“She bled out? From the cut across her throat?” I question, pulling up the files Dr. Lee emailed me and looking through the autopsy photos in the report.
“Yes. The sliced throat ultimately killed her, but before that she’d been beaten. Her entire face and upper body show signs of extreme abuse. Both orbital sockets caved in. Her death would have been slow and painful. The killer had a lot of rage.”
Rage. Who could have hated her this badly?
“Personal then?” I prompt, thinking out loud more than actually asking.
“That I can’t tell you,” Dr. Lee says, snapping off her gloves after pulling the white sheet back up and over the body.
Now that the autopsy was complete, the evidence collected and the coroner’s report finalized, the body would be released back to the family. However, it seemed there’d apparently been some squabbling among the family over who would claim her body. Too many people loved her, so much so that they were arguing over who would take the morbid responsibility of making sure she was ushered into the afterlife with care. How did this woman, surrounded by love and support, end up this way?
“This was truly the Devil’s work, Kat,” Amanda says with her back to me as she washes her hands in the big metal sink acrossthe room.
Dread rises inside me and a chill runs down my spine. Devils come in many forms, but sometimes, the most dangerous one is the Devil you know.
“Damn,” I mutter under my breath.
“Yes,” Amanda nods as she turns off the sink and dries her hands. “She has healed wounds that go back to childhood. This girl has been a punching bag for years.”
That doesn’t track. Allison Clarke had moved away from her hometown in high school. Unknown family. Small group of friends. Quiet, calm life. The only person who’d had access to her for that long was her husband.
“You sure this is Allison Clarke?” I ask to make sure the hunch I have is a valid path to even start to go down.
Investigators should be unbiased, open minded, and driven by evidence. You never assume that you knew anything about a victim or a suspect. Unfortunately, many don’t operate this way. But I’d been on the wrong end of the law before, treated like I’d asked for it by those who were supposed to protect and serve. I’d vowed to be better. To do better.
“Her face was beaten beyond recognition. Her teeth were destroyed. Her finger prints burned off. Unless the county was to magically find the money for a DNA test, which would take weeks or months with our backlogged labs, then the best I can do is give a best guess,” Amanda states with a shrug of her shoulders.
“So, give me your educated guess,” I push.
Amanda lets out a long sigh. I know guessing is against her nature. She’s a scientist, she doesn’t work in anything other than evidence and proof.
“Right height. Same approximate weight. Hair and skin tone are accurate. Family confirmed same piercings. No tattoos.” Amanda lists the circumstances around the identification. “I’dsay it’s very likely.”
Good enough for me.
“Thanks Amanda.” I close my app and stick my phone in my pocket. Turning, I walk across the room to leave, but before I can reach out to open the door, Dr. Lee clears her throat.
“There’s one more thing,” she states as I turn back to look at her over my shoulder. “The old injuries, the ones that healed previously, they follow a distinct pattern.”
“What kind of pattern?” I ask her, hoping it’s not what I think it is.
Amanda pauses as if debating the best way to present the information delicately.
“The kind I typically see in cases of domestic abuse.”
Looks like I need to talk to Brody Clarke.
TEN
Allison
Before
“You look like Hell,” Catie says as I stare blankly at my sandwich sitting on the beige table in front of me.
I feel like hell. After the party, I spent the rest of the weekend icing my body and being ignored by my husband. My father-in-law took me across the water in his boat, and I drove myself home. I haven’t seen or talked to my husband since. It’s been days. The silence between us grows deeper witheach passing hour, each passing day. Normally, I’d cave. I’d call or text and apologize, beg him to come home. But I’m sick of caving.
Maybe I’m realizing that I deserve something better.
