Triptych

“Is that so?”

“I don’t want any glory,” Trent said, though in Michael’s experience, that was what the “G” in “GBI” stood for. The state boys had a reputation for coming in, doing half the work and taking all of the credit.

Trent continued, “I don’t want to steal the spotlight or be on the news when we catch the bad guy. I just want to assist you in your job and then move on.”

“What makes you think I need assistance?”

Trent looked up from the files, studying Michael for a few seconds. He opened a fluorescent pink folder flat on the table and slid it toward Michael. “Julie Cooper of Tucker,” he said, naming a town about twenty miles outside Atlanta. “Fifteen years old. She was raped and beaten- almost to death-four months ago.”

Michael nodded, flipping through the file, not bothering to read the details. He got to the victim’s photograph and stopped. Long blonde hair, heavy eyeliner, too much lipstick for a girl that age.

Trent opened another folder, this one neon green. “A

Just north of Tucker.

“December third of last year, Linder was abducted while walking to her aunt’s house down the street from her home.” Trent passed the folder to Michael. “Raped, beaten. Same M.O.”

Michael flipped through the file, looking for the photo. Linder’s hair was dark, the bruises around her eyes even darker. He picked up the girl’s picture, studying it closer. Her mouth had been beaten pretty bad, the lip cut, blood dripping down her chin. She had some kind of glitter on her face that picked up the flash from the camera.

“She was found hiding in a ditch in Stone Mountain Park the next day.”

“Okay,” Michael said, waiting for the co

“Both girls report being attacked by a man wearing a black ski mask.” Trent laid out an orange folder, a photograph paper-clipped to the top sheet. “Dawn Simmons of Buford.”

Michael did a double take, thinking this girl couldn’t be more than ten. “She’s younger than the others,” he said, disgusted by the thought of some sick fuck touching the child. She wasn’t much older than Tim.

“She was assaulted six months ago,” Trent told him. “She reports that her attacker wore a black ski mask.”

Michael shook his head. Buford was an hour away and the girl was too young. “Coincidence.”

“I think so, too,” Trent agreed. “Guys like this don’t hunt outside their comfort area.”

Without realizing it, Michael had taken a seat at the table. He put down the photo of the ten-year-old and slid it back toward Trent, thinking he’d be sick if he looked at it one more minute. Jesus, her poor parents. How the hell did people live through this sort of thing?

Michael asked, “What’s that mean? Comfort area?”

Trent went back to his professor voice. “Child sexual predators have a specific age group they go after. A man who’s sexually attracted to ten-year-olds might think fifteen, sixteen, is too old. The same goes for a man who’s interested in teenagers. He’d probably be just as disgusted as you are by the thought of molesting a girl that young.”

Michael felt his stomach clench. Trent was so matter-of-fact about it, as if he was discussing the weather. He had to ask, “You got kids?”

“No,” Trent admitted, not returning the question. Maybe he already knew the answer, probably from Greer. Michael wondered what the bastard had said about Tim.

Trent continued, “I’ve put in a call to the parents in each case to see if we can talk to the girls, perhaps get some new information now that some time has passed since the attacks. From what I’ve seen, victims of these sorts of crimes remember more as they get some distance from the event.” He added, “It might be a waste of time, but then we might hear something that they couldn’t recall during the initial interviews.”

“Right,” Michael agreed, trying not to sound a

“I think the perpetrator is probably a well-educated man,” Trent said. “Probably in his mid- to late-thirties. Unhappy with his job, unhappy with his home situation.”

Michael held his tongue. In his opinion, profiling was a load of shit. Except for the well-educated part, Trent could be talking about most of the men in the squad. Throw in banging his next-door neighbor and he’d be describing Michael.

“The files show a clear pattern of escalation,” Trent continued.

“Cooper, the first girl, was attacked outside a movie theater; quick, efficient. The whole thing took maybe ten minutes and all of it was out of range of the theater’s closed-circuit cameras. The second, A

“Any tire tracks?”

“About twelve hundred,” Trent answered. “The park had just started its a

Michael had taken Gina and Tim to see the lights. They went every year.

“DNA?” Michael asked.

“He wore a condom.”

“Okay,” Michael said. So he wasn’t a moron. “What does this have to do with my girl last night?”

Trent narrowed his eyes, like he wondered if Michael had heard a word he said. “Their tongues, Detective.” He slid the reports back over. “They all had their tongues bitten off.”

CHAPTER FOUR

The tongue is basically like a piece of tough steak,“ Pete Hanson said, slipping on his latex gloves. He stopped, looking at Trent. ”I take you for a ru

Trent didn’t seem surprised by the question. Being on the job for twelve years, Michael figured the man had been around his share of eccentric coroners.

He answered, “Yes, sir.”

“Long distance?” Yes.

“Marathons?”

“Yes.”

“Thought so.” Pete nodded to himself, like he had scored a point, though Michael had noticed that Will Trent hadn’t volunteered any information about himself.

Pete went back to the corpse lying on the table in the center of the room. Aleesha Monroe’s body was draped in a white sheet, her head exposed. The third eyelash was gone, the makeup removed. Thick sutures lined her forehead where her scalp and face had been peeled back to examine her skull and remove her brain.

“You ever bitten your tongue?” Pete asked.

Trent didn’t answer, so Michael said, “Sure.”

“Heals pretty quickly. The tongue is an amazing organ-unless it’s severed, that is. At any rate,” he continued, “biting through the tongue is not a difficult endeavor.” He rolled back the sheet, showing the top of the Y-incision but stopping just shy of baring Monroe’s breasts.

“Here,” Pete said. Michael could see deep black bruises over the woman’s left shoulder. “The distribution of the livor mortis tells us she died where you found her. On her back, on the stairs. My guess,” Pete said, “is that she was beaten, then raped, and in the course of the rape he bit off her tongue.”

Michael thought about that, pictured her on the stairs, her body lax at first as she endured the rape, then tensing, convulsing in fear as she realized what was going to happen.

Trent finally spoke. “Can you get DNA off the tongue?”

“I imagine I’ll get a significant amount of DNA off her tongue, given her profession.” Pete shrugged his shoulders. “And I’m sure the swabs from her vagina will reveal a cornucopia of suspects for you, but my guess would be that your perpetrator used a condom.”

“Why is that?” Michael asked.

“Powder,” Pete answered. “There was a trace of cornstarch on her right thigh.”

Michael knew that rubbers were often packed in powder to make them easier to use. All the condom makers used the same ingredients, so there was no way of tracing it back to a single manufacturer. Not that knowing whether he used a Trojan or a Ramses would narrow the search.