I turned. Slidell was pulling on gloves. After yanking the key from the ignition, he circled to the rear of the Hyundai and jammed it into the lock.
The trunk popped with a soft thunk.
An odor floated out. Sweet, acrid.
Familiar.
CHAPTER 35
IT WAS OUR worst nightmare.
And Ryan’s big bang.
Jaw clamped, Slidell lifted a Ziploc from a cardboard box holding other Ziplocs and a small plastic tub.
Through the clear side of the bag, I could make out four things. A silver seashell ring. A key on a red cord. A yellow ribbon. A pink ballet slipper.
We all stared. Dejected. Appalled. Angry.
“Whose ribbon?” My voice sounded high and taut.
“It don’t matter. This nails the sonofabitch.”
Slidell laid down the bag and chose another. It contained vials filled with a dark liquid that looked like blood. A third held hypodermic needles. A fourth had cotton-tipped swabs, a fifth wadded-up tissues.
“What’s in the tub?” Larabee asked.
Slidell pried off the lid. A noxious odor slapped our nostrils.
“Bloody hell.” Slidell’s head jerked sideways.
“Let me see,” I said.
Slidell extended his arm. Have at it.
Larabee’s breath caught. I think mine did, too.
I saw pale hair floating in muddy brown soup. An unrecognizable mass below.
“It’s some kinda body part, right?”
No one had an answer to that.
“Another souvenir?”
Or to that.
“You believing this? All the time the bastard’s stonewalling us, he’s driving around with this freak show in his car.” To Larabee. “Take the body parts. I’ll send the rest to the lab.”
Larabee nodded.
Yanking off a glove with his teeth, Slidell stormed over to the CSS techs. I couldn’t hear his instructions but knew what they were. Bag and tag everything, impound the car, burn the house down looking for more.
As Larabee sealed the plastic tub into an evidence bag, the techs pulled rolls of yellow tape from their truck and began securing the scene. Slidell hurried to his car and threw himself in.
I watched him gun up the street, mobile mashed to one ear.
Larabee decided to examine the tub first. He didn’t really need me, still asked that I assist. Said if there was anything requiring an anthropology consult, I could proceed with that while he autopsied Ajax.
I agreed willingly. I was jittery and on edge. Knew the annex would feel cramped and claustrophobic, peopled with the ghosts of five dead girls. Maybe six.
Besides, I had no ride home.
We were at the MCME by eight. After changing into scrubs, I met Larabee in the stinky room. Hawkins was busy doing prelims on Ajax, so we’d decided to proceed unassisted.
As I readied the camera, Larabee set the tub on the counter. I asked the case number, prepared labels, and shot pics. When I set the Nikon aside, Larabee gloved and raised his mask. I did the same. He opened the tub. Same stench. Same hair and shit-brown slop.
I took more photos, then, using a fine mesh strainer, Larabee poured the liquid off into a beaker. Unfolded and spread a green towel in the sink.
When he tipped the strainer, a glob dropped onto the cloth, spongy and slick and covered with hair.
Larabee used a probe to uncurl and lay the glob flat. It was thin in cross section, oval, approximately one inch wide by two inches long.
Larabee tested the glob with a probe. Lifted its tangle of hair.
My mind flashed a series of images. I saw flesh the color of curdled milk. Darkness at the end of each pale strand.
I felt a pang of nausea. Swallowed. “It’s scalp.”
“Human?” Larabee bent closer. “Could be.”
“Not could be.” Forcing my voice even. “It is.”
Larabee’s gaze cut to me. Without a word, he got the handheld magnifier, positioned it, and bent close. “I see what you mean. The hair is bleached.”
“It’s from Anique Pomerleau.”
“You’re kidding.” Twisting to face me.
“I assisted at the Pomerleau autopsy.”
“In Burlington.”
I nodded. “Pomerleau had three scalp lesions we couldn’t explain.”