Last Look (7 page)

“Good idea,” Andrew said, though the insects still appeared to ignore him. “First we’ll take a look at the body, then we’ll visit with Edith Chiong.”

“Who’s Edith Chiong?” Dorsey started toward the car.

“Shannon’s roommate.”

“Where’s the body now? She hasn’t been buried yet, right?”

He caught up with her at the car.

“No. They’ve only just identified her a few days ago. The body is still at the ME’s. My understanding is that it’s going to be transported to a funeral home in Hatton, South Carolina, within the next day or so, so I want to make that the priority. I’m hoping Shannon herself will be able to give us a clue as to what happened to her.”

“That sounds like a plan.” Dorsey opened the passenger door and hopped in as quickly as she could, hoping to leave most of the swarm on the other side of the glass. “Would you mind stopping back at the Crab Shack so I can pick up my car? I can follow you from there.”

“Sure.”

Andrew backed out of the parking spot and headed down the narrow road that led back to the bridge.

“A profiler I worked with told me that you can’t find the killer without knowing the victim,” Dorsey said. “That the victim will tell you what you need to know, if you pay attention.”

“Anne Marie McCall.” He nodded.

“Right. I worked a case with her last year. She’s great. Have you worked with her?”

“Yes.” He was suddenly intent upon studying the road.

“Oh, my God, I forgot…” She covered her mouth with her hand. “I shouldn’t have…I forgot…”

“Right. She was engaged to marry my cousin, Dylan.” Andrew’s gaze was fixed on the road ahead. “Who was murdered by my brother.”

“Andrew, I’m sorry,” she told him softly. “I wasn’t thinking.”

He made a left onto the bridge.

A moment later he said, “Good point, about knowing the victim to find the killer. That’s exactly what I intend to do. I’m interested in seeing just what Shannon has to tell us. Hopefully, she’ll give us something that in the end will lead us to her killer.”

5

“She’s been a real popular girl these last few days.” The middle-aged receptionist at the medical examiner’s office inspected the credentials Andrew offered, then barely glanced at Dorsey’s badge as she pushed her chair back from her desk and stood. “Course, rumor has it she was real popular when she was alive, too. And busy. Very, very busy.”

“Are you referring to the fact that it’s been alleged she was a prostitute?” Andrew slid his badge back into the inner pocket of his jacket, his face unreadable.

“Honey,” she drawled, “there is no alleging about it. She was what she was. This wasn’t the first time the cops found that girl out late at night, if you know what I mean.”

She took five steps and opened the door leading to the hall. Andrew opened his mouth as if to speak, but the receptionist didn’t seem to notice.

“Course, that don’t make it right, what happened to her. Don’t make it right at all.” She waved the agents on with her right hand. “Just saying, you keep putting yourself in harm’s way, sooner or later harm’s gonna catch up with you, that’s all.”

It was hard to argue with that logic. Hookers were high risk, there was no way around it.

“Doc Fuller’s in the back room. He told me to bring y’all on back when you got here.” She continued to chat as she led them down the hall, and stopped in front of a solid gray door. “Most activity we’ve seen around here in a while. Can’t remember the last time the FBI was here. Maybe not since that bus crash out on the old Hollow Tree Road back four years or so now. Illegal alien driving a car that hit a bus, you may have heard about that….”

She swung the door back and stepped aside so they could enter.

“Doc, the FBI agents you were waitin’ on are here. This here’s Agent Shields,” she pointed to Andrew, then turned to Dorsey. “And this is Agent Collins.”

Dorsey extended her hand to the dapper white-haired gentleman in the crisp lab coat. It was so clean that she suspected he’d just slipped it on. No way could he have performed autopsies in that spotless garment.

“Agent Collins, good to meet you.” He shook her hand firmly, then turned to Andrew. “Agent Shields. We spoke on the phone, I believe.”

“Yes, sir. We appreciate you making time to see us. We know your time is valuable, and—”

“Not at all.” The ME waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t have a damned thing better to do. No autopsies scheduled today, and if the good folks of our fine county are lucky, I’ll have none again tomorrow. Come on over here. Have a seat and we’ll talk.”

He beckoned the agents to follow him to the far side of the room, where several chairs stood around a wooden table. In the center of the table, a Mason jar held a handful of blue flowers.

“Maise’s idea of decor.” He nodded in the direction of the door the receptionist had left open. He walked to it and gave it a shove, to close it. “That oughta keep her guessing for a while.”

He turned back to his guests.

“Now. You wanted to talk about Shannon Randall.” Fuller took the chair nearest the window and rested his hands on the table. “How can I help you?”

“Actually, we were hoping to see the body,” Dorsey said before Andrew could respond. She caught the look he sent her:
Back off. I take the lead.
With a slight nod of her head, she acknowledged she’d jumped the gun, and gestured to him to pick up at that point in the conversation.

“We’re still not clear on cause of death,” Andrew explained. “We’ve heard she was shot, we heard she’d been stabbed.”

Dorsey’s head snapped up. She stared at Andrew.

“Yes.” Fuller nodded. “Yes, she was.”

“Which?”

“Both.”

“She was shot
and
she was stabbed?” Dorsey heard herself ask.

“Yes. And here’s the odd thing: either could have killed her. The gunshot was at close range, right to the heart. Whoever pulled that trigger wanted to make sure she was good and dead, good and fast.” Fuller leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head. “And the stab wounds? Any one of three or four of them could have been fatal.”

“How many were there?” Andrew asked.

“Nine.” Fuller nodded grimly. “That girl’d been stabbed nine times.”

“Which actually killed her?” Andrew wanted to know.

“That would have been the gunshot. Like I said, straight to the heart. But the stabbing must have been almost immediately thereafter.” He shook his head. “I pride myself on being meticulous, being up on all the latest forensic techniques. I believe she was technically dead when she was stabbed. Judging by the amount of blood she lost, her heart was still pumping for a time after she was shot.”

He stared at the table for a moment, then said, “I do believe it was the gunshot that killed her.”

“Why stab her if you’ve already shot her?” Dorsey thought aloud.

“Why, indeed?” Fuller asked. “My first thought was the killer was trying to cover up the fact that she’d been shot, three of the stab wounds being precisely over the entry point.”

“She was stabbed over the gunshot wound?” Andrew asked.

“Repeatedly.”

“Was the gun used to kill her something out of the ordinary, something that could be easily traced?” Andrew suggested.

“Looked like your basic .38 caliber to me,” Fuller told them. “Nothing we haven’t seen before.”

“Anything else you can tell us about the stab wounds?” Andrew asked.

“Made with a really sharp knife. Kitchen knife most likely. The kind my wife uses to cut up chickens, goes through bone?” Fuller told them. “Blade was an inch and a quarter wide, non-serrated, pushed in pretty far in most places. Two, almost three inches, in some spots.” Fuller let that sink in, then added, “But here’s the funny thing about that. Usually you see someone with that many stab wounds, they’re jagged in places because the killer’s been in a sort of frenzy, but not here. It was all very deliberate. Edges of each cut nice and clean. Took his time, whoever did this. Sliced her up nice and neat, emphasis on the neat.”

Fuller stood abruptly.

“But come on, you’ll see for yourself. She’s right over here.”

In the time it took for Dorsey and Andrew to stand, Fuller had made it across the room and was standing in front of a drawer in the wall. He pulled the door open, and the body of Shannon Randall slid out on its slab. He waved the agents closer.

Dorsey stood over the body and found it alarmingly difficult to look down, as if seeing Shannon Randall in the flesh would make this nightmare undisputedly true. If this was indeed Shannon, her father was in the deepest shit of his life.

She looked down, and thoughts of her father’s predicament faded completely. She saw, not the child whose murder her father had sought to avenge, but a woman whose life had been taken from her in a violent manner. The corpse was not unlike others she had seen before. The skin dry and a particular shade of gray. The hair lifeless and matted where the skin from the skull had been peeled back. Eyes open and glassy, sightlessly staring into Dorsey’s.

Traces of black mascara had flaked onto the skin under the eyes. For some reason, Dorsey’s eyes kept returning to those flecks. To her, those tiny flecks were the only signs of life, the only indication that this had been a living, breathing woman before something terrible had happened to her. It was all she could do not to reach out and brush them from Shannon’s face. In her mind’s eye, Dorsey could see Shannon preparing to go out that night—that night she could not have known would be her last—putting on her makeup, applying mascara as she must have done thousands of times before. As Dorsey had done many times herself. As so many women do. It made the victim unexpectedly familiar, and Dorsey forced herself back to the task at hand.

Shannon Randall had been five feet, three inches tall, slim, with muscular legs and arms, and hair dyed red. Dorsey’s fingers curled unconsciously into her own long, naturally red curls. She recalled from the photos of Shannon at fourteen that her hair had been light brown, and wondered whether she’d changed the color to make her stand out more on the street, or if it was part of a disguise she’d adopted long ago.

Which brought Dorsey back to the first question that had gone through her mind when she’d heard Shannon Randall had been alive for the past twenty-four years: What had happened to this girl on that long ago night? Had she run away, and if so, from what? From whom?

“You can see where the knife went in around the gunshot wound—right here, here, and here.” Fuller pointed with the scalpel he’d picked up from a nearby tray. His voice brought Dorsey back, reminded her why she was here.

“Doctor Fuller, do you have some gloves we could use?” Andrew asked.

Ever the gentleman, Fuller offered a box of latex gloves first to Dorsey, then to Andrew. They each took a pair and pulled them on.

Andrew leaned close to the chest and studied the wounds.

“May I?” he asked, and reached for the scalpel. Fuller handed it over, and watched from the opposite side of the table while the agent probed gently at the dry gray flesh to the left of the Y incision from the autopsy.

“Yes, there it is,” he murmured. “You can see where the bullet entered, right here, but you really have to look for it. As you said, it’s almost as if the killer tried to cover up the bullet hole.” He looked up at Doctor Fuller. “Why would the killer try to disguise the cause of death?”

“Knowing the answer to that could be a clue to who the killer is.” Fuller nodded, then paused and added, “Then again, maybe not. Sometimes, you just don’t know what’s significant and what’s mere coincidence. Could be the killer was covering up, could be he just wasn’t watching what he was doing.”

“Even though he was doing it slowly enough to make very clean, very even wounds.”

Fuller nodded. “Right. Still, as you know yourself, things aren’t always what they seem.”

Dorsey studied the still figure for a long moment, her eyes trailing the length of the left arm, then moving down to the thigh, then to the opposite side of the body where her gaze lingered on the right thigh and arm. Andrew watched her without comment. When she raised her eyes to his, she said softly, “She was a cutter.”

“You saw that, too?”

“Probably used a razor blade—see how very thin the scars are?” She pointed with a gloved index finger to the lines that went up and down the woman’s arms and the tops of her thighs like the pale, uneven rungs of a ladder.

“Judging by the scars, I’d say she’d been doing it for a very long time,” Andrew noted. “Some scars have long healed, some have been reopened more than once. Some recently, I’d say.”

“Interesting that it appears she might have stopped for a while, then started again.” She pointed to several long marks on Shannon Randall’s upper thigh.

“Right. These are fresh. And here, on her upper arm, close to her shoulder?” Andrew studied the scars intently. “Almost all of the others are old.”

“I noticed those,” Fuller nodded, “but I don’t recall having had this type of thing before. Read about cutting, but haven’t ever seen it firsthand. We don’t get a whole lot of kids in here, not like this. Most young people have left town, moved on before they reached this age.”

“She cut for a long time, then stopped long enough for all those old scars to heal over and stay healed. Then something happened to make her start cutting again.” Dorsey seemed to mull it over. “So maybe whatever caused her to start cutting in the first place, whatever it was she’d gotten over sufficiently that she didn’t feel she had to hurt herself anymore—somehow, that
whatever
was back in her life.”

Both men stared at her. She stood up straight and pulled off the gloves.

Andrew did the same, turned to Doctor Fuller. “We really appreciate your time, Doctor Fuller.”

“Anytime, Agent Shields. I’m going to have to release the body to the family soon—thought they’d be wanting it sooner than this, frankly. I suspect there’s some kind of to-do going on right about now, what with the young lady having been a hooker and one of her sisters being a preacher—”

“Her sister?” Dorsey frowned. “I thought her father was the minister.”

“He had been, up until just a couple of years ago. Car accident left him paralyzed. Heard all about it from the director of the funeral home up there in Hatton, where the Randalls are from.” Fuller covered the body with the sheet and slid the shelf back into the refrigerated drawer. “Hit and run. Car ran him off the road, then disappeared. Never even stopped. They figured it must have been a drunk driver. The man never saw it coming, apparently. Hasn’t walked since. It was the youngest daughter who took over the church.”

“I think I remember more than two children in the family,” Dorsey said, trying to think back to her early teens when the story was fresh in her mind.

“There are three sisters. Four daughters altogether. Oldest’s a state senator up in South Carolina now—she’s the one who identified the body. Another sister does something on television. And of course, the minister. Can’t recall the funeral director saying much more than that.”

“Quite an accomplished family,” Andrew remarked as he and Dorsey headed toward the door.

“Yes, so it would seem.” Fuller peeled off his gloves and dropped them into the wastebasket next to his desk. “It’s had me wondering how a girl from a family like that ends up like this girl did.”

“Girls from all kinds of backgrounds end up like Shannon Randall, Doctor Fuller. There’s no easy answer why,” Andrew replied.

“True enough.” Fuller nodded.

“What was the sister’s demeanor when she came to make the identification?”

“Solemn, I’d say,” the doctor replied after pondering the question for a moment. “Sober. Respectful.”

“Emotional?”

“No, wouldn’t have called her emotional.” Fuller shook his head from side to side. “She didn’t cry, just sort of looked at the body for a while. Asked me to raise it on the left side at the shoulder, and I did. She leaned down to take a look, and said something under her breath like, ‘Yes, that’s it.’”

“She was looking for a birthmark,” Andrew said.

“That’s right. On the back of the left shoulder, she has a little mark, sort of looks like a cigar. I’d noted it in my report, but she wanted to see for herself.”