Chapter 38 #2
“It’s subtle, but the last stone is slightly different in tone and texture, and look closely—the engraving is a bit different.
The first three we found are virtually the same, but this last one”—she pointed to the image in the lower-right corner—“the one found in Naomi’s hand, seems to have been engraved with a different tool.
Whatever they use in rock carving. Probably a diamond-tipped bit or some sort of a laser?
Don’t know. I haven’t figured that out yet. ”
“That’s not the only thing about the rocks,” he admitted, taking a sip, but staring over her shoulder at the images on the screen. “I was just at the lab.”
“They were working?” She pulled a face. “It’s not even four in the damned morning.”
“I know, but I pulled in a favor. One of the techs owes me. He wasn’t happy, but I met him there and got a rush job on blood analysis on the stone found in Naomi’s hand last night. It’s different from the others.”
“Not the same concoction of goat, cow, and human?”
“Not a combination at all,” he said. “The blood on the stone Naomi held in her hand was from a chicken.”
She arched a brow.
Not surprised.
“Lots easier to procure than human.”
“Unless you self-harvest,” he said. “Take your own blood.”
“Nah. Don’t think so. The blood we found on the other three stones? The human portion is female, according to the lab,” she reminded him. “And we think our killer is male.”
“It seems that way.” He couldn’t imagine a woman as the killer.
She added. “Not many people know that the blood we found on the stones from the previous homicides is a mixture,” she said. “We just found out ourselves, so even people in the department aren’t aware that our killer likes playing with platelets.”
Reed nodded. “And we’ve kept the stones out of the press.”
“Right. The public doesn’t know about them, nor the blood.” She said, “I think the concoction of blood is significant.”
“Me, too.”
“And the fact that the numbers on the rocks are soaked in it. Arabic numbers and Hebrew numbers. Like the Old Testament.”
“Where goats and calves and sometimes humans were sacrificed?” he asked, following her line of reasoning, one that had toyed with the fringes of his mind.
“Bingo.” Sol took a long sip from her cup, finishing her tea and nodding to herself. “But why go to all that trouble of procuring the blood and mixing it, leaving it at the scenes where he knew we would find it and analyze it, then all of a sudden use chicken blood?”
“Easier to procure.”
“And a lot lazier. Our killer, he’s precise.
Pays attention to detail. Leaves us enigmatic clues.
Goes to all the trouble of mixing up different blood and using the same etching tool, then thinks, ‘fuck it. I’m just gonna kill a chicken and use whatever tool I’ve got.
And pick up a rock from the damned driveway. ’ Does that make sense?”
“Does any of it?” he asked. “It’s not like we’re dealing with a rational person.”
“No, he’s def cray-cray. But precise cray-cray.”
Reed said, “Most likely some kind of religious nut. If we’re still going with the Old Testament theory.”
Again the arch of her brow, but she bit the edge of her lip.
“What?” he asked, then said, “You’ve got something else.”
He’d seen that look on her face before, when she was tossing an unsavory theory around in her head, one she couldn’t avoid.
He knew the feeling.
“Yeah. I do have something.” She finished her tea and set the cup down. “I was waiting for the autopsy report on Naomi Kittle, but it’ll be a while.”
“I’ve put a rush on it.”
She let out a sigh. “I know. But everything about these cases has a rush on it. Hell, the FBI is working it, so of course,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“And even with a rush, the preliminary might not get here today,” she said. “Maybe not even tomorrow.”
“I know. I’m assuming you want to check on the bruises on her neck,” he guessed. “To see if she was strangled.”
“She was.” Sol was certain. “The bruising and petechial hemorrhaging in the report will substantiate it, but no, that’s not what I’m talking about.”
“What, then?”
“You’re not gonna like it.”
He already knew that much. He wasn’t liking his own wayward thoughts. “What’ve you got, Augustin?”
Her eyes grew dark, and he felt a second’s trepidation.
Turning back to her computer, she said, “It’s easiest to show you.” Her fingers clicked over the keyboard, and as they did, the image on her computer screen changed from the four frames of etched rocks to Naomi Kittle’s dead body hanging from the rafter at Jeanne LaRoux’s hut in the swamp.
Reed involuntarily cringed. She was right, he didn’t like where this was heading. And the bad feeling, which had been with him all night and kept him awake, loomed larger.
“Take a look,” she instructed.
He stood and peered over her shoulder as Sol enlarged the picture, zeroing in on the dead woman’s abdomen. “See those little marks there? Those tiny scars?” She pointed to a couple of small discolorations visible on Naomi’s skin just above the top of her tight-fitting low-waisted pants.
“Yeah?”
“And this one here.” Her finger moved to Naomi’s navel.
His gut tightened. He knew what was coming.
“Looks like scars from a tubal ligation.” She glanced over her shoulder to look him directly in the eyes. “Didn’t you say that Kittle and his wife were planning a romantic weekend together when she went missing? That they were hoping to have another baby?”
“That’s what he told me.”
“Wasn’t going to happen,” she said flatly. “Unless I miss my guess, Naomi Kittle had already had her tubes tied. No more babies. No male heir for Jamison,” she said. “The autopsy will confirm.”
The evidence was damning.
Reed’s fears that had kept him up all night were substantiated.
“He lied to you,” Sol said.
“Yeah.” Reed straightened and looked away from the damning image.
The truth was obvious.
Jamison Kittle had just become the number-one suspect in his wife’s murder.