“Six what?” He wasn’t making sense.
“That’s how many bodies of young women have been found in the past two years. Each one died a brutal death, but their bodies weren’t found for days or weeks after the murder. Three were found in water, two were burned, one was immersed in a fifty-gallon drum of diesel fuel. Whatever evidence might have been left on or in the body was long gone or too contaminated to utilize.”
“But Shelley’s body was found within hours of her murder,” CJ countered. “And she wasn’t burned or submerged in anything. She was right out in the open.” How could Braddock not see this? “Killing someone and dumping the body in such a way that the evidence was destroyed is one thing. But Tyrone couldn’t possibly have carried out such a flawless plan when he murdered Shelley, leaving her body ... the entire crime scene right out in the open.” CJ folded her arms over her chest. “You have to be missing something.”
“That’s right. He took extra precautions with her.”
“You can’t be sure it’s him,” she argued. Not that she didn’t want to see Tyrone in prison but focusing on him alone meant Braddock wasn’t looking seriously at anyone else. Including Ricky Banks. “Excuse me.”
She pushed past him to get out the door and strode to the office. CJ had no idea where the incident report forms would be. She’d just have to prowl around.
Braddock followed. Leaned against the doorframe. “Evidence or no, there were other similarities to what we believe is Nash’s MO.”
A frown nagged at her forehead as she perused Juanita’s files. He’d told her about the E. Noon thing, but was there more? “What similarities?”
He didn’t immediately answer.
Then she knew. Her fingers stilled on the folders. She turned to face Braddock. The air evacuated her lungs.
Missing tongues. Eyes. Hearts.
“You didn’t tell me everything about the circumstances of Shelley’s death.” Her knees tried to buckle; she locked them, told herself tobreathe. She had known he was keeping some parts of Shelley’s death from her. She’d had that feeling all along.
“There was no reason to tell you,” he said quietly. He held up a hand when she would have debated his statement. “We keep some elements quiet ... for confirming leads or confessions. Telling anyone at all could interfere with the investigation.”
Fury jolted through her. “Tell me all of it.”
“There were dozens—forty, to be exact—hypodermic needles sticking in her body. As if the killer had been decorating her with her most well-known vice.”
CJ sat down, almost missing the chair. The visuals his words prompted had bile burning at the back of her throat.
“The perp stitched ...” He closed his eyes a moment before meeting hers once more. “He stitched up the opening to her vaginal canal. And removed her clitoris.”
She wouldn’t make it to the toilet. CJ lunged toward the trash can sitting next to the wall.
She heaved. Tears leaked from her eyes. Her body convulsed with the agony throttling through her.
Please, God, please let those horrific things have been done postmortem.
As a doctor, she was all too aware of how the human body reacted to fear ... to pain.Please, please, don’t let Shelley have gone through that with her dying breath.
Braddock thrust a damp paper towel in front of her. CJ accepted it. Wiped her eyes, then her mouth. She settled her bottom on the floor. “I need to know if those ... things were done after she was ... dead.”
“I can’t confirm the answer to that question until after the autopsy. I’m hoping that’s the case.”
She glared at him. “What was the medical examiner’s preliminary conclusion?” If he told her he didn’t know, she was going to scream.
“Postmortem.”
“Thank God.” Sobs tore at CJ’s chest.
Braddock joined her on the floor, leaned against the wall. “There are elements that point to Nash, but there’s also a sophistication that almost rules him out. As you pointed out, this was a savvy setup. Nothing left to chance. Not a single piece of evidence left behind except the carving on the tree limb.”
Maybe it was the shock of hearing this news or just the fact that they were both sitting on the floor with the trash can she’d puked in standing between them, but CJ looked at the man, really looked, for the first time in months.
He’d turned thirty-five this year. Dark hair and eyes. Classic square jaw. Good nose. The kind that never needed to be touched with a scalpel. He was a well-dressed, good-looking man whose eyes were warm and compassionate.
Maybe he really was trying to find Shelley’s killer. Maybe he really did care about the people here. And maybe she was a little crazy.
