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Will shrugged, saying a silent prayer of thanks that he'd managed to catch the History Channel's Great Men of Science week. Andreas Vesalius was an anatomist who, among other things, proved that men and women have the same number of ribs. The Vatican almost put him in prison for his discovery.
Sara continued, "Also, there's the number eleven." She paused, as if she expected him to answer. "Eleven trash bags, eleventh rib. There must be a connection."
Will stopped walking. "What?"
"The women. They each had eleven trash bags inside them. The rib that was taken from Anna was the eleventh rib."
"You think the killer is hung up on the number eleven?"
Sara continued walking and Will followed. "If you consider how compulsive behaviors manifest themselves, like substance abuse, eating disorders, checking behaviors—where someone feels compelled to check things, like the lock on the door or the stove or the iron— then it makes sense that a serial killer, someone who is compelled to kill, would have a specific pattern he likes to follow, or in this case a specific number that means something to him. It's why the FBI keeps their database, so you can cross-reference methods and look for patterns. Maybe you could look for something significant surrounding the number eleven."
"I don't even know if it's set up to search that way. I mean, it's all about things—knives, razors, what they do, generally not how many times they do it unless it's pretty blatant."
"You should check the Bible. If there's a religious significance to the number eleven, then maybe you'll be able to figure out the killer's motivation." She shrugged as if she was finished, but added, "Easter's this Sunday. That could be part of the pattern, too."
"Eleven apostles," he said.
She gave him that strange look again. "You're right. Judas betrayed Christ. There were only eleven apostles left. There was a twelfth to replace him—Didymus? I can't remember. I bet my mother would know." She shrugged again. "Of course, it could all be a waste of your time."
Will had always been a firm believer that coincidences were generally clues. "It's something to look into."
"What about Felix's mother?"
"She's just a missing person for now."
"Did you find the brother?"
"The Atlanta Police is looking for him." Will didn't want to give away any more than that. Sara worked at Grady, where cops were in and out of the emergency room all day with suspects and witnesses. He added, "We're not even sure she's connected to our case."
"I hope for Felix's sake she's not. I can't imagine what it's like for him being abandoned, stuck in some awful state home."
"Those places aren't so bad," Will defended. Before he realized what he was saying, he told her, "I grew up in state care."
She was as surprised as he was, though obviously for different reasons. "How old were you?"
"A kid," he answered, wishing he could take back his words, but unable to stop adding more. "Infant. Five months."
"And you weren't adopted?"
He shook his head. This was getting complicated and—worse— embarrassing.
"My husband and I . . ." She stared ahead, lost in thought. "We were going to adopt. We'd been on the list for a while and . . ." She shrugged. "When he was killed, it all . . . it was just too much."
Will didn't know if he was supposed to feel sympathetic, but all he could think about was how many times as a kid he'd gone to a meet-and-greet picnic or barbecue, thinking he'd be going home with his new parents, only to end up back in his room at the children's home.
He felt inordinately grateful to hear the high-pitched horn from Faith's Mini, which she'd illegally parked in front of the coffee shop. She got out of the car, leaving the engine running.
"Amanda wants us back at the station." Faith lifted her chin toward Sara in greeting. "Joelyn Zabel moved up her interview. She's fitting us in between Good Morning America and CNN. We'll have to run Betty back home afterward."
Will had forgotten about the dog in his hand. She had her snout tucked into the space between the buttons on his vest.
"I'll take her," Sara offered.
"I couldn't—"
"I'm home all day doing laundry," Sara countered. "She'll be fine. Just come by after work and get her."
"That's really—"
Faith was more impatient than usual. "Just give her the dog, Will." She stomped off back to her car, and Will shot Sara a look of apology.
"The Milk Lofts?" he asked, as if he had forgotten.
Sara took Betty in her hands. He could feel how cold her fingers were as they brushed against his skin. "Betty?" she asked. He nodded, and she told him, "Don't worry if you're late. I don't have any plans."
"Thank you."
She smiled, hefting Betty like she was a glass of wine being offered in a toast.
Will walked across the street and got into Faith's car, glad that no one else had been in the passenger's seat since the last time he'd ridden with Faith so he didn't look like a monkey bending himself into the cramped space.
Faith cut straight to the chase as she pulled away from the curb. "What were you doing with Sara Linton?"
"I just ran into her." Will wondered why he felt so defensive, which quickly led to him wondering why Faith was being so hostile. He guessed she was still angry with him about his interaction with Max Galloway the day before, and he didn't know what to do about the situation other than try to distract her. "Sara had an interesting question, or theory, about our case."
Faith merged into traffic. "I'm dying to hear it."
Will could tell she wasn't, but he ran down Sara's theory for her anyway, highlighting the number eleven, the other points she had raised. "Easter's this Sunday," he said. "This could have something to do with the Bible."
To her credit, Faith seemed to be considering it. "I don't know," she finally said. "We could get a Bible back at the station, maybe do a computer search for the number eleven. I'm sure there are a lot of religious nutballs out there with web pages."
"Where in the Bible does it say something about a rib being taken from Adam to make Eve?"
"Genesis."
"That's the old stuff, right? Not the new books."
"Old Testament. It's the first book in the Bible. It's where it all begins." Faith gave him the same sideways glance Sara had. "I know you can't read the Bible, but didn't you go to church?"
"I can read the Bible," Will shot back. Still, he preferred Faith's nosiness to her to her fury, so he kept talking. "Remember where I grew up. Separation of church and state."
"Oh, I didn't think about that."
Probably because it was an enormous lie. The children's home couldn't sanction religious activities, but there were volunteers from just about every local church who sent vans to pick up the children every week and cart them off to Sunday School. Will had gone once, realized that it really was a school, where you were expected to read your lessons, then never gone back.
