Chapter Twenty-One
Twenty-One
Leanne surveyed the murder book pages spread across her kitchen table. She’d sorted them into stacks labeled with orange sticky notes. Sliding aside the pile marked “Police Reports,” she turned her attention to the pile marked “Autopsy.”
Autopsy photos were never easy to look at, but there was a particular horror in seeing a person you’d known in life laid out on the table and cut open like a science experiment.
Leanne sped through the grisly photographs of Hannah Rawls until she reached the ME’s diagram, which was easier to stomach.
Like the Jane Doe autopsy, this report included a black-and-white line drawing of a generic female form surrounded by handwritten notes made during the procedure.
The words scrawled by the neck instantly caught Leanne’s attention.
Fractured hyoid.
Leanne knew Hannah had been strangled, but she hadn’t known that particular detail until tonight. She jotted a note on her legal pad and tapped her pencil on the page.
Gus jumped onto the table and nudged her arm.
“You ate already.” She scratched his neck, and he collapsed on top of her papers, arching his back and purring. She gave him a few more scratches before sliding him off the reports. “Here, scoot.”
Leanne flipped past the diagram to the typewritten detail about Hannah’s injuries. Fractured right parietal. Fractured scaphoid. Fractured fourth proximal phalanx, right hand.
She read through the full description. Then she read through it again.
Based on the hand and wrist injuries, it looked like Hannah had tried to fend off her attacker.
She imagined Rocky Rawls combing through this same report.
Had he come to the same conclusion? And if he had, did knowing that his daughter fought for her life give him any kind of comfort?
Or did it instill in him a bone-deep rage?
Trish Rawls had said her husband went through all the reports, and Leanne shuddered to think of it. No amount of medical jargon could ease the shock of viewing these photos and reading the details of his daughter’s death.
In the days after Hannah’s murder, the department had been under immense pressure to make an arrest. Had that pressure made Lee Everhart bend his own strict moral code?
Leanne had always looked up to her dad. To this day, his directive to look out for Ben had reshaped her life, driving her back to Madrone.
But she wasn’t blind to the stress he must have been under right after the murder when the whole town was up in arms. Everyone’s fear and grief translated into demands for police to lock in on a suspect.
Hannah’s parents were definitely part of the pressure campaign.
Rocky Rawls had a powerful personality and liked to throw his weight around, even before his daughter’s killing.
She flipped back to the diagram as the ME’s words percolated in her brain.
Fractured hyoid.
Fractured right parietal.
Fractured scaphoid…
She thumbed through Hannah’s crime scene photos again but saw no sign of any duct tape collected on the body or anywhere nearby.
She flipped to an autopsy photo and zeroed in on Hannah’s long blond hair.
It didn’t look as though a chunk of hair had been cut off, and there was no mention of anything like that in the description.
The idea that Hannah Rawls might be connected to the unidentified bodies was starting to feel like a stretch.
Yes, Hannah had been strangled and beaten.
And, yes, the abandoned well where her body was found was not far away from Highway 67 and the other human remains.
But aside from those factors, the cases felt very different.
To start with, Hannah Rawls was reported missing mere hours after she didn’t come home for her midnight curfew.
Her disappearance launched an intensive search that brought in law enforcement agencies from across the region.
It also launched a media circus that turned out to be a preview of the sensational trial to come.
By contrast, the other cases received little attention—almost none at all.
Leanne had been a detective here for nearly two years, and she’d never even heard of these cold cases until Jen Sayers tipped her off.
It wasn’t like the un-IDed bones were being talked about around the watercooler.
Days and months and even years after discovery, the remains still weren’t identified.
That fact alone ratcheted up the difficulty factor.
How could investigators develop a theory of the crime—or a motive or a suspect—if they didn’t even know who the victims were and what they might have in common?
Without IDs, it was nearly impossible to determine how the killer and the victims crossed paths.
Gus arched his back again, and Leanne stroked his chin. Then she took a last sip of the Dr Pepper Slurpee she’d bought on the way home from work. Once again, she’d stopped at the gas station for dinner—another calorie bomb she’d have to run off on the trail.
Sighing, she flipped back to the autopsy report. Was she making her life difficult? Definitely. Maybe she should give up on this theory and be the “team player” that her chief wanted her to be. But she couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that she was missing something important.
She studied the diagram again and then skimmed through the pathologist’s notes about Hannah Rawls.
Fractured hyoid.
Fractured right parietal.
Leanne fixed her gaze on her kitchen window as the ME’s words swirled through her brain.
A chill snaked down her spine. She reached under the table for the thick brown accordion file at her feet and pulled out the Jane Doe autopsy report. Flipping through the pages, she located Korbin’s detailed notes.
Fractured hyoid.
Fractured right parietal.
Fractured scaphoid…
Leanne gazed at the kitchen window again, visualizing the attacks as an idea took shape. The victims would have been on their backs struggling. Their worst injuries were on their faces and chests. Their attacker would have been on top, pinning them down.
Korbin’s words about the bludgeoning came back to her. This was something smooth, possibly the butt of a pistol.
She looked down at his diagram and reread the notes in the margins. Fractured right parietal.
In the cold cases, and the Jane Doe case, and the Hannah Rawls case, the right side of the victim’s skull was bashed in.
She pounded her fist on the table. “Son of a bitch! You’re left-handed.”
Gus jumped away, and Leanne stared down at the diagram as the implications sank in. Roughly 10 percent of people were left-handed. This was an important discovery, potentially game-changing.
But would McBride agree?
Something clattered outside.
She jumped up and went to the window. Switching off the light above the sink, she looked out at the yard. The area behind the house was still and quiet, the lounge chair empty.
But she hadn’t imagined it. She’d definitely heard something.
Leanne grabbed her service weapon off the kitchen counter as a sharp knock sounded at her front door. She crossed the living room and peered through the peephole.
Max Scott stood on her doorstep. He wore jeans and a sweatshirt and had his hands tucked into his pockets. He glanced over his shoulder at her truck in the driveway and knocked again.
How the hell had he found her address? He must have followed her home, which irked her, and not only because he knew where she lived now.
How had she not noticed a tail? Being observant was a point of pride for her.
She tucked her pistol into the back of her jeans and yanked open the door.
“Hi.” He made a cringey attempt at a smile. “I saw that you’re home, so…”
“I thought you went back to Dallas.”
“Nope. Still here.”
“What do you want?”
“Mind if I come in?”
“Yes.”
He sighed. “All right. I wanted to run something by you. Call it a quid pro quo.”
She didn’t respond.
“That’s like a trade.”
“I know what a quid pro quo is. The answer is no.” She started to close the door, and he edged forward.
“Touch my door, and you’ll regret it.”
He stepped back. “Sorry. My bad.” He heaved a sigh. “Would you hear me out? I want to offer you a trade. You give me an exclusive interview.”
“In exchange for what?”
“In exchange, we give you a heads-up about the exposé we’re running.”
She pursed her lips.
“I’m not interested in whatever you’re running,” she said.
“That’s where you’re wrong. You’ll be interested in this, I guarantee it. The topic is some very prominent people in Chisos County.”
Leanne stared at him. Her wheels were turning now, but she wasn’t about to tell him that.
Her phone chimed in the kitchen. She glanced over her shoulder, then back at the reporter on her doorstep.
He grinned. “You’re interested, I can tell.”
“I told you before, I don’t give interviews.”
“But—”
“Talk to our PIO.”
She closed the door and locked it.
Her phone chimed again as she strode into the kitchen. Grabbing it off the table, she checked the screen.
Big Bend Outfitters.
She connected the call.
“Everhart.”
“Um, hi.” The woman’s voice sounded timid. “Is this Detective Leanne Everhart?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Terry Ryan, with Big Bend Outfitters. Izzy Huerta asked me to call you?”
Leanne’s heart skittered. “What’s wrong?”
“Izzy needs you to come out here. It’s an emergency.”