“And so Satterfield just walked?”
“Not entirely. I was told the Navy discharged him.”
“Honorably?”
“No. I forget the term. Administratively? With some note about ‘less than honorably,’ I think. Apparently you lose your benefits, and there’s a big black mark on your record forever.”
Kittredge had resumed rubbing his chin. “And he knew you were involved in the case?”
“I don’t know,” I said, but as I said it, I knew it was wrong. “He must have. He had a lawyer, and I guess he was entitled to know the evidence against him.”
“So he could have found out that you focused the investigation on him. That you made him the prime suspect. That you played a big part in getting him booted out of SEAL training, and then booted out of the Navy. With an indelible stain on his record.” I nodded, feeling sick. The detective added a grimace to the chin rubbing. “Shit,” he repeated, this time with no apology for the language. He shook his head. “Okay, I promise you, we’ll get more protection for you and your family. You got a gun?”
I shook my head. “Never needed one. Any time I’m working a death scene, I’m surrounded by cops. Besides, I’m usually on my hands and knees with my butt in the air. Makes it kinda tough to get the drop on an assassin.”
He looked from me to Kathleen and back again. “Might be a good time to get a gun,” he said. Then, as if the thought had just struck him. “And you say the bone—the hyloid—”
“Hyoid,” I corrected.
“You’re saying the hyoid from that Cahaba Lane body is what made you think of this guy?” I nodded. He looked puzzled. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Why didn’t the sketch make you think of him? Don’t you know what this Satterfield guy looks like?”
“What sketch?” Now I was the puzzled one.
“The sketch the Earhart girl did for us.”
I felt a rush of . . . what? Confusion? Embarrassment? Anger at being left out of the loop? “Why didn’t you tell me you had a sketch?”
“Jesus, Doc, I’ve been a little busy, you know? Trying to find witnesses. And I didn’t figure you were likely to be one, since he seemed to spend his time with the hookers on Magnolia Avenue.” He narrowed his eyebrows at me. “Didn’t you see the sketch in the paper?”
I stared at him, dumbfounded. “When?”
“This morning. Page one.”
“We didn’t get a paper this morning,” I said, glancing at Kathleen. She shook her head—she hadn’t seen it either.
Kittredge reached beneath the pages of the yellow pad on which he’d been taking notes and pulled out a folded piece of newsprint—the front page of the News Sentinel.
I felt the ground open beneath my feet when I saw the face in the sketch. I felt the darkness engulf me totally when I heard Kathleen gasp, saw the horror of recognition on her face, and felt her body begin to quake once more.
CHAPTER 40
Satterfield
SOON, THOUGHT SATTERFIELD, GRIPPING the tan, waxy cylinder of dynamite with his right hand as he bore down with his left, sliding the serrated blade back and forth with neat, measured strokes across the middle of the eight-inch stick. They’ll be coming soon. Maybe not today, maybe not even tomorrow. But soon.
The News Sentinel lay faceup on the kitchen table beside the cutting board, and Satterfield’s face—only a sketch, but a good likeness, no question about it—stared up at him from the front page. Above it, a headline in inch-high type shrieked, “KPD SEEKS SERIAL-KILLER SUSPECT.”
The one that got away: She’d gone to the cops, all right, and now the net was closing. He’d cursed himself a hundred times for the carelessness and stupidity that had allowed the girl to get away. In addition to the cigarette burn in his palm, he now had a dozen more, on various parts of his body. But when he’d unrolled the newspaper and seen himself—seen that the final clockwork had been set in motion—he’d felt something shift inside himself, and he’d thrown away the cigarettes. Burning himself was a trivial and self-indulgent gesture; it was a waste of time, and he had no time to waste.