Halligan turns over the page he’s been glancing at and picks up the sheet underneath it. “As I mentioned a minute ago, forensic anthropologists were brought in to examine the remains in both Ohio and Pennsylvania. In the end, a forensic odontologist was also consulted.”
“Anodontologist?” Logan says.
“It’s a specially trained dentist that police sometimes rely on during an investigation. They can help identify a deceased person from dental work when the body is badly decomposed, and in certain cases, they’re asked to examine bite marks on victims. What they found in each of these two new cases is a bite mark on the victims’ right index finger.”
The bile is back, nearly making me gag.
“Abitemark?” Logan exclaims. “They think the fucking bastardbitthem?”
“Yes. It might have been in a frenzy, but since it was on the same finger in each case, we’re thinking it could be some kind of signature. As we touched on in the past, serial murderers often leave those.”
“But couldn’t those marks have been made by animals?” I say. “The bodies were in the woods for years.”
“From what the odontologist concluded, the marks were from human teeth,” Halligan explains. “So, as soon as I heard this, I requested a fresh look at the Plattsburgh autopsy report and photos. And lo and behold, there were similar bite marks.”
We stare at him, now waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Then we took another look at Melanie’s file,” he adds. “There were no bite wounds on any of her fingers.”
Chapter 8
The winter I was a freshman in college, burning the candle at both ends so I could make the dean’s list but also help edit the literary magazine and play intramural volleyball, I developed a case of bronchitis so bad that it landed me the infirmary for four days straight. On the second night I was there, alone in a room for two, I found myself suddenly floating above the bed and staring at my body from a place just beneath the ceiling. The girl I was looking at—me—was face down in her pajamas with one leg dangling over the side of the mattress.
And then seconds later, the whole bizarre thing ended. I read later that out-of-body experiences aren’t uncommon when you’re young and/or ill, though at the time the episode so alarmed me that I told no one about it and just prayed there’d never be a second time.
But right now, here in the police station, it feels like it’s happening again. I’m staring down from someplace above, watching Logan’s stricken face and hearing Detective Halligan talk about bones and teeth and bite marks in terms of our vibrant, talented daughter, the girl who wrote about birches and will never set eyes on one again.
And then I’m dropping back into my chair with a thud I can almost hear.
“Wait, can you go back a sec,” I say, interrupting a question Logan has begun to ask. “Why didn’t they notice the bite marks on Amanda and Sailor at the time?”
“Theywerenoticed in one instance, but thought to be a defensive wound, not a signature left by the killer. But it’s now clear the marks we see in the autopsy photos of both women are almost identical to the ones on the two other victims. And as I said, there was nothing like that on any of Melanie’s fingers.”
“But as Logan just mentioned,” I say, “it always looked like Ruck had been interrupted in Cartersville—by a noise or some person coming along.” I take a breath, knowing what I’m about to say next. “That’s why Mel was never raped.”
Halligan nods. “Yes, that might be what happened. But I wanted you to be aware of where things stand at this point. There are four cases with a couple of similarities that are missing in Melanie’s case. I think we need to at least consider that Ruck might have been telling his lawyer the truth.”
I look off, shaking my head in frustration. Ruck must be laughing in his grave at the sight of Logan and me right now, the two of us sitting here with hapless, bewildered expressions. This is exactly what he wanted, isn’t it? To throw us into a nightmarish tailspin. But it’s not going to do me any good to lose my cool.
“Please don’t get me wrong,” I say, returning my gaze to Halligan. “We appreciate the effort you’ve put into this. But can we please step back for a second and make sure that despite the discrepancies, we’re not losing sight of what’s most important—the similarities thatdoexist. All the victims were pretty, long-haired college students who were first struck in the head and then strangled. Doesn’t that say a huge amount?”
“That definitely adds up to something,” Halligan concedes. “But in police work, discrepancies can be just as significant, and we shouldn’t ignore them.”
This time I can’t help myself—I let out a groan of frustration. Halligan doesn’t want to commit one way or the other, and we’re just stuck, suspended in time.
“So, what’s the plan, then?” Logan says. “Are you going to reopen the case?”
“For starters, I’ve made arrangements to speak to a behavioral analyst with the FBI—someone who does profiling—and get her opinion on how significant the discrepancies are,” Halligan says. “Then we’ll take it from there.”
He glances at his watch. “I hate to rush you out of here, but there’s another meeting I need to attend. I’ll get back to you as soon as I’ve learned anything from the analyst.”
And then suddenly we’re being ushered out of the room and down the long hall to the lobby.
“Are you okay?” Logan says as soon as we’re in the car.
“Barely. I can’t believe this.”
“Me either. That we had to sit there forced to wonder if Ruck isn’t to blame because there were no fucking bite marks on Mel’s hand.”
