“You’re sure?” Lonergan again.
Grant lasered in on Lonergan with those big, steady eyes. “Can you think of any reason why I wouldn’t be?”
“Just asking the questions, Doc.”
“Wrong ones,” Grant shot back. “If the words come out of my mouth, I’m sure.”
His eyes bore into Grant’s. “You’re readin’ too much into it, I’d say.” He jabbed a thumb Foster’s way. “Lot of that goin’ around. Must be a woman thing . . . or somethin’ else. Either way, they don’t pay me for dealin’ with it. We got witnesses that put her in a bar before she was killed.”
Grant said nothing. The silence was for Lonergan, and judging by the scowl on his face, he was bothered by it.
“Stomach contents?” Foster asked.
“She consumed Thai hours before she died. Pad thai would be my educated guess. I found noodles, peanuts, peas, the whole nine. And cola. Coke. Pepsi. That variety. That might help you retrace her steps, but without prints or DNA, you don’t have much of a jump start.”
Lonergan shifted his weight. “Did you check the—” He stopped himself. “What about the wounds? Rosales says we’re lookin’ for a hunting knife. You got anything more specific?”
“Rosales was correct. The wounds appear to have been made with a large, serrated knife. A blade at least thirty centimeters, judging by the cuts. That’s a little over eleven inches for the layman. A hunting knife would fit. If you find it, I might be able to match it to some of the nicks on her bones. Like I said, some of the cuts went deep.”
“What about the blood on the jacket?” Lonergan asked.
“Not Birch’s,” Grant said.
“You’re jokin’！” Lonergan’s eyes widened.
“Now I’m a clown?”
He stared at Grant as though she had just grown two heads, as though what she’d said didn’t make a lick of sense. “That’s impossible.”
“No, Lonergan, that’s science—and all I can comment on. The blood on that jacket is not a match to Birch’s. One last injury. A superficial scalp hematoma, right at the base of the skull. No distinctive marks from a foreign object. No evidence that she had been struck.”
“Maybe she hit her head when she fell back after the first strike?” Foster said.
“The wound would be consistent with that.”
Lonergan looked like he didn’t know which way to go, what to think. His instincts had been wrong. None of the physical evidence tied Keith Ainsley to Peggy Birch. “Tests can be wrong,” he said.
“Not when I run them,” Grant said. “Unless I completely blew med school hematology, which I absolutely did not, there’s no way to mistake the inconsistency in blood types. Birch was O-positive. Common. The spot on the jacket, B-positive, also common. And it was old blood, not fresh, as you’d expect. Several major arteries were either nicked or sliced clean through, which flooded her chest and abdominal cavities with blood. But your killer didn’t stop there. He dug down and sliced through the abdominal wall, opening her up, and, well, you saw her intestines. All her organs are accounted for. Whoever did this didn’t take souvenirs, at least not anatomical ones. Bottom line: your killer left quite a mess behind.”
“What about the lipstick around her ankles and wrists?” Foster asked.
“I can confirm it’s lipstick. And strange. But it’s unspectacular, except for its placement. Not only strange but a little creepy, though I can’t offer an explanation. Did you find a tube of lipstick at the scene?” Foster and Lonergan shook their heads. “Then you’ve got another mystery to solve. I have a bad feeling about this one. No prints. No DNA. What’s that say to both of you?”
“Gloves,” Foster said. “He was careful.”
Grant turned to Lonergan. “And what’s that say?”
Lonergan didn’t answer. They both knew what it said. Peggy Birch had likely been picked out, targeted, and lured to the Riverwalk, and that would mean that in addition to the gloves, the killer had likely worn something to cover their clothing. They could hardly move through the streets covered in blood, even at that hour. They’d need a kit, an exit route. And they’d need to be very precise about where they stepped.
“His shoes?” Foster asked.
“Clean,” Grant said. “Your email said you wanted to know if there was mud on them? There wasn’t. They were also dry, so he didn’t take them off, rinse them off in the river, and put them back on.” She stared at Lonergan when she relayed the last part. “That’s all I’ve got preliminarily. You’ll get a more detailed report by end of day. Good luck.”
Foster said nothing to Lonergan as they walked back to the car. Ainsley wasn’t their killer. She was both relieved and anxious about next steps.
“You win, Foster,” Lonergan said. “Guess your kid’s off the hook.”
Her kid. It was an odd thing to say, even odder for Lonergan to boil it all down to a game of wins and losses. She walked heavily, as though her body were buried beneath a wall of bricks, her mind racing. Thai food consumed hours before Peggy’s death, no foreign prints, no DNA. Two blood types, lipstick. She turned to Lonergan.
“If it isn’t Peggy’s blood, whose is it?”
CHAPTER 22
She flew through the doors back at Area 1. Alone. Lonergan had dropped her at the lot and taken off. Downtime, he’d said. Back in an hour. They had a body attached to no physical evidence and physical evidence that didn’t match any victim they knew of. Downtime? Where was Lonergan going that was more important than getting to the bottom of any of this?
She threw her bag on the desk, eyed Griffin’s closed door. The boss had done this to her, but she wasn’t about to go running back to cry about it. She was stuck with Lonergan. The office was busy, cops doing what cops did; Peggy Birch wasn’t the only murder that needed solving. Next moves. What could they be? Did Lonergan expect her to wait here like a doll on a shelf until he got back and made the moves for them?
Shimmying out of her jacket, she sat at the grimy desk and pulled out her notebook. Timeline. Peggy’s. She’d track her back from Teddy’s, the last spot anyone could place her. Street-camera access was in the works. The Riverwalk was covered. That was where she’d start. And if she was being hopeful, the blood on Keith’s jacket didn’t have to mean anyone else was dead. There could be a thousand explanations for it, and the fact that no one had stumbled on another dead girl kind of proved it.
She needed to see the case spread out in front of her. If she saw it mapped, she might be able to figure out the why that would lead to the who. Looking around the office, she spotted a small whiteboard leaning against the wall. She commandeered it and propped it up at her desk, then went hunting for markers. When she had the board set up and had acquired the markers from the shelf of office supplies near the printer, she started to quietly transfer her notes from her book to the board: witness statements, times, a list of Peggy’s closest associates, lines drawn under their names—Rimmer, Dean, Stroman. She even added Giles Valentine, the bartender at Teddy’s. Next, she taped up photos of Birch and Ainsley along with a crudely drawn map she’d made of the crime scene, noting the position of the body in relation to the bridge, to the marina, to the stairs. Blood. It wasn’t Birch’s. God forbid someone stumbled on another pile of leaves. The blood wasn’t Keith Ainsley’s either. He hadn’t had a nick or cut on him when he’d been found, for one thing, and the blood was old, for another, but just to be sure, on her way back, she had checked with Dr. Santos by phone from the car. Keith was AB-positive. That revelation had done little to alter Lonergan’s spiteful mood.