’s had a recent manicure, a pedicure.” He pointed at her hands and feet. “Expensive dental work. Little sign she’s ever done manual labor. I’d speculate that she had resources. We’ll know more when the roommate arrives.”

French nodded before the weight of that comment sank in. “Wait a minute. What did you say?”

“I said, when the roommate arrives. Tyra’s roommate.”

Tyra …

They had her name.

“I tried to reach you about this,” Burklow said. “We found clothing and personal items in a dumpster six blocks west of the crime scene. The victim’s name is Tyra Norris. Twenty-seven, local…”

“Local? Wait. You have an address?”

“Martinez and Smith are en route now.”

“We need to go.”

“There’s more here to discuss.”

“Later, Doc.” French moved for the door, pulling his partner behind. “We need to go now.”

The doctor said something else, but French missed most of it. He moved fast, and they hit the stairwell, the lobby, the warm air beyond the double doors. “Ride with me,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because we need to talk.”

“Yes, I believe we do.”

“Address?”

Burklow gave him Tyra’s address. “The other side of Myers Park.”

“I know the street.”

French got behind the wheel, and pushed it—the parking lot, the two-lane, the big artery that was the shortest route to the other side of Myers Park. Burklow watched the city pass, but fooled no one. As a cop, patience was his great strength, as was his fundamentally unforgiving nature. He would tolerate self-indulgence in a friend, but rarely in another cop. Victims came first. Resolution for the wounded. Justice for the dead. French checked the speedometer, but didn’t back it down. He worked the road at twice the posted limit: inside lane, outside. Seventy miles an hour, he threaded the needle with one hand tight on the wheel, the big cherry flashing on top.

When Burklow finally spoke, he kept his voice level. “I’m thinking now is probably a good time.”

“It’ll sound worse than it is.”

“Nevertheless…”

Burklow was watching intently, pricks of light in his eyes as the car threaded traffic and blew through lights. There was no easy way to explain. How could there be? “I’ve met the victim,” French said. “Before today, I knew her. I met her. Last week, I walked in on her with Jason. They were, uh … you know.”