Fallen

CHAPTER ELEVEN

DALE DUGAN RUSHED INTO THE DOCTORS’ LOUNGE. “I CAME as soon as they let me.”

Sara closed her eyes as she shut her locker. She had spent nearly two hours going over her statement with the Atlanta police. Then the hospital administration had swarmed around her for another hour, ostensibly to help, but Sara had quickly realized that they were more concerned that they would be sued. Once she’d signed a paper absolving them of all responsibility, they left as quickly as they had arrived.

Dale asked, “Can I get you anything?”

“Thank you, but I’m fine.”

“Can I drive you home?”

“Dale, I—” The door slammed open. Will stood there, a panicked look on his face.

For a few suspended seconds, nothing mattered anymore. Sara was blind to everything else in the room. Her peripheral vision was gone. Everything tunneled to Will. She didn’t see Dale leave. She didn’t hear the constant throng of ambulance sirens and ringing phones and screaming patients.

She just saw Will.

He let the door close, but didn’t move toward her. There was sweat on his brow. His breath was labored. She didn’t know what to say to him, what to do. She just stood there staring at him as if this was another ordinary day.

He asked, “Is that a new outfit?”

She laughed, the sound getting caught in her throat. She’d changed into scrubs. Her clothes were in police evidence.

The corner of his mouth went up in a forced smile. “It brings out the green in your eyes.”

Sara bit her lip to keep tears from falling. She had wanted to call him as soon as it happened. Her cell phone had been in her hands, his number up on the screen, but she had tucked the phone into her purse because Sara knew if she saw Will before she was ready, she would shatter like a delicate piece of china.

Amanda Wagner knocked as she entered the room. “I hate to interrupt, Dr. Linton, but could we have a word with you?”

Anger flashed across Will’s face. “She doesn’t—”

“It’s all right,” Sara interrupted. “There’s not much that I can tell you.”

Amanda smiled as if this was some sort of social gathering. “Anything at all would be appreciated.”

Sara had talked about it so much over the last few hours that she recited the events as if by rote. She gave them the abbreviated version of her statement, not going into a detailed description of the female junkie, which, on paper, had sounded like every junkie Sara had ever seen. Nor did she describe the trash around the Dumpster or the EMTs, or list the procedures she followed. She cut to what mattered: the young man who’d peered at her from behind the curtain. He had punched her in the chest. He had shot her patient twice in the head. He was thin, Caucasian, mid-to-late twenties and wearing a black warm-up jacket and baseball cap. In the short time that elapsed between her first sight of him and his death, he had not uttered one word. The only sound she’d heard was a grunt, and then the air whistling from his neck as his breath seeped out.

She finished, “His hand was gripped around my hand. I couldn’t stop it. He’s dead. They’re both dead.”

Will seemed to have trouble speaking. “He hurt you.”

Sara could only nod, but her mind conjured the image she had seen in the bathroom mirror: an oblong, ugly bruise over her right breast where the man had punched her.

Will cleared his throat. “All right. Thank you for your cooperation, Dr. Linton. I know you probably want to get home.” He turned to leave, but Amanda made no move to follow.

“Dr. Linton, I noticed a soda machine in the waiting room. Would you like something to drink?”

Sara was taken off guard. “I’m—”

“Will, could you get a Diet Sprite for me and—I’m sorry, Dr. Linton. What did you want?”

Will’s jaw tightened like a ratchet. He wasn’t stupid. He knew that Amanda was trying to get her alone, just like Sara knew that Amanda wouldn’t give up until she got what she wanted. She tried to make this easier for Will, saying, “A Coke would be nice.”

He didn’t give in that easy. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

He wasn’t happy, but he left the room.

Amanda checked the hallway, making sure Will was gone. She turned back to Sara. “I’m rooting for you, you know.”

Sara didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.

“Will,” she explained. “He’s got one too many bitches in his life, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Sara was in no mood to joke. “What do you want, Amanda?”

She got to the point. “The bodies are still downstairs in the morgue. I need you to examine them and give me your professional opinion.” She added, “A coroner’s opinion.”

Sara felt a cold chill at the thought of seeing the man again. Every time she blinked, she could see his expressionless face hovering over her. She couldn’t grip her hand without feeling his fingers wrapped around her own. “I can’t cut them open.”

“No, but you can answer some questions for me.”

“Such as?”

“Drug use, gang affiliations, and whether or not one of them has a stomach full of heroin.”

“Like Ricardo.”

“Yes, like Ricardo.”

Sara didn’t give herself time to think about the request. “All right. I’ll do it.”

“Do what?” Will was back. He must’ve run the entire way. He was out of breath again. He held two sodas in one hand.

“There you are,” Amanda said, as if she was surprised to see him. “We were about to go down to the morgue.”

Will looked at Sara. “No.”

“I want to do this,” Sara insisted, though she was not sure why. For the last three hours, all she could think about was going home. Now that Will was here, the thought of returning to her empty apartment was unimaginable.

“We don’t need these.” Amanda took the soda cans and dropped them into the trash. “Dr. Linton?”

Sara led them down the corridor toward the elevators, feeling like a lifetime had passed since she’d made the same walk this morning. A loaded gurney rolled by, EMTs shouting stats, doctors giving orders. Sara held out her arm, guiding Will back against the wall so that the patient could get past. Her hand hovered just in front of his tie. She could feel the silk material sway against her fingertips. He was wearing a suit, his normal work attire, but without the usual vest. His jacket was dark blue, the shirt a lighter shade of the same color.

The cop. Sara had forgotten the cop. “I didn’t—”

“Hold that thought,” Amanda said, as if she was afraid the walls had ears.

Sara fumed at herself as they waited for the elevator. How had she forgotten about the cop? What was wrong with her?

The doors opened. The elevator was packed. It took an interminable amount of time for the old pulleys and lifts to groan into action. They went down a floor and most of the people exited. Two young orderlies rode with them to the sub-basement. They got off and headed toward the stairwell, probably for an illicit tryst.

Amanda waited until they were well beyond earshot. “What is it?”

“There was a man when we came in from the Dumpster. I nearly ran him over. I told him to get out of the way, and he flashed a badge. It looked like a badge. I’m not sure anymore. He acted like a cop.”

“In what way?”

“He acted like he had every right to question me, and he was irritated when I didn’t answer immediately.” Sara gave her a meaningful look.

“Sounds like a cop to me,” Amanda wryly admitted. “What did he want?”

“To know whether or not the patient was going to make it. I told him maybe, even though it was obvious …” Sara let her voice trail off, willing herself to remember. “He was wearing a dark suit, charcoal. White shirt. He was very thin, almost gaunt. He reeked of cigarette smoke. I could smell it even after he left.”

“Did you see which way he went?”

She shook her head.

“White? Black?”

“White. Gray hair. He was older. He looked older.” She put her hand to her face. “His cheeks were sunken. His eyes were heavily lidded.” She remembered something else. “He was wearing a hat. A baseball hat.”

“Black?” Will asked.

“Blue,” she said. “Atlanta Braves.”

“We’ll probably get some nice images of the top of it from the security cameras,” Amanda commented. “We’ll have to share this information with the APD. They may want to see if you can work with a sketch artist.”

Sara would do whatever it took. “I’m sorry I didn’t remember earlier. I don’t know what—”

“You were in shock.” Will seemed ready to say more. He glanced at Amanda, then indicated the double doors at the other end of the hallway. He said, “I think it’s this way.”

In the morgue, Junior and Larry were nowhere to be seen. Instead, there were two gurneys, each with a body, each with a white sheet covering the dead. Sara assumed one was the man she had found outside by the Dumpster and the other was the man who had shot the first, then tried to kill her.

There was an older woman leaning against the door to the walk-in freezer. She looked up from her BlackBerry as they walked into the room. Her hospital badge was tucked into her pants pocket. No white lab coat, just a well-tailored black pantsuit. She was clearly on the administration side of the hospital. She was older, more gray than black in her hair. She pushed away from the freezer and walked over. Her posture was ramrod straight, her sizable chest out in front of her like the prow of a ship.

She didn’t stop for introductions. She pulled a small spiral-bound notebook out of her jacket pocket and read, “The shooter’s name is Franklin Warren Heeney. APD found his wallet on him. Local boy, lives in Tucker with his parents. Dropped out of Perimeter College his sophomore year. No employment records. No adult arrest history, but at thirteen, he spent six months in juvie for breaking windows. He has one child, a daughter, six years old, who lives with an aunt out in Snellville. The baby mama is in county lockup for shoplifting and a Baggie of meth they found in her purse. That’s all I could get on him.” She indicated the other body. “Marcellus Benedict Estevez. As I said on the phone, his wallet was found in the trash by the Dumpster. I assume you’ve already looked into him?” Amanda nodded, and the woman closed her notebook. “That’s all I have for now. Nothing else has come down on the wire.”

Amanda nodded again. “Thank you.”

“I bought you an hour before the body boys come. Dr. Linton, the films you ordered for Estevez are in the transport packet. I’ve gathered together some tools that might be useful. I’m sorry it can’t be more.”

She had done plenty. Sara looked over the four Mayo trays laid out beside the bodies. Whoever the woman was, she had some medical knowledge and was high enough up the Grady food chain to raid the supply closet without setting off alarms. “Thank you.”

The woman nodded her goodbyes, then left the room.

Will’s tone was sharp when he asked Amanda, “Let me guess, one of your old gals?”

Amanda ignored him. “Dr. Linton, if we could get started?”

Sara had to force herself to move or she would’ve just stood rooted to the floor until the building fell down around her. There was a pack of sterile gloves hanging from a cleat on the wall. She took out a pair and forced them over her sweating hands. The powder rolled into tiny balls that stuck to her palm like dough.

Without preamble, she pulled back the sheet covering the first body, revealing Marcellus Estevez, the man she had found by the Dumpster. He had two closely spaced bullet holes in his forehead. Powder burns tattooed the skin. She smelled cordite, which was impossible considering the man had been shot hours ago.

Amanda said, “Two rounds to the center of the forehead, just like our drive-by at the warehouse.”

Will’s voice was low. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I’m fine.” Sara forced herself to get on with it, starting with the easy stuff. “He’s approximately twenty-five years of age,” she mumbled. “Five-eight or nine. Around one hundred eighty pounds.” She pressed open his eyes, feeling herself fall into the routine of examination. “Brown. Jaundiced. His wound was septic. Necropsy will probably show infiltration into the larger organs. He was in systemic shutdown when we found him.” She rolled down the sheet so she could look at the belly again, this time with an eye toward forensic evaluation rather than treatment.

The man was nude; his clothes had been cut off when they’d brought him into the ER. Sara could clearly see the penetrating stab wound in the lower left quadrant of his abdomen. She pressed on either side of the cut to see if she could discern the path of the blade. “The small intestines were pierced. It looks like the knife went in at an upward angle. Right-handed thrust from a supine position.”

Amanda asked, “He was on top of her?”

“I would assume. We’re talking about Evelyn here, right?” Will was still being stoic, but Amanda nodded. “The blade entered at an oblique angle to the abdominal Langer’s lines, or the natural direction of the skin. If I reorient the edges like this”—she twisted the skin into the position it had been in when the man was stabbed—“you can see the point of penetration suggests Evelyn was on her back, most likely on the floor, with her attacker on top of her. He was slightly bent at the waist. The knife went in like this.” Sara reached for a scalpel on the tray, but changed her mind and grabbed a pair of scissors instead. She illustrated the action, holding her hand down at her hip with the scissors angled upward. “It was more defensive than deliberate. Maybe they struggled and fell at the same time. The knife went in. The man rolled over while the blade was still lodged—you can see how the wound is incised significantly more at the lateral edge, indicating movement.”

“Kitchen knife?” Amanda asked.

“Statistically, it’s the most likely weapon, and the struggle took place in the kitchen, so it makes sense. They’ll have to do a comparison at the ME’s office to be sure. Did they find the weapon at the scene?”

“Yes,” she answered. “Are you sure about this? She was on her back?”

Sara could see that Amanda was not pleased with the evaluation. She wanted her friend to be a fighter, not someone who got lucky. “The majority of fatal stab wounds are in the left chest region. If you want to kill someone, you go for the heart, overhanded, straight into the chest. This was defensive.” She indicated the man’s sliced palm. “But Evelyn didn’t go easily. At some point, she must’ve come at him directly, because he grabbed the blade of the knife.”

Amanda seemed only slightly placated by this information. “Is there anything in his stomach?”

Sara reached under the gurney and pulled out the transportation packet destined for the Fulton County medical examiner. Krakauer had filled in most of the information while Sara was being interviewed by the police. The form was standard. The ME performing the autopsy needed to know drugs on board, procedures followed, which marks came from the hospital and which had more nefarious origins. Sara found a thermal reproduction of the X-rays on the last page.

She said, “The belly looks clear of any foreign objects. They’ll know for sure when they cut him open, but I’m assuming that the amount of heroin we’re talking about, something worth dying for, would be easy to spot.”

Will cleared his throat. He seemed reluctant as he asked, “Would Evelyn have a lot of blood on her from stabbing this guy?”

“It’s not likely. Most of the bleeding happened inside the belly, even after the knife was pulled out. There’s the defensive wound on his hand, but the ulnar and radial arteries are intact and none of the digital arteries were compromised. If the cut on his hand was deeper or if one of the fingers was sliced open or off, you could expect a significant amount of blood loss. But that’s not the case with Estevez, so I’m guessing Evelyn would’ve had a minimal amount of blood on her clothes.”

Will said, “There was a lot of blood on the floor. You could see footprints back and forth across the tiles.”

“How big was the space?”

“Kitchen sized,” he said. “Bigger than yours, but not by much, and enclosed. The house is older, ranch-style.”

Sara thought about it. “I’d have to see the crime scene photos, but I’m fairly certain that if there was enough blood on the floor to show a struggle, that blood didn’t come from Estevez’s hand or belly. At least not all of it.”

“Could Estevez just get up on his own and walk off after sustaining his injuries?”

“Not without help. Any type of damage to the abdominal wall makes it difficult to breathe, let alone move.” Sara put her hand to her stomach. “Think about how many muscles have to fire just to sit up.”

Amanda asked Will, “What are you getting at?”

“I’m just wondering who struggled with Evelyn if this guy couldn’t get up after being stabbed and there wasn’t a lot of blood from his wound.”

Sara followed his logic. “You think Evelyn was injured.”

“Maybe. They did blood typing on scene, but they didn’t look at all of it, and DNA won’t be back for another few days.” He shrugged. “If Evelyn was hurt, and Estevez didn’t bleed much, that could explain the extra blood.”

“I’m sure if she’s injured it’s nothing serious.” Amanda waved away Will’s theory as if swatting a fly. Any logical person would’ve already accepted the very real possibility that Evelyn Mitchell’s chances of survival were very slim considering how much time had elapsed. Amanda seemed to be holding on to the opposite theory.

Sara wasn’t going to be the one to tell her otherwise.

There was a large magnifying glass on one of the trays. Sara pulled down the overhead light and went back to the examination, checking the dead man head to toe for trace evidence, needle marks, anything unusual that might lead them to a clue. When it was time to roll him over, Will put on a pair of surgical gloves and helped flip the body.

“Well, that’s interesting,” Amanda said with her usual flair for under statement.

Estevez had a large tattoo of an angel on his back. The image covered the width of his shoulders and reached the bottom of his sacrum, and was so intricate that it more closely resembled a carving. “Gabriel,” Sara said. “The archangel.”

Will asked, “How do you know that?”

She pointed to the horn in the angel’s mouth. “There’s no biblical foundation, but some religions believe that Judgment Day comes when Gabriel blows his horn.” Sara knew that Will had never been to church. “It’s the sort of thing they teach kids in Sunday school. And it tracks with his name—Marcellus Benedict. I believe those are the names of two different popes.”

Amanda asked, “How recently would you say this tattoo was worked on?”

The skin at the small of his back was still irritated from the needle. “A week, maybe five days?” She leaned in closer to look at the scrollwork. “This was done in stages. Whoever did this took a long time. Probably months. It’s not the kind of thing you’d forget, and I imagine it’d be very expensive.”

Will held the dead man’s hand in his. “Did you see this under the fingernails?”

“I saw they’re dirty,” she admitted. “That’s fairly typical for a man this age. I can’t do any scrapings. The ME’s office would have a fit and anything I found would be inadmissible because we haven’t established the chain of evidence.”

Will put his nose close to the man’s fingers. “It smells like oil to me.”

Sara smelled for herself. “I can’t tell. The police told me that they checked the outside security cameras. They’re not static. They sweep back and forth across the back lot, which the bad guys obviously knew because they managed not to get caught leaving the body. The time stamp says that Estevez was by the Dumpster at least twelve hours. The smell could be anything.” She rolled over the hand to show Will. “This is more interesting. Estevez obviously worked with his hands. There’s a hardening of the skin on the ball of the thumb and here on the side of the index finger. He held some kind of tool for long periods of time. It would’ve had some weight to it and moved around a bit.”

He asked Amanda, “You said he was unemployed?”

“The state shows he’s been collecting unemployment insurance for almost a year.”

Sara thought of something else. “Can you hand me that?” She pointed to the magnifying glass. Will picked it up and waited as Sara forced open Estevez’s mouth. The jaw was stiff. The tendon popped when she pried open the lips. “Hold it here,” she told Will, indicating he should focus on the upper teeth. “Do you see these tiny indentations in the bottom edges of his top front teeth?” Will leaned in closer, then let Amanda take a look. “These are repetitive impressions. They come from constantly gripping something between his teeth. You see this sort of thing with seamstresses who bite thread or finish carpenters who put nails in their mouth.”

“Or cabinetmakers?” Will asked.

“That’s possible.” Sara looked at Estevez’s hand again. “These calluses could come from holding a nail gun. I’d have to see the tool for comparison, but if you told me he worked as a carpenter, I’d agree that his hands show signs of working in that industry.” She picked up the man’s left hand. “Do you see these scars on his index finger? These line up with common injuries for carpenters. Hammers slip. A nail pinches the skin. Threads from screws scrape off the top dermal layer. Do you see this scar down the center line of his nail?” Will nodded. “It cuts through his cuticle, too. Carpenters use carpet knives to cut edges or score wood. Sometimes the blade skips down the fingernail or shaves the skin off the side of the finger. A lot of times they’ll use their nondominant hand to smooth out putty or caulk, which causes wearing at the tip. His fingerprints would be different week-to-week, sometimes day-to-day.”

Amanda said, “So, he’s been at this job for a while?”

“I’d say whatever job he’s been working at that caused these marks has been going on for two to three years.”

“What about Heeney, the shooter?”

Sara reached under the sheet to check the other man’s hands. She did not want to look at his face again. “He was left-handed, but I would hazard he worked in the same industry as Estevez.”

Will said, “There’s one connection, at least. They both worked for Ling-Ling.”

Sara asked, “Who’s Ling-Ling?”

“A missing person of interest.” Amanda checked her watch. “We should hurry this along. Dr. Linton, can you examine our other friend here?”

Sara didn’t give herself time to think about it. She pulled back the sheet in one quick motion. It was the first time she’d looked at Franklin Warren Heeney’s face since he’d tried to kill her. His eyes were open. His lips were wrapped around the tube that had been inserted into his throat to help him breathe. A crusty layer of blood circled his neck where the flesh gaped open. He was still dressed from the waist down, but his jacket and shirt had been cut open so that the ER staff could try to save his life. The exercise had been perfunctory; the man had sliced open his own jugular. He’d lost nearly half his blood volume before they’d managed to pick him up off the floor and put him on the table. Sara knew this because she had been the doctor working on him.

She looked up. Both Amanda and Will were staring at her.

“Sorry,” she apologized. She had to clear her throat before she could talk again. “He’s around the same age as Estevez. Mid-to-late twenties. Underweight for his build.” She pointed to the needle tracks on his arm. The IV port she’d inserted was still taped to his skin. “Recent user, at least intravenously.” She found an otoscope and checked inside the man’s nose. “There’s significant scarring in the nasal passages, probably from snorting powder.” She shoved the scope in farther. “He’s had surgery to repair the septum, so you’re looking at coke or meth, maybe Oxy. They’re all extremely corrosive to cartilage.”

Will asked, “What about heroin?”

“Oh, heroin, of course.” Sara apologized again. “Sorry, most of the heroin users I see are smokers or needle junkies. The snorters usually go straight to the morgue.”

Amanda crossed her arms. “What about his stomach?”

Sara didn’t have to check the file. No X-rays had been taken. The man had expired before any tests could be ordered. Instead of continuing the exam, Sara found herself looking at his face again. Franklin Heeney hardly resembled a choirboy, but the acne-scarred skin and sunken cheeks were recognizable to someone out in the world. He had a mother. He had a father, a child, perhaps a sister or brother, who right at this moment was probably hearing that their loved one was dead.

Their loved one who had killed a man in cold blood and punched Sara so violently that the breath had gone out of her body. She felt the bruise on her chest start to throb at the memory. She had a mother, too—a sister, a father—all of whom would be horrified if they heard what had happened to Sara today.

Amanda asked, “Dr. Linton?”

“Sorry.” In the time it took to walk over to the box of gloves and put on a fresh pair, she had managed to pull herself back together. She ignored Will’s look of concern and pressed her fingers into the dead man’s belly. “I don’t feel anything unusual. The organs are in their proper position and are normal size. No swelling or compaction in the bowel or stomach.” She snapped off the gloves and threw them into the trash. The water in the sink was cold, but Sara washed her hands anyway. “I can’t send him to X-ray because they’ll need a patient ID, and frankly, I’m not going to make a living person wait to satisfy a curiosity. The ME’s office will have to give you a definitive answer.” She squirted antibacterial gel into her palm, fighting to keep her voice steady. “Is that all?”

“Yes,” Amanda said. “Thank you, Dr. Linton.”

Sara didn’t acknowledge the answer. She ignored Will. She ignored the two bodies. She kept her eyes on the door until she had passed through it. In the hallway, she concentrated on the elevator, the button she would press, the numbers that would light up over the door. She only wanted to think about the steps ahead, not the ones behind her. She had to get out of this place, to get home and wrap herself in a blanket on the couch and pull the dogs around her and forget this miserable day.

There were footsteps behind her. Will was running again. He caught up with her quickly. She turned around. He stopped a few feet away.

He said, “Amanda’s putting out an APB on the tattoo.”

Why was he just standing there? Why did he keep rushing up to her and doing absolutely nothing?

He said, “Maybe we’ll find—”

“I really don’t care.”

He stared at her. His hands were in his pockets. The sleeve of his jacket was tight around his upper arm. There was a small tear in the material.

Sara leaned her shoulder against the wall. She hadn’t noticed before, but there was a fresh cut at the top of his earlobe. She wanted to ask him about it, but he would probably tell her that he’d cut himself shaving. Maybe she didn’t want to know what had happened. The Polaroid of his damaged mouth still burned in her memory. What else had they done to him? What else had he done to himself?

Will said, “Why is it that none of the women in my life call me when they need help?”

“Doesn’t Angie call you?”

He looked down at the floor, the space between them.

She said, “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair. It’s been a really long day.”

Will didn’t look up. Instead, he took her hand. His fingers laced through hers. His skin was warm, almost hot. He traced his thumb along the inside of her palm, the webbing between her fingers. Sara closed her eyes as he slowly explored every inch of her hand, caressing the lines and indentations, pressing his thumb gently against the pulse beating in her wrist. His touch was palliative. She felt her body starting to relax. Her breathing took on an easy cadence that matched his.

The doors to the morgue swished open. Sara yanked away her hand at the same time as Will. Neither of them looked at each other. They were like two kids caught in the back of a parked car.

Amanda held her cell phone in the air, triumphant. “Roger Ling wants to talk.”